21105	----	Teddy: The story of a Little Pickle by John Conran Hutcheson ________________________________________________________________ This short book is probably of more interest to ten or eleven year olds, rather than any other age group, for much of the book is taken up with describing sundry very juvenile misdemeanours. It is well written, but my personal opinion is that it is quite inconsequential. Still, it was quite amusing to scan it, OCR it, and edit it. N.H. ________________________________________________________________ TEDDY: THE STORY OF A LITTLE PICKLE BY JOHN CONRAN HUTCHESON. CHAPTER ONE. AN INDEPENDENT YOUNG GENTLEMAN. "I want do d'an'ma!" This sudden and unexpected exclamation, uttered as it was in a shrill little voice like that of a piping bullfinch, and coming from nowhere in particular, as far as he could make out, for he had fancied himself all alone on the platform, made the tall railway porter almost jump out of his skin, as he expressed it, startling him out of his seven senses. He was a stalwart, good-natured, black-bearded giant of a man, clad in a suit of dunduckety-mud-coloured velveteens, rather the worse for wear, and smeary with oil and engine-grease, which gave them a sort of highly- burnished appearance resembling that of a newly-polished black-leaded stove. Doing nothing, and thinking of nothing specially, for the three-forty up-train had gone through the station, and it was a good hour yet before the five-ten down express was due, he had been lazily leaning in a half- dreamy and almost dozing state against the side of the booking-office. From this coign of vantage, he was, as well as his blinking eyes would allow, gazing out over the rails at the fast-falling flakes of feathery snow that were quickly covering up the metals and permanent way with a mantle of white; when, all at once, without a "by your leave," or seeing or hearing anyone approach, his attention was summarily brought back to the present by the strange announcement of the shrill little voice, while, at the same time, he felt the clutch of tiny fingers twitching at one of the legs of his shiny velveteen trousers, evidently as a further means of attracting his notice. The touch made the porter look downwards, when, perceiving that his unknown interlocutor was a small mite barely reaching up to his knees, he became more reassured; and, bending his big body so as to bring his face somewhat on a level with the young person, he proceeded to interrogate him in familiar fashion. "Well, my little man," he said, desiring to learn how he might be of service, for he was a genial willing fellow, and always anxious to oblige people when he knew how--"what's the matter?" "I want do d'an'ma!" repeated the small mite in the same piping tones as before, speaking with the utmost assurance and in the most matter-of- fact way. It seemed as if, having now explicitly notified his wants and wishes, he confidently looked forward, in all the innocent trust of childhood, to their being instantly acted upon and carried out without any demur or hesitation. Jupp, the porter, was quite flabbergasted by the little chap's sang- froid; so, in order the better to collect his ideas and enable him to judge what was best to be done under the circumstances, he took off his flat-peaked uniform cap with one hand and scratched his head reflectively with the fingers of the other, as is frequently the wont of those possessed of thick skulls and wits that are apt to go wool- gathering. The operation appeared to have the effect desired; for, after indulging in this species of mental and physical cogitation for a moment or two, Jupp ventured upon asking the mite another question which had brilliantly suggested itself to him as opportune. "Where is your grandma, sir?" he inquired with more deference than he had used before. "Don-don," replied the small person nonchalantly, as if the point was quite immaterial, looking the porter calmly and straight in the eyes unflinchingly, without turning a hair as the saying goes. Jupp had never come across such a self-possessed young mannikin in his life before. Why, he might have been the station-master or traffic- manager, he appeared so much at his ease! But, he was a little gentleman all the same, Jupp could readily see, in spite of the fact that his costume was not quite suited for travelling, the mite being attired in a very prominent and dirty pinafore, while his chubby face was tear-stained, and he had the look of having come out in a hurry and being perhaps unprepared for the journey he contemplated; although, mind you, he had his luggage with him all right--a small bundle tied up in a large pocket-handkerchief of a bright-red colour, which he held tightly clasped to his little stomach as if afraid of its being taken from him. Jupp hardly knew off-hand how to deal with the case, it being of a more perplexing nature than had previously come within range of his own personal experience; still, he had his suspicions, and thought it best to entertain the young person in conversation for a bit, until he should be able to find out something about his belongings and where he came from. "London's a large place, sir," he therefore observed tentatively, by way of drawing the mite out and getting some clue towards his identity. The little chap, however, was quite equal to the occasion. "Don't tare," he said defiantly, checking the porter's artful attempt at cross-examination. "I want do d'an'ma!" Certainly, he was a most independent young gentleman. Jupp was at a nonplus again; however, he tried to temporise with the mite, the more especially from his noticing that his little legs were quite mottled and his tiny fingers blue with cold. "Well, come in here, sir, at all events, and warm yourself, and then we can talk the matter over comfortably together," he said, throwing open the door of the waiting-room as he spoke, and politely motioning the little chap to enter. The mite made no reply to the invitation, but he tacitly accepted it by following the porter into the apartment he had indicated, and the two were presently seated before a glowing fire, on which Jupp immediately emptied the scuttleful of coals, there being no stint of the fuel by reason of the company standing all expense. Thawed by the genial warmth, rendered all the more enjoyable by the wintry scene outside, where the snow was now swirling down faster and faster as the afternoon advanced, the little chap began to get more communicative, egged on by Jupp in a series of apparently innocent questions. "Nussy bad ooman," he blurted out after a long silence, looking up at Jupp and putting his hand on his knee confidingly. "Indeed, sir?" said the other cautiously, leading him on. "Ess, man," continued the mite. "See want take way my kitty." "You don't mean that, sir!" exclaimed Jupp with well-feigned horror at such unprincipled behaviour on the part of the accused nurse. "Ess, man, see did," replied the little chap, nodding his small curly head with great importance; but the next instant his little roguish blue eyes twinkled with suppressed intelligence, and his red rosebud of a mouth expanded into a happy smile as he added, with much satisfaction in his tones, "but I dot kitty all wite now!" "Have you really, sir?" said Jupp, pretending to be much surprised at the information, the little chap evidently expecting him to be so. "Ess, man," cried the mite with a triumphant shout; "I'se dot po' 'ittle kitty here!" "Never, sir!" ejaculated Jupp with trembling eagerness, as if his life depended on the solution of the doubt. The little chap became completely overcome with merriment at having so successfully concealed his treasured secret, as he thought, that the porter had not even guessed it. "Kitty's in dundle!" he exclaimed gleefully, hugging his handkerchief parcel tighter to his little stomach as he spoke. "I dot kitty here, all wite!" "You don't mean that, sir--not in that bundle o' yours surely, sir?" repeated Jupp with deep fictitious interest, appearing still not quite convinced on the point and as if wishing to have the difficulty cleared up. This diplomatic course of procedure on the part of the porter removed any lingering scruples the mite had in respect of his good faith. "Ess, man. I dot kitty here in dundle all wite," he repeated earnestly in his very impressive little way. "Oo musn't tell nobody and I'll so her to 'oo!" "I won't breathe a word of it to a soul, sir," protested Jupp as solemnly and gravely as if he were making his last dying deposition; whereupon the mite, quite convinced of the porter's trustworthiness and abandoning all further attempt at concealment, deposited his little bundle tenderly on the floor in front of the fireplace, and began to open it with much deliberation. The little fellow appeared so very serious about the matter, that Jupp could not help trying to be serious too; but it required the exercise of all the self-command he possessed to refrain from laughing when the motley contents of the red handkerchief were disclosed. Before the last knot of the bundle was untied by the mite's busy fingers there crawled out a tiny tortoise-shell kitten, with its diminutive little tail erect like a young bottle-brush, which gave vent to a "phiz- phit," as if indignant at its long confinement, and then proceeded to rub itself against Jupp's leg, with a purring mew on recognising a friend. "So that's kitty," said Jupp, holding the little thing up on his knee and stroking it affectionately, the animal signifying its satisfaction by licking the back of his hand with its furry little red tongue, and straightening its tiny tail again as stiff as a small poker. "Ess, man. Dat's kitty," murmured the mite, too much occupied undoing the last knots of the bundle to waste time in further speech for the moment, struggling as he was at the job with might and main. In another second, however, he had accomplished his task; and, lifting up the corners of the red handkerchief, he rolled out the whole stock of his valued possessions on to the floor. "Dere!" he exclaimed with much complacency, looking up into Jupp's face in expectation of his admiring surprise. The porter was again forced to act a part, and pretend that he could not guess anything. "Dear me!" he said; "you have brought a lot of things! Going to take 'em with you to London, sir?" "Ess. Da'n'ma tate tare of zem." "No doubt, sir," replied Jupp, who then went on to inspect gingerly the different articles of the collection, which was very varied in character. They consisted, in addition to the tortoise-shell kitten fore-mentioned, of a musical snuff-box, a toy model of a ship, a small Noah's ark, a half-consumed slice of bread and butter, an apple with a good-sized bite taken out of one side, a thick lump of toffee, and a darkish-brown substance like gingerbread, which close association in the bundle, combined with pressure, had welded together in one almost indistinguishable mass. "I suppose, sir," observed Jupp inquiringly, picking up all the eatables and putting them together apart on the seat next the little man--"I suppose as how them's your provisions for the journey?" "Ess. I ate dindin; an', dat's tea." "Indeed, sir! and very nice things for tea too," said Jupp, beaming with admiration and good-humoured fun. "I touldn't det any milk, or I'd bought dat too," continued the mite, explaining the absence of all liquid refreshment. "Ah! that's a pity," rejoined the porter, thinking how well half a pint of milk would have mixed up with the other contents of the bundle; "but, perhaps, sir, the kitty would have lapped it up and there would have been none left. Would you like a cup of tea now, sir? I'm just agoing to have mine; and if you'd jine me, I'd feel that proud you wouldn't know me again!" "Dank 'oo, I'm so dirsty," lisped the little man in affable acquiescence; and, the next moment, Jupp had spirited out a rough basket from under the seat in the corner, when extracting a tin can with a cork stopper therefrom, he put it on the fire to warm up. From a brown-paper parcel he also turned out some thick slices of bread that quite put in the shade the half-eaten one belonging to the mite; and as soon as the tea began to simmer in the tin over the coals, he poured out some in a pannikin, and handed it to his small guest. "Now, sir, we'll have a regular picnic," he said hospitably. "All wite, dat's jolly!" shouted the other in great glee; and the two were enjoying themselves in the highest camaraderie, when, suddenly, the door of the waiting-room was opened from without, and the face of a buxom young woman peered in. "My good gracious!" exclaimed the apparition, panting out the words as if suffering from short breath, or from the effects of more rapid exertion than her physique usually permitted. "If there isn't the young imp as comfortably as you please; and me a hunting and a wild-goose chasing on him all over the place! Master Teddy, Master Teddy, you'll be the death of me some day, that you will!" Jupp jumped up at once, rightly imagining that this lady's unexpected appearance would, as he mentally expressed it, "put a stopper" on the mite's contemplated expedition, and so relieve him of any further personal anxiety on his behalf, he having been puzzling his brains vainly for the last half hour how to discover his whereabouts and get him home to his people again; but, as for the little man himself, he did not seem in the least put out by the interruption of his plans. "Dat nussy," was all he said, clutching hold of Jupp's trouser leg, as at first, in an appealing way: "Don't 'et her, man, tate away poor kitty!" "I won't sir, I promise you," whispered Jupp to comfort him; however, before he could say any more, the panting female had drawn nearer from the doorway and come up close to the fireplace, the flickering red light from which made her somewhat rubicund countenance appear all the ruddier. CHAPTER TWO. TELLS ALL ABOUT HIM. "Pray, don't 'ee be angry wi' him, mum," said Jupp appealingly, as the somewhat flustered female advanced towards the mite, laying hands on his collar with apparently hostile intentions. "I ain't a going to be angry," she replied a trifle crossly, as perhaps was excusable under the circumstances, carrying out the while, however, what had evidently been her original idea of giving the mite "a good shaking," and thereby causing his small person to oscillate violently to and fro as if he were crossing the Bay of Biscay in a Dutch trawler with a choppy sea running. "I ain't angry to speak of; but he's that tormenting sometimes as to drive a poor creature a'most out of her mind! Didn't I tell 'ee," she continued, turning round abruptly to the object of her wrath and administering an extra shake by way of calling him to attention. "Didn't I tell 'ee as you weren't to go outdoors in all the slop and slush--didn't I tell 'ee now?" But in answer the mite only harked back to his old refrain. "I want do d'an'ma," he said with stolid defiance, unmoved alike by his shaking or the nurse's expostulation. "There, that's jest it," cried she, addressing Jupp the porter again, seeing that he was a fine handsome fellow and well-proportioned out of the corner of her eye without looking at him directly, in that unconscious and highly diplomatic way in which women folk are able to reckon up each other on the sly and take mental stock of mankind. "Ain't he aggravating? It's all that granma of his that spoils him; and I wish she'd never come nigh the place! When Master Teddy doesn't see her he's as good as gold, that he is, the little man!" She then, with the natural inconsequence and variability of her sex, immediately proceeded to hug and kiss the mite as affectionately as she had been shaking and vituperating him the moment before, he putting up with the new form of treatment as calmly and indifferently as he had received the previous scolding. "He's a fine little chap," said Jupp affably, conceiving a better opinion of the nurse from her change of manner as well as from noticing, now that her temporary excitement had evaporated, that she was a young and comely woman with a very kindly face. "He told me as how he were going to Lun'non." "Did he now?" she exclaimed admiringly. "He's the most owdacious young gen'leman as ever was, I think; for he's capable, young as he is, not long turned four year old, of doin' a'most anything. Look now at all them things of his as he's brought from home!" "That were his luggage like," observed Jupp, smiling and showing his white teeth, which contrasted well with his black beard, making him appear very nice-looking really, the nurse thought. "The little rogue!" said she enthusiastically, hugging the mite again with such effusion that Jupp wished he could change places with him, he being unmarried and "an orphan man," as he described himself, "without chick or child to care for him." "He ought to be a good 'un with you a looking after him," he remarked with a meaning glance, which, although the nurse noticed, she did not pretend to see. "So he is--sometimes, eh, Master Teddy?" she said, bending down again over the mite to hide a sudden flush which had made her face somehow or other crimson again. "Ess," replied the hero of the occasion, who, soothed by all these social amenities passing around him, quickly put aside his stolid demeanour and became his little prattling self again. However, such was his deep foresight that he did not forget to grasp so favourable an opportunity for settling the initial difficulty between himself and nurse in the matter of the kitten, which had led up logically to all that had happened, and so prevent any misunderstanding on the point in future. "Oo won't tate way kitty?" he asked pleadingly, holding up with both hands the struggling little animal, which Jupp had incontinently dropped from his knee when he rose up, on the door of the waiting-room being suddenly opened and the impromptu picnic organised by the mite and himself brought to an abrupt termination, by the unexpected advent of the nurse on the scene. "No, Master Teddy, I promise you I won't," she replied emphatically. "You can bathe the poor little brute in the basin and then put it all wet in your bed afterwards, as you did this morning, or anything else you like. Bless you, you can eat it if it so please you, and I shan't interfere!" "All wite, den; we frens 'dain," lisped the mite, putting up his little rosebud mouth so prettily for a kiss, in token of peace and forgiveness on his part, that the nurse could not help giving him another hug. This display of affection had unfortunately the same effect on Jupp as before, causing the miserable porter to feel acute pangs of envy; although, by rights, he had no direct interest in the transaction, and was only an outside observer, so to speak! By way of concealing his feelings, therefore, he turned the conversation. "And have you come far arter him, miss, if I may make so bold as to ax the question?" he said hesitatingly, being somewhat puzzled in his mind as to whether "miss" or "mum" was the correct form in which to address such a pleasant young woman, who might or might not be a matron for all he could tell. He evidently hit upon the right thing this time; for, she answered him all the more pleasantly, with a bright smile on her face. "Why, ever so far!" she exclaimed. "Don't you know that large red brick house t'other side of the village, where Mr Vernon lives--a sort of old-fashioned place, half covered with ivy, and with a big garden?" "Parson Vernon's, eh?" "Yes, Master Teddy's his little son." "Lor', I thought he were a single man, lone and lorn like myself, and didn't have no children," said Jupp. "That's all you know about it," retorted the nurse. "You must be a stranger in these parts; and, now I come to think on it, I don't believe as I ever saw you here before." "No, miss, I was only shifted here last week from the Junction, and hardly knows nobody," said Jupp apologetically. "For the rights o' that, I ain't been long in the railway line at all, having sarved ten years o' my time aboard a man-o'-war, and left it thinking I'd like to see what a shore billet was like; and so I got made a porter, miss, my karacter being good on my discharge." "Dear me, what a pity!" cried the nurse. "I do so love sailors." "If you'll only say the word, miss, I'll go to sea again to-morrow then!" ejaculated Jupp eagerly. "Oh no!" laughed the nurse; "why, then I shouldn't see any more of you; but I was telling you about Master Teddy. Parson Vernon, as you call him, has four children in all--three of them girls, and Master Teddy is the only boy and the youngest of the lot." "And I s'pose he's pretty well sp'ilt?" suggested Jupp. "You may well say that," replied the other. "He was his mother's pet, and she, poor lady, died last year of consumption, so he's been made all the more of since by his little sisters, and the grandmother when she comes down, as she did at Christmas. You'd hardly believe it, small as he looks he almost rules the house; for his father never interferes, save some terrible row is up and he hears him crying--and he can make a noise when he likes, can Master Teddy!" "Ess," said the mite at this, thinking his testimony was appealed to, and nodding his head affirmatively. "And he comed all that way from t'other side o' the village by hisself?" asked Jupp by way of putting a stop to sundry other endearments the fascinating young woman was recklessly lavishing on the little chap. "Why, it's more nor a mile!" "Aye, that he has. Just look at him," said she, giving the mite another shake, although this time it was of a different description to the one she had first administered. He certainly was not much to look at in respect of stature, being barely three feet high; but he was a fine little fellow for all that, with good strong, sturdy limbs and a frank, fearless face, which his bright blue eyes and curling locks of brown hair ornamented to the best advantage. As before mentioned, he had evidently not been prepared for a journey when he made his unexpected appearance at the station, being without a hat on his head and having a slightly soiled pinafore over his other garments; while his little feet were encased in thin house shoes, or slippers, that were ill adapted for walking through the mud and snow. Now that the slight differences that had arisen between himself and the nurse had been amicably settled, he was in the best of spirits, with his little face puckered in smiles and his blue eyes twinkling with fun as he looked up at the two observing him. "He is a jolly little chap!" exclaimed Jupp, bending down and lifting him up in his strong arms, the mite the while playfully pulling at his black beard; "and I tell you what, miss, I think he's got a very good nurse to look after him!" "Do you?" said she, adding a moment afterwards as she caught Jupp's look of admiration, "Ah, that's only what you say now. You didn't think so when I first came in here after him; for you asked me not to beat him-- as if I would!" "Lor', I never dreamt of such a thing!" cried he with much emphasis, the occasion seeming to require it. "I only said that to coax you like, miss. I didn't think as you'd hurt a hair of his head." "Well, let it be then," replied she, accepting this amende and setting to work gathering together the mite's goods and chattels that were still lying on the floor of the waiting-room--with the exception of the kitten, which he had himself again assumed the proprietorship of and now held tightly in his arms, even as he was clasped by Jupp and elevated above the porter's shoulder. "I must see about taking him home again." "Shall I carry him for you, miss?" asked Jupp. "The down-train ain't due for near an hour yet, and I dessay I can get my mate to look out for me while I walks with you up the village." "You are very kind," said she; "but, I hardly like to trouble you?" "No trouble at all, miss," replied Jupp heartily. "Why, the little gentleman's only a featherweight." "That's because you're such a fine strong man. I find him heavy enough, I can tell you." Jupp positively blushed at her implied compliment. "I ain't much to boast of ag'in a delicate young 'ooman as you," he said at last; "but, sartenly, I can carry a little shaver like this; and, besides, look how the snow's a coming down." "Well, if you will be so good, I'd be obliged to you," interposed the nurse hurriedly as if to stop any further explanations on Jupp's part, he having impulsively stepped nearer to her at that moment. "All right then!" cried he, his jolly face beaming with delight at the permission to escort her. "Here, Grigson!" "That's me!" shouted another porter appearing mysteriously from the back of the office, in answer to Jupp's stentorian hail. "Just look out for the down-train, 'case I ain't back in time. I'm just agoin' to take some luggage for this young woman up to the village." "Aye, just so," replied the other with a sly wink, which, luckily for himself, perhaps, Jupp did not see, as, holding the mite tenderly in his arms, with his jacket thrown over him to protect him from the snow, he sallied out from the little wayside station in company with the nurse, the latter carrying all Master Teddy's valuables, which she had re- collected and tied up again carefully within the folds of the red pocket-handkerchief bundle wherein their proprietor had originally brought them thither. Strange to say, the mite did not exhibit the slightest reluctance in returning home, as might have been expected from the interruption of his projected plan of going to London to see his "d'an'ma." On the contrary, his meeting with Jupp and introduction to him as a new and estimable acquaintance, as well as the settlement of all outstanding grievances between himself and his nurse, appeared to have quite changed his views as to his previously-cherished expedition; so that he was now as content and cheerful as possible, looking anything but like a disappointed truant. Indeed, he more resembled a successful conqueror making a triumphal entry into his capital than a foiled strategist defeated in the very moment of victory! "I like oo," he said, pulling at Jupp's black beard in high glee and chuckling out aloud in great delight as they proceeded towards the village, the nurse clinging to the porter's other and unoccupied arm to assist her progress through the snow-covered lane, down which the wind rushed every now and then in sudden scurrying gusts, whirling the white flakes round in the air and blinding the wayfarers as they plodded painfully along. "I don't know what I should have done without your help," she observed fervently after a long silence between the two, only broken by Master Teddy's shouts of joy when a snow-flake penetrating beneath Jupp's jacket made the kitten sneeze. "I'm sure I should never have got home to master's with the boy!" "Don't name it," whispered Jupp hoarsely beneath his beard, which the snow had grizzled, lending it a patriarchal air. "I'm only too proud, miss, to be here!" and he somehow or other managed to squeeze her arm closer against his side with his, making the nurse think how nice it was to be tall and strong and manly like the porter! "They'll be in a rare state about Master Teddy at the vicarage!" she said after they had plodded on another hundred yards, making but slow headway against the drifting snow and boisterous wind. "I made him angry by taking away his kitten, I suppose, and so he determined to make off to his gran'ma; for we missed him soon after the children's dinner. I thought he was in the study with Mr Vernon; but when I came to look he wasn't there, and so we all turned out to search for him. Master made sure we'd find him in the village; but I said I thought he'd gone to the station, far off though it was, and you see I was right!" "You're a sensible young woman," said Jupp. "I'd have thought the same." "Go on with your nonsense; get along!" cried she mockingly, in apparent disbelief of Jupp's encomiums, and pretending to wrench her arm out of his so as to give point to her words. "I'll take my davy, then," he began earnestly; but, ere he could say any more, a voice called out in front of them, amid the eddying flakes: "Hullo, Mary! Is that you?" "That's my master," she whispered to Jupp; and then answered aloud, "Yes, sir, and I've found Master Teddy." "Is Mary your name?" said Jupp to her softly in the interlude, while scrunching footsteps could be heard approaching them, although no one yet could be perceived through the rifts of snow. "I think it the prettiest girl's name in the world!" "Go 'long!" cried she again; but she sidled up to him and held on to his arm once more as she spoke, the blasts of the storm at the moment being especially boisterous. "Is that you, Mary?" repeated the voice in front, now much nearer, her answer not having been heard apparently, on account of the wind blowing from the speaker towards them. "Yes, sir," she screamed out. "I've found Master Teddy, and he's all right." She was heard this time. "Thank God!" returned the voice in trembling accents, nearer still; and then a thin, haggard, careworn-looking man in clergyman's dress rushed up to them. He was quite breathless, and his face pale with emotion. "Padie! Padie!" exclaimed the mite, raising himself up on Jupp's shoulder and stretching out one of his little hands to the new-comer while the other grasped the kitten. "I'se turn back, I'se turn back to oo!" "My boy, my little lamb! God be praised for his mercy!" cried the other; and the next instant Teddy was locked in his father's arms in a close embrace, kitten and all. "Say, Miss Mary," whispered Jupp, taking advantage of the opportunity while Mr Vernon's back was turned. "What?" she asked, looking up into his face demurely. "This ought to be passed round." "Go 'long!" she replied; but, she didn't budge an inch when Jupp put his arm round her, and nobody knows what happened before Mr Vernon had composed himself and turned round again! CHAPTER THREE. AT THE VICARAGE. Three little girls were flattening their respective little noses against the panes of glass as they stood by one of the low French windows of the old red brick house at the corner of the lane commanding the approach from the village; and three little pairs of eager eyes, now big with expectation, were peering anxiously across the snow-covered lawn through the gathering evening gloom towards the entrance gate beyond--the only gap in the thick and well-nigh impenetrable laurel hedge, some six feet high and evenly cropped all round at the top and square at the sides, which encircled the vicarage garden, shutting it in with a wall of greenery from the curious ken of all passers-by without. With eager attention the little girls were watching to see who would be the first of the trio to herald the return of the missing Master Teddy and those who had gone forth in search of him; but, really, seekers and sought alike had been so long absent that it seemed as if they were all lost together and never coming back! The little girls were weary almost of waiting, and being thus kept in suspense with hope deferred. Besides that, they were overcome with a sense of loneliness and desertion, everyone in the house but old Molly the cook and themselves having started off early in the afternoon in different directions in quest of the truant Teddy; so, as the time flew by and day drew to a close, without a sight or sound in the distance to cheer their drooping spirits, their little hearts grew heavy within them. Presently, too, their whilom bright eyes got so dimmed with unshed tears which would well up, that they were unable to see clearly had there been anything or anyone for them to see; while their little putty noses, when they removed them occasionally from close contact with the glass, bore a suspiciously red appearance that was not entirely due to previous pressure against the window panes. Nor were their surroundings of a sufficiently enlivening character to banish the little maidens' despondency, the fire in the drawing-room grate having died out long since from inattention, making them feel cold and comfortless, and it had got so dark within that they could not distinguish the various articles of furniture, even papa's armchair in the chimney-corner; while, outside, in the gloaming, the snow-flakes were falling slowly and steadily from a leaden-hued sky overhead. The only thing breaking the stillness of the murky air was the melancholy "Chirp, churp! chirp, churp" uttered at intervals by some belated sparrow who had not gone to bed in good time like all sensible bird-folk, and whose plaintive chirp was all the more aggravating from its monotonous repetition. "I'm sore sumtin d'eadfill's happened," whimpered little Cissy, the youngest of the three watchers, after a long silence between them. "Pa sood have been back hours and hours and hours ago." "Nonsense, Cissy!" said Miss Conny, her elder sister, who by virtue of her seniority and the fact of her having reached the mature age of ten was rather prone to giving herself certain matronly airs of superiority over the others, which they put up with in all good faith, albeit they were most amusing to outside onlookers. "You are always imagining something terrible is going to befall everybody, instead of hoping for the best! Why don't you learn to look on the bright side of things, child? Every cloud, you know, has its silver lining." "But not dat one up dere!" retorted Cissy, unconvinced by the proverb, pointing to the sombre pall of vapour that now enveloped the whole sky overhead; when, struck more than ever with the utter dismalness of the scene, she drew out a tiny sort of doll's handkerchief from as tiny a little pocket in her tiny pinafore-apron, and began wiping away the tears from her beady eyes and blowing her little red nose vigorously. "It's all black, and no light nowhere; and I'm sore poor pa and Teddy and all of dem are lost!" With that, completely overcome by her own forebodings, the little thing all at once broke down, sobbing in such a heart-broken way that it was as much as Conny could do to comfort her; the elder sister drawing her to her side and hugging her affectionately, rocking her small person to and fro the while with a measured rhythm-like movement as if little Cissy were a baby and she her mother, hushing her to sleep! At this moment, Liz, who occupied the middle step between the two, and was of a much more sedate and equable nature than either of her sisters, suddenly effected a diversion that did more to raise Cissy's spirits than all Conny's whispered consolation and kisses. "I think I see a black speck moving in the lane," she exclaimed, removing her face a second from the glass to look round at the others as she spoke, and then hastily glueing it to the pane again. "Yes, somebody's coming. There's an arm waving about!" Conny and Cissy were instantly on the alert; and before Liz had hardly got out the last words they had imitated her example, wedging their little noses once more against the window, looking down the lane, and trying somewhat vainly to pierce the haze obscuring the distance. "No," said Conny, after a prolonged observation of the object Liz had pointed out; "it's only a branch of the lilac tree blown about by the wind." A minute later, however, and Liz began to clap her hands triumphantly, although still keeping her face fixed to the window. "I was right, I was right!" she exclaimed in triumph. "The speck is getting nearer, and, see, there are two more behind." "I believe you are right," said Conny, after another steady glance down the lane. "There are three people approaching the house, and--" "Dat's pa in front, I know," shouted out Cissy, interrupting her and clapping her hands like Liz, her whilom sad little face beaming with gladness. "I see him, I see him, and he's dot Teddy in his arms!" "So he has," said Conny, carried away by the excitement out of her ordinarily staid and decorous demeanour. "Let us all run down and meet him!" Her suggestion was hailed with a shout of exclamation; and, the next moment, forgetful of the falling flakes and the risk of getting damp feet, which Conny the careful was ever warning the others against, the three had run out into the hall, opened the outside door of the porch, which the wind banged against the side of the passage with a thump that shook the house, and were racing towards the entrance gate over the white expanse of lawn, now quite covered with some six inches of snow. Just as the little girls reached the gate, all breathless in a batch, it was opened from without, and they were confronted by their father with Master Teddy on his shoulder, still holding the kitten in his arms; while, close behind, followed Jupp taking care of Mary the nurse. "Oh, papa!" cried Conny, Cissy, and Liz in chorus, hanging on to their father's coat-tails as if afraid he would get away from them again; and so, in a motley procession, Teddy apparently king of the situation and Jupp and Mary still bringing up the rear, they marched into the hall, where Molly the cook, having heard the door bang when the little girls rushed out, was waiting with a light to receive them. "Take the porter to the kitchen, Molly," said Mr Vernon, "and give him, mind, a good cup of tea for bringing home Master Teddy. But for his kindness we might not perhaps have seen the little truant again--to- night, at all events." "Lawks a mercy, sir!" ejaculated Molly with open-mouth astonishment, curtseying and smiling: "you doant mean that?" "Yes, I do," went on Mr Vernon. "Mind you take every care of him, for the porter is a right good fellow." "Why, sir, I didn't do nothing to speak of, sir," said Jupp, quite abashed at being made so much of. "The young gen'leman commed to me, and in course, seeing as how he were such a little chap and all alone out in the cold, I couldn't do nothing else." "Never mind that; I'm very much obliged to you, and so are all of us. What you've got to do now is to go with Molly and have a good cup of tea, the same as we are going to have after that long tramp in the snow," said the vicar cordially, shaking hands with Jupp; while Teddy, who was still perched on his father's shoulder, came out with a "tank oo, my dood man," which made everybody laugh. Jupp hesitatingly attempted to decline the proffered hospitality, murmuring something about being wanted down at the station; but the vicar wouldn't hear of his refusal, the more especially as Mary reminded him that he had asked in her hearing his fellow-porter to look after his work in his absence. So, presently, in heart nothing loth in spite of his excuses, he was following Molly the cook down the passage into her warm kitchen at the back of the house; while Mr Vernon, opening a door on the opposite side of the hall to the drawing-room, entered the parlour, where fortunately the fire, thanks to Molly's care, had not been allowed to go out, but was dancing merrily in the grate-lighting up the bright-red curtains that were closely drawn across the windows, shutting out the gloomy prospect outside, and throwing flickering shadows against the walls of the apartment as the jets of flame rose and fell. Nurse Mary at first wanted to march off Master Teddy to bed, on the plea that he must be wet through and tired out with all the exposure he had undergone during his erratic escapade; but the young gentleman protesting indignantly against his removal whilst there was a chance of his sitting up with the rest, and his clothes having been found on examination to be quite dry on the removal of the porter's protecting jacket, he was allowed to remain, seated on the hearth-rug in state, and never once leaving hold of the tabby kitten that had indirectly led to his wandering away from home, with Conny and Liz and little Cissy grouped around him. Here by the cosy fireside the reunited family had quite a festive little meal together, enlivened by the children's chatter, Miss Conny pouring out the tea with great dignity as her father said laughingly, and Teddy, unchecked by the presence of his nurse, who was too prone to calling him to account for sundry little breaches of etiquette for him to be comfortable when she was close by. While the happy little party were so engaged, Jupp was being regaled sumptuously in the kitchen with both Molly the cook and Mary to minister to his wants, the latter handmaiden having returned from the parlour after carrying in the tea-tray. Jupp was in a state of supreme satisfaction ensconced between the two, munching away at the pile of nice hot buttered toast which the cook had expressly made for his delectation, and recounting between the mouthfuls wonderful yarns connected with his seafaring experiences for Mary's edification. Joe the gardener, who had also come back to the house shortly after the others, with the report that he "couldn't see nothing of Master Teddy nowheres," sat in the chimney-corner, gazing at the porter with envious admiration as he told of his hairbreadth scapes at sea and ashore when serving in the navy. Joe wished that he had been a sailor too, as then perhaps, he thought, the nurse, for whom he had a sneaking sort of regard, might learn to smile and look upon him in the same admiring way, in which, as he could see with half an eye, she regarded the stalwart black-bearded Jupp. Bye and bye, however, a tinkle of the parlour bell summoning the household to prayers brought the pleasant evening to a close, too soon so far as Jupp was concerned, although Joe the gardener did not regard the interruption with much regret; and while Mary took off the children to bed on the termination of the vicar's heart-felt thanks to the Father above for the preservation of his little son, Mr Vernon wished him good-night, trying to press at the same time a little money present into his hand for his kind care of Teddy. But this Jupp would not take, declining the douceur with so much natural dignity that the vicar honoured him the more for refusing a reward, for only doing his duty as he said. Mr Vernon apologised to him for having hurt his feelings by offering it, adding, much to Jupp's delight, that he would always be pleased to see him at the vicarage when he had an hour or so to spare if he liked to come; and, on the porter's telling him in return that he was only free as a rule on Sundays, as then only one train passed through the station early in the morning, between which and the mail express late at night he had nothing to do, and being a stranger in the place and without any relations the time somewhat hung on his hands, Mr Vernon asked him to come up to the house after church and have dinner with the servants, saying that he could go to the evening service in company with the family. This invitation Jupp gladly accepted in the same spirit in which it was given; and then, with another hearty "good-night" from the vicar, to which he responded by touching his cap and giving a salute in regular blue-jacket fashion, he went on his way back to the little railway- station beyond the village where Master Teddy had first made his acquaintance--much to their mutual benefit as things now looked! CHAPTER FOUR. IN A SCRAPE AGAIN. The winter was a long and severe one, covering the range of downs that encircle Endleigh with a fleecy mantle of white which utterly eclipsed the colour of the woolly coats of the sheep for which they were famous, and heaping the valleys with huge drifts that defied locomotion; so that Master Teddy, being unable to get out of doors much, was prevented from wandering away from home again, had he been in that way inclined. It may be added, too, that beyond breaking one of his arms in a tumble downstairs through riding on the banisters in defiance of all commands to the contrary, he managed for the next few months to keep pretty free from scrapes--something surprising in such a long interval. During all this time Jupp had been a very regular Sunday visitor at the vicarage, coming up to the house after morning-service and being entertained at dinner in the kitchen, after which meal he served as a playfellow for the children until the evening, when he always accompanied the vicar to church. He had now come to be looked upon by all as a tried and valued friend, Mr Vernon being almost as fond of chatting with him about his old sea life as was Mary, the nurse; while Conny would consult him earnestly on geographical questions illustrative of those parts of the globe he had visited. As for the younger ones, he was their general factotum, Teddy and Cissy regarding him as a sort of good-natured giant who was their own especial property and servant. With all a sailor's ingenuity, he could carve the most wonderful things out of the least promising and worthless materials that could be imagined; while, as for making fun out of nothing, or telling thrilling stories of fairies and pirates and the different folk amongst whom he had mixed in his travels--some of them, to be sure, rather queer, as Conny said--why, he hadn't an equal, and could make the dreariest afternoon pass enjoyably to young and old alike, even Joe the gardener taking almost as great pleasure in his society as Molly and Mary. This was while the snow lay on the ground and Jack Frost had bound the little river running through the village and the large pond in the water meadow beyond with chains of ice, and life out of doors seemed at a standstill; but, anon, when the breath of spring banished all the snow and ice, and cowslips and violets began to peep forth from the released hedgerows, and the sparrows chuckled instead of chirped, busying themselves nest-building in the ivy round the vicarage, and when the thrush sang to the accompaniment of the blackbird's whistle, the children found that Jupp was even a better playfellow in the open than he had been indoors, being nearly as much a child in heart as themselves. Whenever he had half a day given him in the week free from duty he would make a point of coming up to take "Master Teddy and the young ladies" out into the woods, fern-hunting and flower-gathering, the vicar frequently popping upon the little picnickers unawares, whilst they were watching the rabbits and rabbitikins combing out their whiskers under the fir-trees, and Jupp and Mary getting an al fresco tea ready for the party. The little tabby kitten had long since been eclipsed in Teddy's affections by a small Maltese terrier with a white curly coat of hair, which his fond grandmother had rather foolishly given him, the poor little animal being subjected to such rough treatment in the way of petting that it must have over and over again wished itself back in its Mediterranean home. "Puck" was the little dog's name, and he appeared in a fair way of "putting a girdle round the earth," if not in forty minutes like his elfish namesake, at least in an appreciable limited space of time, Teddy never being content except he carried about the unfortunate brute with him everywhere he went, hugging it tightly in his arms and almost smothering its life out by way of showing his affection. Having once had his hair cut, too, unluckily by Mary, Teddy seized an opportunity, when alone in the nursery, to treat poor Puck in similar fashion, the result of which was that the little animal, deprived of his long curly coat, not only shivered constantly with cold, but looked, in his closely-shorn condition, like one of those toy lambs sold in the shops in lieu of dolls for children, which emit a bleating sort of sound when pressed down on their bellows-like stands. Of course, Puck was as invariable an attendant at the picnic excursions in the woods as Master Teddy himself, and, having developed sufficient interest in the rabbits to summon up courage to run after them, which Teddy graciously permitted him to do, these outings perhaps gave the little animal the only pleasure he had in existence, save eating; for he was then allowed, for a brief spell at all events, to use his own legs instead of being carried about in baby fashion. One day at the beginning of May, when the birds were gaily singing in the branches of the trees overhead, through which an occasional peep of blue sky could be had, the grass below being yellow with buttercups or patched in white with daisies, Jupp and Mary were grouped with the children beneath a spreading elm in the centre of a sort of fairy ring in the wood, a favourite halting-place with them all. The porter for once in a way had a whole holiday, and had spent the morning helping Joe the gardener in mowing the lawn and putting out plants in the flower-beds in front of the vicarage; so after their early dinner, the children under Mary's care came out with him for a regular picnic tea in the woods, carrying a kettle with them to make a fire, with plenty of milk and cakes and bread and butter, for it was intended to have quite a feast in honour of "papa's birthday," the vicar having promised to come and join them as soon as he had finished his parish work. The little ones had been romping with Jupp all the way to the wood under the downs, running races with him and making detours here and there in search of wild anemones and meadow-sweet, or else chasing butterflies and the low-flying swallows that heralded the advent of summer, so they were rather tired and glad to lie down on the grass and rest when they reached their old elm-tree; albeit, on Jupp setting to work to pick up sticks for the fire that was to boil the kettle, first one and then another jumped up to help, for, really, they could not be quiet very long. The sticks being collected and Jupp having slung the camp-kettle over them by the means of two forked props, in campaigning fashion, as he well knew how to do as an old sailor, a match was quickly applied, and there was soon a pleasant crackling sound of burning wood, accompanied with showers of sparks like fireworks as the wind blew the blaze aside. Soon, too, a nice thick column of smoke arose that reminded Conny of what she had read of Indian encampments, although Jupp told her that if he were abroad and near any of such dark-skinned gentry he would take precious good care when making a fire to have as little smoke as possible. "Why?" asked Conny, always anxious for information in order to improve her mind. "Because I shouldn't like them to discover my whereabouts, unless, miss, I knew 'em to be friends," said Jupp in answer. "And how would you manage to have no smoke?" she next pertinently inquired, like the sensible young lady she was. "By always burning the very driest wood I could find, miss," replied Jupp. "It is only the green branches and such as has sap in it that makes the smoke." "Oh!" ejaculated Conny, "I shall remember that. Thank you, Mr Jupp, for telling me. I often wondered how they contrived to conceal their camp-fires." Teddy, with Cissy and Liz, had meanwhile been lying on the grass, overcome with their exertions in stick-gathering, and were intently watching a little glade in front of the elm-tree, some distance off under a coppice. Here they knew there were lots of rabbit-burrows, and they were waiting for some of the little animals to come out and perform their toilets, as they usually did in the afternoon and early evening, preparing themselves for bed-time, as the children said; but, for a long while, not one appeared in sight. "Dere's a bunny at last," whispered Cissy as one peeped out from its hiding-place; and, seeing no cause for alarm in the presence of the little picnic party, with whom no doubt it was now well acquainted, it came further out from the coppice, sitting up on its haunches in the usual free-and-easy fashion of rabbitikins, and beginning to comb out its whiskers with its paws. At the sight of this, Puck, who of course was cuddled up tightly in Teddy's arms, began to bark; but it was such a feeble little bark that not even the most timid of rabbits would have been frightened at it, while as for the one Puck wished to terrify, this simply treated him with the utmost contempt, taking no notice either of bark or dog. Three or four other rabbits, too, impressed with the beauty of the afternoon and the advantages of the situation, now followed their comrade's example, coming out from their burrows and squatting on the turf of the sloping glade in a semicircle opposite the children; while, the more poor Puck tried to express his indignation at their free-and- easiness, the more nonchalantly they regarded him, sitting up comfortably and combing away, enjoying themselves as thoroughly as if there was no such thing as a dog in existence, Puck's faint coughing bark being utterly thrown away upon them. "Imp'dent tings!" said Teddy, unloosing the small terrier; "do and lick 'em, Puck!" The little woolly lamb-like dog, who certainly possessed a larger amount of courage than would reasonably have been imagined from his attenuated appearance, at once darted after the rabbits, who, jerking their short tails in the funniest way possible and throwing up their hind-legs as if they were going to turn somersaults and come down on the other side, darted off down the glade, making for the holes of their burrows under the coppice. The artful Puck, however, having chased the gentry before, was up to all their little dodges, so, instead of running for the rabbits directly, he attacked their flank, endeavouring to cut off their retreat; and, in this object succeeding, away went the hunted animals, now scared out of their lives, down the side of the hill to the bottom, with Puck charging after them, and Teddy following close behind, and Cissy and Liz bringing up the rear. Miss Conny was much too dignified to chase rabbits. "Stop, Master Teddy! stop!" cried Mary. "Come back, Miss Liz and Cissy--come back at once!" The little girls immediately obeyed their nurse; but Teddy, who perhaps in the ardour of the chase might not have heard her call, continued on racing down the hill after Puck, as fast as his stumpy little legs could carry him, his hat flying off and his pinafore streaming behind him in the wind. "Stop, Master Teddy, stop!" called out Mary again. "Why can't you let him be?" said Jupp. "He's only enj'ying hisself with the rabbits, and can't come to no harm on the grass." "Little you know about it," retorted Mary, rather crossly it seemed to Jupp. "Why, the river runs round just below the coppice; and if Master Teddy runs on and can't stop himself, he'll fall into it--there!" "My stars and stripes!" ejaculated Jupp starting up in alarm. "I'll go after him at once." "You'd better," said Mary as he set off running down the hill after Teddy, singing out loudly for him to stop in a sort of reef-topsails-in- a-heavy-squall voice that you could have heard more than a cable's length ahead! The momentum Teddy had gained, however, from the descent of the glade prevented him from arresting his rapid footsteps, although he heard Jupp's voice, the slope inclining the more abruptly towards the bottom of the hill. Besides, Puck in pursuit of the rabbits was right in front of him, and the dog, unable or unwilling to stop, bounded on into the mass of rushes, now quite close, that filled the lower part of the valley, and disappeared from Teddy's sight. The next moment there was a wild yelp from Puck as he gripped the rabbit, and both tumbled over the bank of the river into the water, which was previously concealed from view; the dog's bark being echoed immediately afterwards by a cry of alarm from Teddy and a heavy plunge, as he, too, fell into the swiftly-flowing stream, and was borne out from the bank by the rapid current away towards the mill-dam below! CHAPTER FIVE. BLOWN UP. "Well, I never!" panted out Jupp as he raced down the incline at a headlong speed towards the spot where he had seen Teddy disappear, and whence had come his choking cry of alarm and the splash he made as he fell into the water. "The b'y'll be drownded 'fore I can reach him!" But, such was his haste, that, at the same instant in which he uttered these words--more to himself than for anyone else's benefit, although he spoke aloud--the osiers at the foot of the slope parted on either side before the impetuous rush of his body, giving him a momentary glimpse of the river, with Teddy's clutching fingers appearing just above the surface and vainly appealing for help as he was sinking for the second time; so, without pausing, the velocity he had gained in his run down the declivity carrying him on almost in spite of himself, Jupp took a magnificent header off the bank. Then,--rising after his plunge, with a couple of powerful strokes he reached the unconscious boy, whose struggles had now ceased from exhaustion, and, gripping fast hold of one of his little arms, he towed him ashore. Another second and Jupp would have been too late, Teddy's nearly lifeless little form having already been caught in the whirling eddy of the mill-race. Even as it was, the force of the on-sweeping current was so great that it taxed all Jupp's powers to the utmost to withstand being carried over the weir as he made for the side slanting-wise, so as not to weary himself out uselessly by trying to fight against the full strength of the stream, which, swollen with the rains of April, was resistless in its flow and volume. Swimming on his side, however, and striking out grandly, Jupp succeeded at length in vanquishing the current, or rather made it serve his purpose; and, presently, grasping hold of the branch of an alder that hung over the river at the point of the bend, he drew himself up on the bank with one hand, holding poor Teddy still with the other, to find himself at the same moment confronted by Nurse Mary, with Cissy and Liz, who had all hurried down the slope to the scene of the disaster. "Oh, dear! oh, dear!--he's dead, he's dead!" wailed Mary, taking the little fellow from Jupp and lifting him up in her arms, preparing to start off at a run for the vicarage, while the little girls burst into a torrent of tears. "You just bide there!" said Jupp, preventing her from moving, and looking like a giant Triton, all dripping with water, as he stepped forward. "You just bide there!" "But he'll die if something's not done at once to restore him," expostulated Mary, vainly trying to get away from the other's restraining hold. "So he might, if you took him all that long way 'fore doin' anything," replied Jupp grimly. "You gie him to me; I knows what's best to be done. I've seed chaps drounded afore aboard ship, and brought to life ag'in by using the proper methods to git back the circularation, as our doctor in the _Neptune_ used to call it. You gie him to me!" Impressed with his words, and knowing besides now from long acquaintance that Jupp was what she called "a knowledgeable man," Mary accordingly surrendered the apparently lifeless body of little Teddy; whereupon the porter incontinently began to strip off all the boy's clothing, which of course was wringing wet like his own. "Have you got such a thing as a dry piece of flannel now, miss?" he then asked Mary, hesitating somewhat to put his request into words, "like, like--" "You mean a flannel petticoat," said the girl promptly without the least embarrassment in the exigencies of the case. "Just turn your back, please, Mr Jupp, and I'll take mine off and give it to you." No sooner was this said than it was done; when, Teddy's little naked body being wrapped up warmly in the garment Mary had surrendered, and turned over on the right side, she began under Jupp's directions to rub his limbs, while the other alternately raised and depressed the child's arms, and thus exercising--a regular expansion and depression of his chest. After about five minutes of this work a quantity of water that he had swallowed was brought up by the little fellow; and next, Mary could feel a slight pulsation of his heart. "He's coming round! he's coming round!" she cried out joyously, causing little Cissy's tears to cease flowing and Liz to join Mary in rubbing Teddy's feet. "Go on, Mr Jupp, go on; and we'll soon bring him to." "So we will," echoed her fellow-worker heartily, redoubling his exertions to promote the circulation; and, in another minute a faint flush was observable in Teddy's face, while his chest rose and fell with a rhythmical motion, showing that the lungs were now inflated again and in working order. The little fellow had been brought back to life from the very gates of death! "Hooray!" shouted Jupp when Teddy at length opened his eyes, staring wonderingly at those bending over him, and drawing away his foot from Liz as if she tickled him, whereat Mary burst into a fit of violent hysterical laughter, which terminated in that "good cry" customary with her sex when carried away by excess of emotion. Then, all at once, Teddy appeared to recollect what had happened; for the look of bewilderment vanished from his eyes and he opened his mouth to speak in that quaint, formal way of his which Jupp said always reminded him of a judge on the bench when he was had up before the court once at Portsmouth for smuggling tobacco from a troopship when paid off! "Were's Puck an' de bunny?" he asked, as if what had occurred had been merely an interlude and he was only anxious about the result of the rabbit hunt that had so unwittingly led to his unexpected immersion and narrow escape from drowning. No one in the greater imminence of Teddy's peril had previously thought of the dog or rabbit; but now, on a search being made, Puck was discovered shivering by the side of the river, having managed to crawl out somehow or other. As for the rabbit, which was only a young one or the little woolly terrier could never have overtaken it in the chase down the glade, no trace could be seen of it; and, consequently, it must have been carried over the weir, where at the bottom of the river it was now safe enough from all pursuit of either Puck or his master, and free from all the cares of rabbit life and those ills that even harmless bunnies have to bear! When this point was satisfactorily settled, much to the dissatisfaction, however, of Master Teddy, a sudden thought struck Mary. "Why, wherever can Miss Conny be all this time?" she exclaimed, on looking round and not finding her with the other children. "See's done home," said Cissy laconically. "Gone home!" repeated Mary. "Why?" "Done fets dwy c'o's for Teddy," lisped the little girl, who seemed to have been well informed beforehand as to her sister's movements, although she herself had hurried down with the nurse to the river bank in company with the others immediately Jupp had rushed to Teddy's rescue. "Well, I never!" ejaculated Mary, laughing again as she turned to Jupp. "Who would have thought the little puss would have been so thoughtful? But she has always been a funny child, older than her years, and almost like an old woman in her ways." "Bless you, she ain't none the worse for that!" observed Jupp in answer. "She's a real good un, to think her little brother 'ud want dry things arter his souse in the water, and to go and fetch 'em too without being told." "I expect you'd be none the worse either for going back and changing your clothes," said Mary, eyeing his wet garments. "Lor', it don't matter a bit about me," he replied, giving himself a good shake like a Newfoundland dog, and scattering the drops about, which pleased the children mightily, as he did it in such a funny way. "I rayther likes it nor not." "But you might catch cold," suggested Mary kindly. "Catch your grandmother!" he retorted. "Sailors ain't mollycoddles." "Wat's dat?" asked Teddy inquiringly, looking up at him. "Why, sir," said Jupp, scratching his head reflectively--he had left his cap under the elm-tree on top of the hill, where he had taken it off when he set about building the fire for the kettle--"a mollycoddle is a sort of chap as always wraps hisself up keerfully for fear the wind should blow upon him and hurt his complexion." "Oh!" said Teddy; but he did not seem any the wiser, and was about to ask another question which might have puzzled Jupp, when Liz interrupted the conversation, and changed the subject. "There's Conny coming now, and Pa with her," she called out, pointing to the top of the glade, where her father and elder sister could be seen hurrying swiftly towards them, followed closely by Joe the gardener bearing a big bundle of blankets and other things which the vicar thought might be useful. "My! Master must have been scared!" cried Mary, noticing in the distance the anxious father's face. "Master Teddy do cause him trouble enough, he's that fond of the boy!" But, before Jupp could say anything in reply, the new arrivals had approached the scene of action, Conny springing forward first of all and hugging Teddy and Cissy and Liz all round. In the exuberance of her delight, too, at their being safe and sound, when in her nervous dread she had feared the worst, she extended the same greeting to Mary and Jupp; for, she was an affectionate little thing, and highly emotional in spite of her usually staid demeanour and retiring nature. The vicar, too, could hardly contain himself for joy, and broke down utterly when he tried to thank Jupp for rescuing his little son; while Joe the gardener, not to be behindhand in this general expression of good-will and gratitude, squeezed his quondam rival's fist in his, ejaculating over and over again, with a broad grin on his bucolic face, "You be's a proper sort, you be, hey, Meaister?" thereby calling upon the vicar, as it were, to testify to the truth of the encomium. He was a very funny man, Joe! When the general excitement had subsided, and Teddy, who had in the meantime been stalking about, a comical little figure, attired in Mary's flannel petticoat, was re-dressed in the fresh suit of clothes Joe had brought for him amidst the blankets, the whole party adjourned up the hill to their old rendezvous under the elm-tree. Here they found, greatly to their surprise and gratification, that Jupp's well-built fire had not gone out, as all expected, during the unforeseen digression that had occurred to break the even tenor of their afternoon's entertainment, although left so long unattended to. On the contrary, it was blazing away at a fine rate, with the kettle slung on the forked sticks above it singing and sputtering, emitting clouds of steam the while, "like an engine blowing off," as the porter observed; so, all their preparations having been already completed, the children carried out their original intention of having a festal tea in honour of "Pa's birthday," he being set in their midst and told to do nothing, being the guest of the occasion. Never did bread and butter taste more appetisingly to the little ones than when thus eaten out in the woods, away from all such stuck-up surroundings as tables and chairs, and plates, and cups and saucers, and the other absurd conventionalities of everyday life. They only had three little tin pannikins for their tea, which they passed round in turn, and a basket for their dish, using a leaf when the luxury of a plate was desired by any sybarite of the party--those nice broad ones of the dock making splendid platters. Now, besides bread and butter, Molly the cook had compounded a delicious dough-cake for them, having plums set in it at signal distances apart, so conspicuous that any one could know they were there without going to the trouble of counting them, which indeed would not have taken long to do, their number being rather limited; and, what with the revulsion of feeling at Teddy's providential escape, and the fact of having papa with them, and all, they were in the very seventh heaven of enjoyment. Conny and Cissy, who were the most active of the sprites, assisted by the more deliberate Teddy and Liz, acted as "the grown-up people" attending as hostesses and host to the requirements of "the children," as they called their father and Mary and Jupp, not omitting Joe the gardener, who, squatting down on the extreme circumference of their little circle, kept up a perpetual grin over the acres of bread and butter he consumed, just as if he were having a real meal and not merely playing! The worthy gardener was certainly the skeleton, or cormorant, so to speak, of the banquet, eating them almost out of house and home, it must be mentioned in all due confidence; and, taking watch of his depravity of behaviour in this respect, the thoughtful Conny registered an inward determination never to invite Joe to another of their al fresco feasts, if she could possibly avoid doing so without seriously wounding his sensibilities. The way he walked into that dough-cake would have made anyone almost cry. The fete, however, excepting this drawback, passed off successfully enough without any other contretemps; and after the last crumb of cake had been eaten by Joe, and the things packed up, the little party wended their way home happily in the mellow May evening, through the fields green with the sprouting corn, with the swallows skimming round them and the lark high in the sky above singing her lullaby song for the night and flopping down to her nest. Towards the end of the month, however, Teddy managed somehow or other to get into another scrape. "There never was such a boy," as Mary said. He was "always in hot water." The queen's birthday coming round soon after the vicar's, Jupp, remembering how it used to be kept up when he was in the navy, great guns banging away at royal salutes while the small-arm men on board fired a _feu de joie_, or "fire of joy," as he translated it by the aid of Miss Conny, who happened just then to be studying French, he determined to celebrate the anniversary as a loyal subject in similar fashion at the vicarage, with the aid of a couple of toy cannon and a small bag of powder which he purchased for the purpose. Teddy, of course, was taken into his confidence, the artillery experiments being planned for his especial delectation; so, coming up to the house just about noon on the day of the royal anniversary, when he was able to get away from the station for an hour, leaving his mate Grigson in charge, he set about loading the ordnance and getting ready for the salute, with a train laid over the touch-holes of the cannon to set light to the moment it was twelve o'clock, according to the established etiquette in the navy, a box of matches being placed handy for the purpose. As ill luck would have it, though, some few minutes before the proper time, Mary, who was trying to sling a clothes-line in the back garden, called Jupp to her assistance, and he being her attentive squire on all occasions, and an assiduous cavalier of dames, hastened to help her, leaving Teddy in charge of the loaded cannon, the gunpowder train, and lastly, though by no means least, the box of matches. The result can readily be foreseen. Hardly had Jupp reached Mary's side and proceeded to hoist the obstreperous clothes-line, when "Bang! bang!" came the reports of distant cannonading on the front lawn, followed by an appalling yell from the little girls, who from the safe point of vantage of the drawing-room windows were looking on at the preparations of war. To rush back through the side gate round to the front was but the work of an instant with Jupp, and, followed by Mary, he was almost as quickly on the spot as the sound of the explosion had been heard. He thought that Master Teddy had only prematurely discharged the cannon, and that was all; but when he reached the lawn what was his consternation to observe a thick black cloud of smoke hanging in the air, much greater than could possibly have been produced by the little toy cannon being fired off, while Teddy, the cause of all the mischief, was nowhere to be seen at all! CHAPTER SIX. THE POND IN THE MEADOW. Not a trace of the boy could be seen anywhere. The cause of the explosion was apparent enough; for, the little wooden box on which Jupp had mounted the toy cannons, lashing them down firmly, and securing them with breechings in sailor-fashion, to prevent their kicking when fired, had been overturned, and a jug that he had brought out from the house containing water to damp the fuse with, was smashed to atoms, while of the box of matches and the bag of powder only a few smouldering fragments remained--a round hole burned in the grass near telling, if further proof were needed, that in his eagerness to start the salute, Master Teddy, impatient as usual, had struck a light to ignite the train, and this, accidentally communicating with the bag of powder, had resulted in a grand flare-up of the whole contents. This could be readily reasoned out at a glance; but, where could Teddy be, the striker of the match, the inceptor of all the mischief? Jupp could not imagine; hunt high, hunt low, as he might and did. At first, he thought that the young iconoclast, as nothing could be perceived of him on the lawn or flower-beds, had been blown up in the air over the laurel hedge and into the lane; as, however, nothing could be discovered of him here, either, after the most careful search, this theory had to be abandoned, and Jupp was fairly puzzled. Teddy had completely vanished! It was very strange, for his sisters had seen him on the spot the moment before the explosion. Mary, of course, had followed Jupp round to the front of the house, while the little girls came out on to the lawn; and Molly the cook, as well as Joe the gardener, attracted by the commotion, had also been assisting in the quest for the missing Teddy, prying into every hole and corner. But all their exertions were in vain; and there they stood in wondering astonishment. "P'aps," suggested Cissy, "he's done upstairs?" "Nonsense, child!" said Conny decisively; "we would have seen him from the window if he had come in." "Still, we'd better look, miss," observed Mary, who was all pale and trembling with anxiety as to the safety of her special charge. "He may have been frightened and rushed to the nursery to hide himself, as he has done before when he has been up to something!" So saying, she hurried into the passage, and the rest after her. It was of no use looking into the drawing-room or kitchen, the little girls having been in the former apartment all the time, and Molly in the latter; but the parlour was investigated unsuccessfully, and every nook and cranny of the study, a favourite play-ground of the children when the vicar was out, as he happened to be this evening, fortunately or unfortunately as the case might be, visiting the poor of his parish. Still, there was not a trace of Teddy to be found. The search was then continued upstairs amongst the bed-rooms by Mary and Molly, accompanied by the three little girls, who marched behind their elders in silent awe, Jupp and Joe remaining down in the hall and listening breathlessly for some announcement to come presently from above. The nursery disclosed nothing, neither did the children's sleeping room, nor the vicar's chamber, although the beds were turned up and turned down and looked under, and every cupboard and closet inspected as cautiously as if burglars were about the premises; and Mary was about to give up the pursuit as hopeless, when all at once, she thought she heard the sound of a stifled sob proceeding from a large oak wardrobe in the corner of the spare bed-room opposite the nursery, which had been left to the last, and where the searchers were all now assembled. "Listen!" she exclaimed in a whisper, holding up her finger to enjoin attention; whereupon Cissy and Liz stopped shuffling their feet about, and a silence ensued in which a pin might have been heard to drop. Then, the noise of the stifled sobs that had at first attracted Mary's notice grew louder, and all could hear Teddy's voice between the sobs, muttering or repeating something at intervals to himself. "I do believe he's saying his prayers!" said Mary, approaching the wardrobe more closely with stealthy steps, so as not to alarm the little stowaway, a smile of satisfaction at having at last found him crossing her face, mingled with an expression of amazement--"Just hear what he is repeating. Hush!" They all listened; and this was what they heard proceeding from within the wardrobe, a sob coming in as a sort of hyphen between each word of the little fellow's prayer. "Dod--bess pa--an' Conny an' Liz--an' 'ittle Ciss--an' Jupp, de porter man, an' Mary--an'--an'--all de oders--an' make me dood boy--an' I'll neber do it again, amen!" "The little darling!" cried Mary, opening the door of the wardrobe when Teddy had got so far, and was just beginning all over again; but the moment she saw within, she started back with a scream which at once brought Jupp upstairs. Joe the gardener still stopped, however, on the mat below in the passage, as nothing short of a peremptory command from the vicar would have constrained him to put his heavy clod-hopping boots on the soft stair-carpet. Indeed, it had needed all Mary's persuasion to make him come into the hall, which he did as gingerly as a cat treading on a hot griddle! As Jupp could see for himself, when he came up to the group assembled round the open door of the wardrobe there was nothing in the appearance of poor Teddy to frighten Mary, although much to bespeak her pity and sympathy--the little fellow as he knelt down in the corner showing an upturned face that had been blistered by the gunpowder as it exploded, besides being swollen to more than twice its ordinary size. His clothing was also singed and blackened like that of any sweep, while his eyelashes, eyebrows, and front hair had all been burnt off, leaving him as bare as a coot. Altogether, Master Teddy presented a very sorry spectacle; and the little girls all burst into tears as they looked at him, even Jupp passing his coat-sleeve over his eyes, and muttering something about its being "a bad job" in a very choky sort of voice. It was but the work of an instant, however, for Mary to take up the unfortunate sufferer in her arms, and there he sobbed out all his woes as she cried over him on her way to the nursery, sending off Jupp promptly for the doctor. "I'se not do nuzzin," explained Teddy as he was being undressed, and his burns dressed with oil and cotton-wool, pending the arrival of medical advice. "I'se only zust light de match an' den dere was a whiz; an' a great big black ting lift me up an' trow me down, and den I climb up out of de smoke an' run 'way here. I was 'fraid of black ting comin' an' hide!" "There was no black thing after you, child," said Conny. "It was only the force of the explosion that knocked you down, and the cloud of smoke you saw, which hid you from us when you ran indoors." "It was a black ting," repeated Teddy, unconvinced by the wise Miss Conny's reasoning. "I see him, a big black giant, same as de jinny in story of de fairies; but I ran 'way quick!" "All right, dear! never mind what it was now," said Mary soothingly. "Do you feel any better now?" "Poor mou's so sore," he whimpered, "an' 'ittle nosey can't breez!" "Well, you shouldn't go meddling with matches and fire, as I've told you often," said Mary, pointing her moral rather inopportunely. Still she patted and consoled the little chap as much as she could; and when Doctor Jolly came up from Endleigh presently, he said that she had done everything that was proper for the patient, only suggesting that his face might be covered during the night with a piece of soft rag dipped in Goulard water, so as to ease the pain of the brows and let the little sufferer sleep. The vicar did not return home until some time after the doctor had left the house and Jupp gone back to his duties at the railway-station; but although all traces of the explosion had been removed from the lawn and the grass smoothed over by Joe the gardener, he knew before being told that something had happened from the unusual stillness around, both without and within doors, the little girls being as quiet as mice, and Teddy, the general purveyor of news and noise, being not to the fore as usual. It was not long before he found out all about the accident; when there was a grand to-do, as may be expected, Mr Vernon expressing himself very strongly anent the fact of Jupp putting such a dangerous thing as gunpowder within reach of the young scapegrace, and scolding Mary for not looking after her charge better. Jupp, too, got another "blowing up" from the station-master for being behind time. So, what with the general upset, and the dilapidated appearance of Master Teddy, with his face like a boiled vegetable marrow, when the bandages had been removed from his head and he was allowed to get up and walk about again, the celebration of the Queen's Birthday was a black day for weeks afterwards in the chronicles of the vicar's household! During the rest of the year, however, and indeed up to his eighth year, the course of Teddy's life was uneventful as far as any leading incident was concerned. Of course, he got into various little scrapes, especially on those occasions when his grandmother paid her periodic visits to the vicarage, for the old lady spoiled him dreadfully, undoing in a fortnight all that Mary had effected by months of careful teaching and training in the way of obedience and manners; but, beyond these incidental episodes, he did not distinguish himself by doing anything out of the common. Teddy leisurely pursued that uneven tenor of way customary to boys of his age, exhibiting a marked preference for play over lessons, and becoming a great adept at field sports through Jupp's kindly tuition, albeit poor Puck was no longer able to assist him in hunting rabbits, the little dog having become afflicted with chronic asthma ever since his immersion in the river when he himself had so narrowly escaped from drowning. If water, though, had worked such ill to Puck, the example did not impress itself much on Teddy; for, despite his own previous peril, he was for ever getting himself into disgrace by going down to the river to catch sticklebacks against express injunctions to the contrary, when left alone for any length of time without an observant and controlling eye on his movements. He was also in the habit of joining the village boys at their aquatic pranks in the cattle-pond that occupied a prominent place in the meadows below Endleigh--just where the spur of one of the downs sloped before preparing for another rise, forming a hollow between the hills. Here Master Teddy had loved to go on the sly, taking off his shoes and stockings and paddling about as the shoe and stockingless village urchins did; and this summer, not satisfied with simple paddling as of yore, he bethought himself of a great enterprise. The pond was of considerable extent, and when it was swollen with rain, as happened at this period, the month of June being more plentiful than usual of moisture, its surface covered several acres, the water being very deep between its edge and the middle, where it shallowed again, the ground rising there and forming a sort of island that had actually an alder-tree growing on it. Now, Teddy's ambition was to explore this island, a thing none of the village boys had dreamed of, all being unable to swim; so, as the wished-for oasis could not be reached in that fashion, the next best thing to do was to build a boat like Robinson Crusoe and so get at it in that way. As a preliminary, Teddy sounded the ex-sailor as to the best way of building a boat, without raising Jupp's suspicions--for, the worthy porter, awed by the vicar's reprimand anent the _feu de joie_ affair and Mary's continual exhortations, had of late exhibited a marked disinclination to assist him in doing anything which might lead him into mischief--artfully asking him what he would do if he could find no tree near at hand large enough that he could hollow out for the purpose; but, Jupp could give him no information beyond the fact that he must have a good sound piece of timber for the keel, and other pieces curved in a particular fashion for the strakes, and the outside planking would depend a good deal whether he wanted the boat clinker-built or smooth- sided. "But how then," asked Teddy--he could speak more plainly now than as a five-year old--"do people get off from ships when they have no boat?" "Why, they builds a raft, sir," answered Jupp. "A raft--what is that?" "Why, sir, it means anything that can swim," replied Jupp, quite in his element when talking of the sea, and always ready to spin a yarn or tell what he knew. "It might be made of spare spars, or boards, or anything that can float. When I was in the _Neptune_ off Terra del Faygo I've seed the natives there coming off to us seated on a couple of branches of a tree lashed together, leaves and all." "Oh, thank you," said Teddy, rejoiced to hear this, the very hint he wanted; "but what did they do for oars?" "They used sticks, in course, sir," answered the other, quite unconscious of what the result of his information would be, and that he was sowing the seeds of a wonderful project; and Teddy presently leading on the conversation in a highly diplomatic way to other themes, Jupp forgot bye and bye what he had been talking about. Not so, however, Master Teddy. The very next day, taking up Puck in his arms, and getting away unperceived from home soon after the early dinner, which the children always partook of at noon, he stole down to the pond, where, collecting some of the little villagers to assist him, a grand foray was made on the fencing of the fields and a mass of material brought to the water's edge. Teddy had noted what Jupp had said about the Tierra del Fuegans lashing their rude rafts together, so he took down with him from the house a quantity of old clothes-lines which he had discovered in the back garden. These he now utilised in tying the pieces of paling from the fences together with, after which a number of small boughs and branches from the hedges were laid on top of the structure, which was then pushed off gently from the bank on to the surface of the pond. Hurrah, it floated all right! Teddy therefore had it drawn in again, and stepped upon the raft, which, although it sank down lower in the water and was all awash, still seemed buoyant. He also took Puck with him, and tried to incite some others of the boys to venture out in company with him. The little villagers, however, were wiser in their generation, and being unused to nautical enterprise were averse to courting danger. "You're a pack of cowards!" Teddy exclaimed, indignant and angry at their drawing back thus at the last moment. "I'll go by myself." "Go 'long, master," they cried, noways abashed by his comments on their conduct; "we'll all watch 'ee." Naturally plucky, Teddy did not need any further spurring, so, all alone on his raft, with the exception of the struggling Puck, who did not like leaving _terra firma_, and was more of a hindrance than an aid, he pushed out into the pond, making for the islet in the centre by means of a long pole which he had thinned off from a piece of fencing, sticking it into the mud at the bottom and pushing against it with all his might. Meanwhile, the frail structure on which he sat trembled and wobbled about in the most unseaworthy fashion, causing him almost to repent of his undertaking almost as soon as he had started, although he had the incense of popular admiration to egg him on, for the village boys were cheering and hooraying him like--"like anything," as he would himself have said! CHAPTER SEVEN. FATHER AND SON. The road from the vicarage to the village and station beyond passed within a hundred yards or so of the pond; but from the latter being situated in a hollow and the meadows surrounding it inclosed within a hedge of thick brushwood, it could only be seen by those passing to and fro from one point--where the path began to rise above the valley as it curved round the spur of the down. It was Saturday also, when, as Teddy well knew, his father would be engaged on the compilation of his Sunday sermon, and so not likely to be going about the parish, as was his custom of an afternoon, visiting the sick, comforting the afflicted, and warning those evil-doers who preferred idleness and ale at the "Lamb" to honest toil and uprightness of living; consequently the young scapegrace was almost confident of non-interruption from any of his home folk, who, besides being too busy indoors to think of him, were ignorant of his whereabouts. It was also Jupp's heaviest day at the station, so _he_ couldn't come after him he thought; and he was enjoying himself to his heart's content, when as the Fates frequently rule it, the unexpected happened. Miss Conny, now a tall slim girl of thirteen, but more sedate and womanly even than she had been at ten, if that were possible, was occupied in the parlour "mending the children's clothes," as she expressed it in her matronly way, when she suddenly missed a large reel of darning cotton. Wondering what had become of it, for, being neat and orderly in her habits, her things seldom strayed from their proper places, she began hunting about for the absent article in different directions and turning over the piles of stockings before her. "Have you seen it?" she asked Liz, who was sitting beside her, also engaged in needlework, but of a lighter description, the young lady devoting her energies to the manufacture of a doll's mantilla. "No," said Liz abstractedly, her mouth at the time being full of pins for their more handy use when wanted, a bad habit she had acquired from a seamstress occasionally employed at the vicarage. "Dear me, I wonder if I left the reel upstairs," said Conny, much concerned at the loss; and she was just about prosecuting the search thither when Cissy threw a little light on the subject, explaining at once the cause of the cotton's disappearance. "Don't you recollect, Con," she observed, "you lent it to Teddy the other day? I don't s'pose he ever returned it to you, for I'm sure I saw it this morning with his things in the nursery." "No more he did," replied Conny. "Please go and tell him to bring it back. I know where you'll find him. Mary is helping Molly making a pie, and he's certain to be in the kitchen dabbling in the paste." "All right!" said Cissy; and presently her little musical voice could be heard calling through the house, "Teddy! Teddy!" as she ran along the passage towards the back. Bye and bye, however, she returned to the parlour unsuccessful. "I can't see him anywhere," she said. "He's not with Mary, or in the garden, or anywhere!" "Oh, that boy!" exclaimed Conny. "He's up to some mischief again, and must have gone down to the village or somewhere against papa's orders. Do you know where he is, Liz?" "No," replied the young sempstress, taking the pins out of her mouth furtively, seeing that Conny was looking at her. "He ran out of the house before we had finished dinner, and took Puck with him." "Then he has gone off on one of his wild pranks," said her elder sister, rising up and putting all the stockings into her work-basket. "I will go and speak to papa." The vicar had just finished the "thirdly, brethren," of his sermon; and he was just cogitating how to bring in his "lastly," and that favourite "word more in conclusion" with which he generally wound up the weekly discourse he gave his congregation, when Conny tapped at the study door timidly awaiting permission to enter. "What's the matter?" called out Mr Vernon rather testily, not liking to be disturbed in his peroration. "I want to speak to you, papa," said Conny, still from without. "Then come in," he answered in a sort of resigned tone of voice, it appearing to him as one of the necessary ills of life to be interrupted, and he as a minister bound to put up with it; but this feeling of annoyance passed off in a moment, and he spoke gently and kindly enough when Conny came into the room. "What is it, my dear?" he asked, smiling at his little housekeeper, as he called her, noticing her anxious air; "any trouble about to-morrow's dinner, or something equally serious?" "No, papa," she replied, taking his quizzing in earnest. "The dinner is ordered, and nothing the matter with it that I know of. I want to speak to you about Teddy." "There's nothing wrong with him, I hope?" said he, jumping up from his chair and wafting some of the sheets of his sermon from the table with his flying coat-tails in his excitement and haste. "Nothing wrong, I hope?" Although a quiet easy-going man generally, the vicar was wrapt up in all his children, trying to be father and mother in one to them and making up as much as in him lay for the loss of that maternal love and guidance of which they were deprived at an age when they wanted it most; but of Teddy he was especially fond, his wife having died soon after giving him birth, and, truth to say, he spoiled him almost as much as that grandmother whose visitations were such a vexed question with Mary, causing her great additional trouble with her charge after the old lady left. "Nothing wrong, papa dear, that I know of," replied Conny in her formal deliberative sort of way; "but, I'm afraid he has gone off with those village boys again, for he's nowhere about the place." "Dear me!" ejaculated the vicar, shoving up his spectacles over his forehead and poking his hair into an erect position like a cockatoo's crest, as he always did when fidgety. "Can't you send somebody after him?" "Mary is busy, and Teddy doesn't mind Joe, so there's no use in sending him." "Dear me!" ejaculated her father again. "I'm afraid he's getting very headstrong--Teddy, I mean, not poor Joe! I must really get him under better control; but, I--I don't like to be harsh with him, Conny, you know, little woman," added the vicar dropping his voice. "He's a brave, truthful little fellow with all his flow of animal spirits, and his eyes remind me always of your poor mother when I speak sternly to him and he looks at me in that straightforward way of his." "Shall I go after him, papa?" interposed Conny at this juncture, seeing that a wave of memory had carried back her father into the past, making him already forget the point at issue. "What? Oh, dear me, no!" said the vicar, recalled to the present. "I'll go myself." "But your sermon, papa?" "It's just finished, and I can complete what has to be added when I come back. No--yes, I'll go; besides, now, I recollect, I have to call at Job Trotter's to try and get him to come to church to-morrow. Yes, I'll go myself." So saying, the vicar put on the hat Conny handed to him, for she had to look after him very carefully in this respect, as he would sometimes, when in a thinking fit, go out without any covering on his head at all! Then, taking his stick, which the thoughtful Conny likewise got out of the rack in the hall, he went out of the front door and over the lawn, through the little gate beyond. He then turned into the lane that led across the downs to the village, Miss Conny having suggested this as the wisest direction in which to look for Teddy, from the remembrance of something the young scapegrace had casually dropped in conversation when at dinner. As he walked along the curving lane, the air was sweet with the scent of dry clover and the numerous wild flowers that twined amongst the blackberry bushes of the hedgerows. Insects also buzzed about, creating a humming music of their own, while flocks of starlings startled by his approach flew over the field next him to the one further on, exhibiting their speckled plumage as they fluttered overhead, and the whistle of the blackbird and coo of the ring-dove could be heard in the distance. But the vicar was thinking of none of these things. Conny's words about Teddy not minding Joe the gardener, or anybody else indeed, had awakened his mind to the consciousness that he had not given proper consideration to the boy's mental training. Teddy's education certainly was not neglected, for he repeated his lessons regularly to his father and displayed the most promising signs of advancement; but, lessons ended, he was left entirely to the servants. The vicar reflected, that this ought not to be permitted with a child at an age when impressions of right and wrong are so easily made, never to be effaced in after life, once the budding character is formed. He would correct this error, the vicar determined; in future he would see after him more personally! Just as he arrived at this sound conclusion the vicar reached the bend of the lane where it sloped round by the spur of the down, a bustling bumblebee making him notice this by brushing against his nose as he buzzed through the air in that self-satisfied important way that all bumblebees affect in their outdoor life; and, looking over the hedge that sank down at this point, he saw a group of boys gathered round the edge of the pond. He did not recognise Teddy amongst them; but, fancying the urchins might be able to tell him something of his movements, he made towards them, climbing through a gap in the fence and walking down the sloping side of the hill to the meadow below. The boys, catching sight of him, immediately began to huddle together like a flock of sheep startled by the appearance of some strange dog; and he could hear them calling out some words of warning, in which his familiar title "t'parson" could be plainly distinguished. "The young imps must be doing something wrong, and are afraid of being found out," thought the vicar. "Never mind, though, I sha'n't be hard on them, remembering my own young truant!" As he got nearer, he heard the yelp of a dog as if in pain or alarm. "They're surely not drowning some poor animal," said the vicar aloud, uttering the new thought that flashed across his mind. "If so, I shall most certainly be severe with them; for cruelty is detestable in man or boy!" Hurrying on, he soon obtained a clear view of the pond, and he could now see that not only were a lot of boys clustered together round the edge of the water, but towards the centre something was floating like a raft with apparently another boy on it, who was holding a struggling white object in his arms, from which evidently the yelps proceeded--his ears soon confirming the supposition. "Hullo! what are you doing there?" shouted the vicar, quickening his pace. "Don't hurt the poor dog!" To his intense astonishment the boy on the floating substance turned his face towards him, answering his hail promptly with an explanation. "It's Puck, padie, and I ain't hurting him." Both the face and the voice were Teddy's! The vicar was completely astounded. "Teddy!" he exclaimed, "can I believe my eyes?--is it really you?" "Yes, it's me, padie," replied the young scapegrace, trying to balance himself upright on the unsteady platform as he faced his father, but not succeeding in doing so very gracefully. "Why, how on earth--or rather water, that would be the most correct expression," said the vicar correcting himself, being a student of Paley and a keen logician as to phraseology; "how did you get there?" "I made a raft," explained Teddy in short broken sentences, which were interrupted at intervals through the necessary exertion he had to make every now and then to keep from tumbling into the water and hold Puck. "I made a raft like--like Robinson Crusoe, and--and--I've brought Puck-- uck with me, 'cause I didn't have a parrot or a cat. I--I--I wanted to get to the island; b-b-but I can't go any further as the raft is stuck, and--and I've lost my stick to push it with. Oh--I was nearly over there!" "It would be a wholesome lesson to you if you got a good ducking!" said the vicar sternly, albeit the reminiscences of Robinson Crusoe and the fact of Teddy endeavouring to imitate that ideal hero of boyhood struck him in a comical light and he turned away to hide a smile. "Come to the bank at once, sir!" Easy enough as it was for the vicar to give this order, it was a very different thing for Teddy, in spite of every desire on his part, to obey it; for, the moment he put down Puck on the leafy flooring of the raft, the dog began to howl, making him take it up again in his arms. To add to his troubles, also, he had dropped his sculling pole during a lurch of his floating platform, so he had nothing now wherewith to propel it either towards the island or back to the shore, the raft wickedly oscillating midway in the water between the two, like Mahomet's coffin 'twixt heaven and earth! Urged on, however, by his father's command, Teddy tried as gallantly as any shipwrecked mariner to reach land again; but, what with Puck hampering his efforts, and his brisk movements on the frail structure, this all at once separated into its original elements through the clothes-line becoming untied, leaving Teddy struggling amidst the debris of broken rails and branches--Puck ungratefully abandoning his master in his extremity and making instinctively for the shore. The vicar plunged in frantically to the rescue, wading out in the mud until he was nearly out of his depth, and then swimming up to Teddy, who, clutching a portion of his dismembered raft, had managed to keep afloat; although, he was glad enough when his father's arm was round him and he found himself presently deposited on the bank in safety, where they were now alone, all the village boys having rushed off _en masse_, yelling out the alarm at the pitch of their voices the moment Teddy fell in and the vicar went after him. Both were in a terrible pickle though, with their garments soaking wet, of course; while the vicar especially was bedraggled with mud from head to foot, looking the most unclerical object that could be well imagined. However, he took the whole matter good-humouredly enough, not scolding Teddy in the least. "The best thing we can do, my son," he said when he had somewhat recovered his breath, not having gone through such violent exercise for many a long day.--"The best thing we can do is to hurry off home as fast we can, so as to arrive there before they hear anything of the accident from other sources, or the girls will be terribly alarmed about us." Teddy, without speaking, tacitly assented to this plan by jumping up immediately and clutching hold of the shivering Puck, whose asthma, by the way, was not improved by this second involuntary ducking; and the two were hastening towards the vicarage when they heard a horse trotting behind them, Doctor Jolly riding up alongside before they had proceeded very far along the lane, after clambering out of the field where the pond was situated. "Bless me!" cried the doctor; "why, here are you both safe and sound, when those village urchins said you and Master Teddy were drownded!" "Ah! I thought these boys were up to something of the sort when they all scampered off in a batch without lending us a helping hand!" replied the vicar laughing. "I was just telling Teddy this, thinking the report would reach home before us." "Aye, all happen, Vernon? 'Pon my word, you're in a fine mess!" The vicar thereupon narrated all that had occurred, much to the doctor's amusement. "Well," he exclaimed at the end of the story, "that boy of yours is cut out for something, you may depend. He won't be drowned at any rate!" "No," said the vicar reflectively; "this is the second merciful escape he has had from the water." "Yes, and once from fire, too," put in the other, alluding to the gunpowder episode. "He's a regular young desperado!" "I hope not, Jolly," hastily interposed the vicar. "I don't like your joking about his escapades in that way. I hope he will be good--eh, my boy?" and he stroked Teddy's head as he walked along by his side, father and son being alike hatless, their headgear remaining floating on the pond, along with the remains of the raft, to frighten the frogs and fishes. Teddy uttered no reply; but his little heart was full, and he made many inward resolves, which, alas! his eight-year-old nature was not strong enough to keep. CHAPTER EIGHT. UNAPPRECIATED. He really did not mean any harm; but mischief is mischief whether intentional or not, and somehow or other he seemed continually to be getting into it. Circumstances, over which, of course, he had no control, continually overruled his anxious desire to be good. As Doctor Jolly said, with his usual strident hearty laugh that could be heard half a mile off, and which was so contagious that it made people smile whose thoughts were the reverse of gay, Teddy was always in hot water, "except, by Jove, when he plunged into the cold, ho, ho!" With reference to this latter point, however, it may be mentioned here, that albeit he had twice been mercifully preserved from drowning, the vicar, while trustful enough in the divine workings of Providence, did not think it altogether right to allow Teddy's insurance against a watery grave to be entirely dependent on chance; and so, that very evening, when Jupp came up to the house after he had done his work at the station, he broached the subject to him as soon as the worthy porter had been made cognisant of all the facts connected with the raft adventure. "No," said the vicar, so carried away by his feelings that he almost added "my brethren," fancying himself in the pulpit delivering a homily to his congregation generally, instead of only addressing one hearer, "we ought not to neglect any wise precaution in guarding against those dangers that beset our everyday lives. Lightly spoken as the adage is, that `God helps those who help themselves,' it is true enough." "Aye, aye, sir, and so say I," assented Jupp, rather mystified as to "what the parson was a-driving at," as he mentally expressed it, by this grand beginning, and thinking it had some reference to his not being present at the pond to rescue Teddy in his peril, which he keenly regretted. "This being my impression," continued the vicar, completing his period, as if rounding a sentence in one of his sermons, wherein he was frequently prone to digress, "and I'm glad to learn from your acquiescent reply that you agree with me on the main issue, eh?" Jupp nodded his head again, although now altogether in a fog regarding the other's meaning. "Well, then," said the vicar, satisfied with having at last cleared the ground for stating his proposition, "I want you to devote any leisure time you may have in the course of the next few weeks to teaching my son to swim; so that, in the event of his unhappily falling into the water again, when neither you nor I may be near, he may be able to save himself--under providence, that is." "I was just about a-thinking on the same thing, sir, when you began a- speaking," observed Jupp thoughtfully, scratching his head in his reflective way as he stood before the vicar cap in hand at the door of the study, where the conference was being held. "I fancied you didn't like me taking him down to the river, or I'd have taught him to swim long ago, I would, sir!" "Then I may depend on your doing so now, eh?" "Sartenly, sir! I'll be proud, that I will, to show him," answered Jupp eagerly, mightily pleased with the task intrusted to him, having long wished to undertake it; and so, he being willing, and his pupil nothing loth, Teddy was in a comparatively short space so well instructed how to support himself in the water that he was quite capable of swimming across the river without fear of being sucked down into the mill-race-- although he made both his father and Jupp a promise, which he honourably kept, of never bathing there unless accompanied by either of the two. Not only this, but he could also essay the muddy depths of the pond in the meadow whenever the fancy seized him, exploring the little island in its centre at his own sweet will; and this accomplishment, as will be seen further on, stood him in good stead at one of the most critical periods of his life, although this is anticipating. But, learning swimming, and so lessening the risk attending peril by water, did not prevent him from getting into scrapes on land; for, he was a brave, fearless boy, and these very qualities, added to a natural impulsiveness of disposition, were continually leading him into rash enterprises which almost invariably ended in mishap and disaster, if not to himself, to those who unwittingly were involved in his ventures, alas! In his ninth year, Jupp got a rise on the line, being promoted to be assistant station-master at a neighbouring town, which necessarily involved his leaving Endleigh; and, being now also able to keep a wife in comfort, the long courtship which had been going on between him and Mary was brought to a happy conclusion by matrimony, a contingency that involved the loss to the vicar's household of Mary's controlling influence, leaving Master Teddy more and more to himself, with no one in authority to look after him. Under these circumstances, the vicar, acting on Doctor Jolly's advice, sent him to a small private school in the village where the farmers' sons of the vicinity were taught the rudiments of their education, Teddy going thither every morning and afternoon in company with his sisters Liz and Cissy, who received lessons from a retired governess dwelling hard by--the three children returning home in the middle of the day for their dinner, and again on the termination of their tasks in the evening. Miss Conny, who had passed through the same curriculum, had grown too old for her teacher, and now remained at the vicarage, installed as her father's housekeeper and head of the family in his absence. This arrangement worked very well for a time, although Teddy did not make any very rapid progress at his studies, his mind being more turned to outdoor sports than book lore; but the association with others made him, if more manly, less tractable, developing his madcap propensities to a very considerable extent, if merely from his desire to emulate his companions. One day, when going homewards with Liz and Cissy across the fields from Endleigh, the trio came upon a group of the idle boys of the village who were assembled in front of an inclosed paddock containing Farmer Giles's brindled bull, a savage animal, whose implacable viciousness was the talk of the place; not even the ploughman, with whom he was more familiar than anyone else, daring to approach him without the protection of a long-handled pitchfork. Neither Farmer Giles nor any of his men were about, and the boys, taking advantage of the opportunity, were baiting the bull by shying clods at him and otherwise rousing his temper, when Teddy and his sisters came along. Teddy fired up at once at the sight. "You cowards!" he cried; "you stand there behind the fence pelting the poor animal, but none of you have the pluck to go inside and do it!" "No more have you, Meaister," retorted one of the biggest of the boys, a rustic lout of sixteen. "You ain't got the plook t' go inside yoursen!" "Haven't I?" said Teddy in answer to this taunt; and before his sisters could prevent him he had darted over to where the boys were standing, and climbing over the stout five-barred gate that gave admittance to the inclosure, let himself down into the paddock--confronting the bull without even a stick in his hand. The savage animal appeared so much surprised at the temerity of such a little fellow as Teddy invading his domain, that he allowed him to advance several steps without making a movement; when, putting down his head, as if trying the points of his horns, and pawing the ground, he uttered a wild bellow that brought forth a responsive shriek from Cissy. "Come back, Teddy, come back!" she screamed, turning quite pale with fright. "He's coming after you, and will toss you on his cruel horns. Oh, do come back!" Teddy, however, still continued advancing towards the infuriated brute, waving his arms and shouting in the endeavour to intimidate it. He was sorry he had gone into the paddock; but he had some idea that if he retreated the bull would make a rush at him, and thought that by showing he was not afraid, he might presently retire with all the honours of war, so he preserved a courageous front, although his heart went pit-a- pat all the while. Again, the bull lowered his horns and tossed up his head. He was quite close to him now; and Teddy stopped, the bull eyeing him and he looking at it steadfastly. The situation was alarming, so he stepped back gingerly, whereupon the bull advanced at the same moment, with another loud bellow, the smoke coming out of his red nostrils, and his little eyes flaming with fire. This caused all Teddy's courage to evaporate, and the next moment, forgetting all his previous caution, he turned and ran as hard as he could for the gate; but, the bull, in two strides, catching him up on his horns like a bundle of hay, tossed him high in the air, amidst the screams and shouts of Cissy and Liz and all the village boys commingled, the triumphant roar of the animal overtopping them all as it bellowed forth a paean of victory. Fortunately for Teddy, a pollard elm stood just within the paddock, breaking his fall as he tumbled towards the ground, where the bull was looking up awaiting him, with the intention of catching him again on his horns; and the branches receiving his body in their friendly shelter, he was saved from tumbling down, when he would have been at the mercy of his enemy. Still, there he hung, like Absalom, another naughty boy before him, suspended by his clothes if not by his hair, the bull bellowing and keeping guard round the tree to prevent his further escape; and it was not until the ploughman had been called by one of the village boys and driven away the animal that Teddy was able to climb down from his insecure perch and regain the others. He was glad enough to get out of the paddock, it may be safely asserted; and then, when he was examined, it was discovered, much to the wonder of everybody, including himself, that, beyond a scratch or two from the branches of the elm, he was quite unhurt, in spite of the toss the bull gave him and his unexpected flight through the air! But his daring, if unproductive of any evil consequences towards himself personally, caused harm to others, the ploughman being badly gored while driving off the violent animal through his missing his footing when aiming a blow at it with his pitchfork; while poor Cissy was in such a fright at the mishap, that after screaming herself hoarse she went off in hysterics, the attack ending in a fit of convulsions on her getting home, making her so ill that the doctor had to be summoned to bring her back to consciousness. Teddy in consequence had a serious lecture from the vicar, who pointed out to him the difference between real courage and foolhardiness; but the lesson did not strike very deep, and soon he was his wayward self again, his sister Conny being too near his own age to have any authority over him, while his father was too much of a student and dreamer to exercise any judicious control in restraining his exuberant nature. By the time he was twelve years of age he was like a wild unbroken colt, although he had still the same honest outspoken look in his bright blue eyes, and was a fine manly little fellow who would not have, told a lie to save himself from punishment, or wilfully hurt chick or child; but, scapegrace he was still, as he had been almost from his earliest infancy. He really could not help it. When Jupp and Mary paid their periodical visit at the vicarage to see how the family were getting on, bringing anon another little Jupp with them, they were certain to hear of something terrible that Master Teddy had done; for all the village talked of him now and took heed of his misdeeds, the recital of which, as is usual in such cases, lost nothing by the telling. They were only ordinary boyish freaks; but they seemed awful to the quiet, sleepy countryfolk who inhabited Endleigh. Once, his grandmother rather unwisely brought down a pistol for him from London; and Teddy thereupon having his imagination excited by what he had read of pirates and highwaymen in the works of romance which he devoured whenever he could get hold of them, went about fancying himself a bold buccaneer and freebooter, firing at everything moving within as well as out of range, along the solitary country lanes and hedgerows-- thereby frightening passers-by frequently with untimely shots close to their ears, and making them believe their last hour had come. It was in this way that he peppered old Stokes's sow, which was taking a quiet walk abroad seeking a convenient wallowing place, when the squeals of the unlucky beast were a nine days' wonder, albeit "it was all cry and little wool," as the Irishman said when he shaved his pig, the animal being not much hurt. Still, old Stokes did not like it, and complained to the squire, who remonstrated with the vicar, and the latter in his turn lectured Teddy-- the matter ending there as far as he was concerned, although the squeals of the afflicted sow were treasured up and remembered against him in the chronicles of Endleigh. The place was so dull, that having nothing particular to keep him occupied--for he had long since learned all the village schoolmaster could teach him, and it was a mere farce his remaining any longer under his tutelage--the wonder was, not that Teddy got into any mischief at all, but that he did not fall into more; and Doctor Jolly was continually speaking to his father about neglecting him in that way, urging that he should be sent to some good boarding-school at a distance to prepare him for the university, Mr Vernon intending that the boy should follow in his own footsteps and go into the church, having the same living after him that he had inherited from his father. But the vicar would not hear of this. "No," said he, "he shall stop here and be educated by me in the same way as I was educated by my poor father before going to Oxford. He's a bright intelligent boy--you don't think him an ignoramus, Jolly, eh?" "Not by any means, by Jove," laughed the doctor. "He knows too much already. What I think he wants is a little proper restraint and control. Master Teddy has too much his own way." "Ah! I can't be hard with him, Jolly," sighed the vicar. "Whenever I try to speak to him with severity he looks me in the face with those blue eyes of his, and I think of my poor wife, his mother. He's the very image of her, Jolly!" "Well, well," said the doctor, putting the subject away, considering it useless to press the point; "I'm afraid you'll regret it some day, though I hope not." "I hope not, indeed," replied the vicar warmly. "Teddy isn't a bad boy. He has never told me a falsehood in his life, and always confesses to any fault he has committed." "That doesn't keep him out of mischief though," said the doctor grimly as he went off, atoning to himself for having found fault with Teddy by giving him a drive out to the squire's, and allowing him to take his horse and gig back by himself, an indulgence that lifted Teddy into the seventh heaven of delight. However, as events turned out, the very means by which the doctor thought to clear the reproach from his own soul of having advised the vicar about Teddy, indirectly led to his advice being followed. On alighting at the squire's and handing him the reins, he told Teddy to be very particular in driving slowly, the horse being a high-spirited one, and apt to take the bit in his teeth if given his head or touched with the whip; so, as long as he was in sight Teddy obeyed these injunctions, coaxing the bay along as quietly as if he were assisting at a funeral procession. Directly he got beyond range of observation from the house, though, he made amends for his preliminary caution, shaking the reins free, and giving the horse a smart cut under the loins that made it spring forward like a goat, almost jumping out of the traces; and then, away it tore along the road towards the village at the rate of twenty miles an hour, the gig bounding from rut to rut as if it were a kangaroo, and shaking Teddy's bones together like castanets. Once the animal had got its head, the boy found it useless to try and stop him; while, as for guidance, the horse no more cared about his pulling at the bit than if he were a fly, plunging onward in its wild career, and whisking the gig from side to side, so that Teddy was fully employed in holding on without attempting to pull the reins at all. For a mile or two the roadway was pretty clear, but on nearing Endleigh it became narrower; and here, just in front, Teddy could see a loaded farm wagon coming along. To have passed it safely either he or the wagoner would have had to pull up on one side; but with him now it was impossible to do this, while the driver of the other vehicle was half asleep, and nodding from amidst the pile of straw with which the wagon was loaded, letting the team jingle along at a slow walk. A collision, therefore, was inevitable, and hardly had Teddy come to this conclusion than smash, bang, it followed! There was a terrible jolt, and he suddenly felt himself doing a somersault, waking up the wagoner by tumbling on top of him above the straw, whither he had hurled as from a catapult by the sudden stoppage of the gig in its mad career; and when he came to himself he saw that the fragments of the vehicle lay scattered about under the front of the wagon, against which it had been violently impelled, the bay cantering down to its own stable with its broken traces dangling behind it. Teddy was thunderstruck at the mishap. He had not thought there was any danger in disobeying the doctor's instructions, and yet here was the gig smashed up and the wagoner's horses injured irreparably, one poor brute having to be shot afterwards; besides which he did not know what had become of the runaway animal. All the mishap had arisen through disobedience! He went home at once and told his father everything; but the vicar, though comforting him by saying that he would get the doctor a new gig, and recompense the farmer to whom the wagon belonged for the loss of his team, seemed to have his eyes awakened at last to the evil to which Doctor Jolly had so vainly tried to direct his attention. He determined that Teddy should go to school. But, before this intention could be carried out, there was a most unexpected arrival at the vicarage. This was no less a personage than Uncle Jack, whom neither Teddy nor his sisters had ever seen before, he having gone to sea the same year the vicar had married, and never been heard of again, the vessel in which he had sailed having gone down, and all hands reported lost. Uncle Jack hadn't foundered, though, if his ship had, for here he was as large as life, and that was very large, he weighing some fourteen or fifteen stone at the least! What was more, he had passed through the most wonderful adventures and been amongst savages. These experiences enabled him to recount the most delightful and hairbreadth yarns--yarns that knocked all poor Jupp's stories of the cut-and-dried cruises he had had in the navy into a cocked hat, Teddy thought, as he hung on every utterance of this newly- found uncle, longing the while to be a sailor and go through similar experiences. Uncle Jack took to him amazingly, too, and when he had become domesticated at the vicarage, asked one day what he was going to be. "What, make a parson of him, brother-in-law!" exclaimed the sailor in horrified accents. "You'd never spoil such a boy as that, who's cut out for a sailor, every inch of him--not, of course, that I wish to say a word against your profession. Still, he can't go into the church yet; what are you going to do with him in the meantime, eh?" "Send him to school," replied the other. "Why, hasn't he been yet?" "Oh, yes, he's not altogether ignorant," said the vicar. "I think he's a very fair scholar for his years." "Then why dose him any more with book learning, eh? When you fill a water-cask too full it's apt to run over!" "I quite agree with you about cramming, Jack," said the vicar, smiling at the nautical simile; "but, I'm sending Teddy to a leading school more for the sake of the discipline than for anything more that I want him to learn at present." "Discipline, eh! is that your reason, brother-in-law? Then allow me to tell you he'll get more of that at sea than he ever will at school." "Oh, father!" interrupted Teddy, who had been present all the time during the confab, listening as gravely as any judge to the discussion about his future, "do let me be a sailor! I'd rather go to sea than anything." "But you might be drowned, my boy," said the vicar gravely, his thoughts wandering to every possible danger of the deep. "No fear of that," answered Teddy smiling. "Why, I can swim like a fish; and there's Uncle Jack now, whom you all thought lost, safe and sound after all his voyages!" "Aye and so I am!" chorused the individual alluded to. "Well, well, we'll think of it," said the vicar. "I'll hear what my old friend Jolly has to say to the plan first." But he could not have consulted a more favourable authority as far as Teddy was concerned. "The very thing for him!" said the doctor approvingly. "I don't think you could ever turn him into a parson, Vernon. He has too much animal spirits for that; think of my gig, ho! ho!" Overcome by the many arguments brought forward, and the general consensus of judgment in favour of the project, the vicar at last consented that Teddy might be allowed to go to sea under the aegis of Uncle Jack, who started off at once to London to see about the shipping arrangements; when the rest of the household set to work preparing the young sailor's outfit in the meantime, so that no time might be lost-- little Cissy making him a wonderful anti-macassar, which, in spite of all ridicule to the contrary, she asserted would do for the sofa in his cabin! Of course, Jupp and Mary came over to wish Teddy good-bye; but, albeit there was much grief among the home circle at the vicarage when they escorted him to the little railway-station, on the day he left there were not many tears shed generally at his going, for, to paraphrase not irreverently the words of the Psalmist, "Endleigh, at heart, was glad at his departing, and the people of the village let him go free!" CHAPTER NINE. AT SEA. "Well, here we are, my hearty!" said Uncle Jack, who was on the watch for him at London Bridge station, and greeted him the moment the train arrived; "but, come, look sharp, we've a lot to do before us, and precious little time to do it in!" Teddy, however, was not inclined at first to "look sharp." On the contrary, he looked extremely sad, being very melancholy at leaving home, and altogether "down in the mouth," so to speak. This arose, not so much from the fact of his parting with his father and sisters, dearly as he loved them all in his way; but, on account of poor Puck, who, whether through grief at his going away, which the intelligent little animal seemed quite as conscious of through the instinct of his species as if he were a human being, or from his chronic asthma coming to a crisis, breathed his last in Teddy's arms the very morning of his departure from home! The doggy, faithful to the end, was buried in the garden, Conny, Cissy, and Liz attending his obsequies, and the two latter weeping with Teddy over his grave, for all were fond of Puck; but none lamented him so deeply as he, and all the journey up to town, as the train sped its weary way along, his mind was busy recalling all the incidents that attended their companionship from the time when his grandmother first gave him as a present. He was a brisk young dog then, he remembered, the terror of all strange cats and hunter of rabbits, but his affection had not swerved down to the last year of their association, when, toothless and wheezy, he could hunt no more, and cats came fearlessly beneath his very nose when he went through the feeble pretence of trying to gnaw a bone on the lawn. Poor Puck--_requiescat in pace_! Still, doggy or no doggy, Uncle Jack was not the sort of fellow to let Teddy remain long in the dumps, especially as he had said there was a good deal to be done; and, soon, Teddy was in such a whirl of excitement, with everything new and strange around him, that he had no time left to be melancholy in. First, Uncle Jack hailed a hansom, all Teddy's belongings in the shape of luggage being left in the cloak-room at the terminus, and the two jumping in were driven off as rapidly as the crowded state of the streets would allow, to Tower Hill, where the offices of the shipping agents owning the _Greenock_ were situated. Here Uncle Jack deposited a cheque which the vicar had given him, and Master Teddy was bound over in certain indentures of a very imposing character as a first-class apprentice to the said firm, the lad then signing articles as one of the crew of the _Greenock_, of which vessel, it may be mentioned, Uncle Jack had already been appointed chief officer, so that he would be able to keep a watchful eye over his nephew in his future nautical career. "Now that job's done," said Uncle Jack when all the bothersome writing and signing were accomplished and the vicar's cheque paid over, "we'll have a run down to look at the ship; what say you to that, eh?" "All right!" responded Teddy, much delighted at the idea; and the pair then were driven from Tower Hill to the Fenchurch Street railway- station, where they dismissed their cab and took train for the docks, the state of locomotion in the neighbourhood of which does not readily permit of the passage of wheeled vehicles, a hansom running the risk of being squashed into the semblance of a pancake against the heavy drays blocking the narrow streets and ways, should it adventure within the thoroughfares thereof. On their arrival at Poplar, Uncle Jack threaded his way with amazing ease and familiarity through a narrow lane with high walls on either hand, and then into a wide gateway branching off at right angles. Entering within this Teddy found himself in a vast forest of masts, with ships loading and unloading at the various quays and jetties alongside the wharves, opposite to lines of warehouses that seemed to extend from one end of the docks to the other. Uncle Jack was not long in tumbling across the _Greenock_, which had nearly completed taking in her cargo and was to "warp out next morning," as he told Teddy, who didn't know what on earth he meant by the phrase, by the way. There appeared to be a great deal of confusion going on in front of the jetty to which she was moored; but Uncle Jack took him on board and introduced him to Mr Capstan, the second officer, as a future messmate, who showed him the cabins and everything, telling him to "make himself at home!" The _Greenock_ was a fine barque-rigged vessel of some two thousand tons, with auxiliary steam-power; and she gained her living or earned her freight, whichever way of putting it may please best, by sailing to and fro in the passenger trade between the ports of London and Melbourne, but doing more in the goods line on the return journey, because colonials bent on visiting the mother country generally prefer the mail steamers as a speedier route. Emigrants, however, are not so squeamish, contenting themselves in getting out to Australia, that land of promise to so many hard-up and despairing people at home, by whatever means they can--so long only as they may hope to arrive there at some time or other! Teddy was surprised at the gorgeousness of the _Greenock's_ saloons and cabins, and the height of her masts, and the multitude of ropes about running in every conceivable direction, crossing and recrossing each other with the bewildering ingenuity of a spider's web; but Uncle Jack took all these wonders as a matter of course, and rather pooh-poohed them. "Wait till you see her at Gravesend," he said. "She's all dismantled now with these shore lumpers and lubbers aboard, and won't be herself till she's down the river and feels herself in sailors' hands again. Why, you won't know her! But come along, laddie, we've got to buy a sea-chest and a lot of things to complete your kit; and then, we'll go to granny's and try to see something of the sights of London." So, back they trudged again to the Poplar station and were wafted once more to Fenchurch Street, where Uncle Jack dived within the shop of a friendly outfitter, who had a mackintosh and sextant swinging in front of his establishment to show his marine leanings and dealings. Here, a white sea-chest, whose top was made like a washing-stand, and several other useful articles, were purchased by Uncle Jack without wasting any time, as he had made up his mind what he wanted before going in and knew what he was about; and these things being ordered to be forwarded to the cloak-room at the London Bridge station, to be placed with Teddy's other luggage, Uncle Jack rubbed his hands gleefully. "Now that business is all settled," he said, "we can enjoy ourselves a bit, as the ship won't be ready for us till next Monday. Come along, my hearty! Let us bear up for granny's--you haven't been to her place before, have you, eh?" No, Teddy explained. Granny had often been down to Endleigh to see him, but he had never been up to town to see her; that first attempt of his, which had been frustrated by Mary's pursuit and the machinations of Jupp, having deterred him, somehow or other, from essaying the journey a second time. Indeed, he had never been to London at all. "_My_!" exclaimed Uncle Jack. "What a lot there'll be for you to see, my hearty, eh?" What is more, he showed him, too, all that was to be seen, taking Teddy to monuments and exhibitions, to galleries and even to the theatre. The time passed by rapidly enough--too rapidly, granny thought, when the day came for her to say good-bye to Teddy; but he was nothing loth to go, longing to be on board the _Greenock_ as one belonging to her of right, and feel himself really at sea. Granny wanted him to have another little dog in place of Puck; however, he couldn't make up his mind to a substitute to supersede the former animal's hold on his affections. Besides this, Uncle Jack said the captain did not allow anybody to have dogs on board, and that was a clincher to the argument at once. Monday morning came, and with it another railway journey. It really seemed to Teddy as if he were "on the line," like Jupp! The _Greenock_, having taken in all her cargo, had been warped out of dock and then towed down the river to Gravesend, where she was now lying moored in the stream off the Lobster. "There she is!" cried Uncle Jack when they got down to the beach. "Where?" asked Teddy, not recognising the dirty untidy hulk he had seen in the docks, as she first appeared to him before he was taken on board and noticed the elegance of her cabins, in the thing of beauty he saw now before him; with every spar in its place and snow-white canvas extended in peaceful folds from the yards, as the vessel lay at anchor with her topsails dropped and her courses half clewed up, ready to spread her wings like an ocean bird. What a change there was in her! "Look, right in front there, laddie," said Uncle Jack. "Can't you see? She's just about making-sail, so we'd better get on board as soon as possible. Hi, boatman, seen any one belonging to the _Greenock_ ashore?" "Aye, aye, sir," answered the man addressed, "her boat's just over there by the p'int, just agoin' to shove off." "Thank you, my hearty," said Uncle Jack, giving him a trifle for the information; and in another minute or so Teddy found himself in the _Greenock's_ jolly-boat in company with a lot of the new hands, like himself, going off to join the ship. Here on his arrival on board, he was introduced to Captain Lennard, the monarch of all he surveyed as far as the deck of the _Greenock_ was concerned, and his future commander. Teddy liked the look of him; while he, on his part, seemed to like the look of Teddy, smiling kindly when he saw him come over the gangway after Uncle Jack. He had the general appearance of a brown Jupp, being of the same height and with just such a smiling good-humoured face, with the exception that his hair and beard, instead of being black, was of a lighter and ruddier hue. Oh, yes, Teddy thought, Captain Lennard was the man for him. He looked easy and kind-hearted and would not bully people, as he had read of some brutal captains doing. "This your nephew?" he asked Uncle Jack politely. "Yes, sir," replied the other, touching his cap, being in regular nautical rig now, as also was Teddy, who, clad in spick-and-span reefer costume, felt as proud as Punch. "Ah! then, if he's like you I think we'll get along very well together, Mr Althorp," said the captain with a bow and smile. "He looks like a chip of the old block too!" "You're very good to say that, sir," stammered Uncle Jack, blushing at the compliment. "The youngster's very like my poor sister, and I suppose resembles me, as she and I were twins. I've no doubt, though, you'll find him teachable when he's licked into shape; for, he isn't a bad lad from what I have seen of him as yet, and is plucky enough, if all I've heard of him down at Endleigh be true." "Well, Master Vernon, I hope you'll justify the character your uncle gives of you. If you only obey orders there'll be no fear of our falling out. But, mind, I'm captain of this ship; so look out for squalls if you shirk duty or try on any tricks!" The captain said this pleasantly, but there was a stern look combined in the twinkle of his hazel eyes beneath their thick brown eyebrows, like penthouses overshadowing them; and Teddy felt that, with all his gentleness and joking way, he was a man who intended to command and likewise to be obeyed. A moment later Captain Lennard changed the conversation by asking Uncle Jack if all the hands were on board. "Aye, aye, sir," said the other. "The whole batch, I think, came out with us. Isn't that so, Mr Capstan?" he asked, turning to the second- mate, who was standing close by. "Yes, all hands aboard," replied the second-mate laconically. "Then make sail at once," said Captain Lennard, going aft on the poop; while Mr Capstan bustled forwards, shouting out as he scrambled up on the windlass bitts and thence to the fo'c's'le, "All hands make sa-i- il!" drawling out the last word as if it were a chorus to some mariner's ditty he were singing. The crew were all picked men, the majority having been in the ship on one or two previous voyages; so they were quite at home, and sprang into the rigging long before the second-mate had got to the end of his refrain. In a second, the topsails were dropped and sheeted home, and the rattling of the clewgarnet blocks told of the courses following their example; after which the hands aloft then loosed the topgallant, there being a fine breeze fair for the Downs. Teddy was puzzled for a moment by all the seeming confusion that reigned in the ship, with ropes flying about and cordage cracking, while the hoarse orders issued by Mr Capstan and Uncle Jack were answered by the cheery cry of the men, singing out lustily as they hoisted and pulled at the halliards with a will. But, the confusion was only momentary and in appearance only; for, hardly had he begun to realise what all the bustle was about, than the ship was clothed in canvas from truck to deck, like a lady attired for a ball all in white! The headyards were then backed, and Captain Lennard's voice rang through the vessel fore and aft as clear as a bell-- "Hands up anchor!" Then, the windlass was wound; and, slip, slap, click, clack, it went round the pawl belaying every inch of cable got in. "Cheerily, men! heave with a will!" urged the second-mate; and the brawny fellows bent all their strength to the handspikes, heaving them down with sheer brute force. "Hove short!" presently sang out Mr Capstan. "Up with it!" responded Captain Lennard from the poop, where the pilot now appeared by his side awaiting all these preparations to be completed before taking charge of the ship. Half-a-dozen more heaves and the anchor-stock showed above the water. "Hook cat!" cried the second-mate. "I wonder what that means!" thought Teddy. "I hope they won't hurt the poor thing!" But, the next moment, he was undeceived. Nothing in the shape of cruelty to animals was about to be perpetrated. Mr Capstan only ordered the men to hook on the tackle by which the head of the anchor was to be braced up; and, before he could say "Jack Robinson," if he had been that way inclined, the falls were manned and the anchor run up to the cathead with a rousing chorus as the men scampered aft with the tail-end of the rope. The headyards were then filled, and the ship bowed her head as if in salute to Father Neptune, the next instant gathering way as the sails began to draw. "Port!" sang out the pilot from the bridge. "Port it is," responded the man at the wheel, shifting the spokes with both hands like a squirrel in a cage, it seemed to Teddy, who was looking at him from the break of the poop, where he had taken up his station by Captain Lennard's orders so that he might the more easily see all that was going on. "Steady!" "Steady it is," repeated the helmsman in parrot fashion. And so, conning and steering along, the _Greenock_ was soon bounding on her way down channel, passing Deal and rounding the South Foreland before noon. Teddy at last was really at sea! CHAPTER TEN. TAKING FRENCH LEAVE. The weather was beautifully fine for October, with a bright warm sun shining down and lighting up the water, which curled and crested before the spanking nor'-east breeze, that brought with it that bracing tone which makes the month, in spite of its autumnal voice warning us of the approach of winter, one of the most enjoyable in our changeable climate--especially to those dwelling along the south coast, which the good ship _Greenock_ now trended by on her passage out of the Channel. Teddy as yet, although this was his first experience of "a life on the ocean wave," was not sea-sick; for, although the vessel heeled well over to the wind on the starboard tack she did not roll, but ploughed through the little wavelets as calmly as if on a mill-pond, only rising now and again to make a graceful courtesy to some cross current that brought a swell over from the opposite shore of France, for after passing Beachy Head she kept well off the land on the English side. A west-nor'-west course brought the _Greenock_ off Saint Catharine's Point; but the evening had drawn in too much for Teddy to see anything of the Isle of Wight, and when he woke up next morning the ship was abreast of the Start Point. From thence, he had a fair view of the Devon and Cornish coasts in the distance all the way to the Lizard, the scene being like an ever- changing panorama, with plenty of life and movement about in the vessels the _Greenock_ was continually passing either outwards or homewards bound; while the little trawlers and fishing-boats clustered in groups here and there, and there was the occasional smoke from some steamer steaming along the horizon, like a dark finger-post above the level of the sea in the distance. He enjoyed it all, as, although he had found his bunk in the cabin rather close and stuffy after his nice airy bed-room at the vicarage, he was still not sea-sick; and, as he leant over the taffrail, watching the creamy wake the ship left behind her, spreading out broader and broader until it was lost in the surrounding waste of waters, what with the sniff of the saline atmosphere and the bracing breeze, he began to feel hungry, longing for breakfast-time to come and wondering when he would hear the welcome bell sound to tell that the meal was ready. No one was on deck, at least on the poop, when he came up, save the helmsman, and Mr Capstan, the latter walking up and down briskly on the windward side and exchanging a word now and again with the pilot on the bridge; so Teddy felt a little forlorn. Presently, the second-mate, taking a longer turn in his quarterdeck walk, came up and spoke to him. "Well, young shaver," he said, "how are you getting on?" "Very well, thank you, sir," replied Teddy, touching his cap, as Uncle Jack had told him he must always do to his superior officer. "Ah! you're like a young bear, and have all your troubles before you," the other next remarked consolingly, adding immediately afterwards the query: "Seen any of your messmates yet?" "No, sir," replied Teddy, looking a bit puzzled--"that is, excepting yourself and the captain, and Uncle Jack, of course. Are there any other midshipmen like myself?" "Aye, if you call the apprentices so, young shaver," said Mr Capstan with an ironical grin which did not improve his rather ugly face. "There are two more of you; and the lazy young hounds must be snoozing below, for they haven't shown a leg yet. However, I'll soon rouse 'em up!" So saying, he shouted out to one of the hands in the waist forwards: "Here, Bill Summers!" "Aye, aye, sir," replied the man, looking up towards the break of the poop, whence the second-mate had hailed him, leaning over the rail. "Just go and call Jones and Maitland. Tell 'em to turn out sharp or I'll stop their grog," cried Mr Capstan. "Aye, aye, sir," said the man, proceeding towards the deck-house, which occupied a middle position in the ship between the poop and fo'c's'le; and presently, although hidden from the gaze of those aft, he could be heard rapping at one of the doors, repeating in whispered tones the order the second-mate had given him. Ere long, a couple of striplings appeared, dressed in dirty uniforms which presented a marked difference to that of Teddy; and he noticed besides that one was considerably taller than he was while the second was shorter and a little slimmer. "Here, you, Jones and Maitland, I won't have you caulking away this bright morning when the sun ought to be scorching the sleep out of your eyes. What do you mean by it, eh?" began Mr Capstan as if lashing himself into a passion, but had not quite got enough steam up yet. "I thought, sir, as this is our first day out and the ship still in charge of the pilot, we needn't turn out so early," said Jones, the biggest of the two, acting as spokesman. "You thought!" snarled the second-mate, catching up a rope's-end with the apparent intention of laying it across the shoulders of Jones, only he kept a wary distance away. "I've half a mind to give you something for answering me like that! No one has any business to think on board ship." "Aye, where you're boss!" said the offender speaking aside. "What is that you're jabbering?" quickly interposed Mr Capstan--"some impudence, I reckon. Now, just you pull off those patent-leather pumps of yours and set to work washing decks. It's gone six bells, and it ought to have been done half an hour ago." Teddy thought this was a very unkind cut of the mate at poor Jones's boots, which were a dilapidated pair of bluchers that needed mending badly; still, he couldn't help smiling, which didn't seem to please Mr Capstan, who, turning round, now addressed him: "And you, my fine young shaver, with your dandy rig, you'd better be doing something to earn your salt, and not be a useless lubber, looking on like a fine lady! You just put off and go and help Jones." Teddy, though he didn't relish the job, obeyed willingly; and soon he was paddling about in bare feet with his trousers rolled up to the knee, while the crew under Jones's direction rigged the head pump and sluiced the decks down from end to end of the ship, beginning with the poop and ending with the midship section in the waist, where all the water was collected in a sort of small lake and had to be swabbed out of the scuttles. Young Maitland meanwhile had been sent up the main royal mast to clear the dog vane, which had somehow or other got fouled; so Mr Capstan, satisfied at seeing everybody busily employed but himself, paced contentedly up and down the poop, sniffing about and snorting occasionally like an old grampus, as if in satisfaction at "taking it out of the youngsters." The man was naturally a bully, and loved to display the little authority he had by "hazing" those under him, to use the technical sea phrase. By dint of continually nagging at the men below from his commanding position above, the second-mate hurried them up so with their work that in a very short space of time the decks were scrubbed and washed, the sun drying them almost without the use of the swab. Mr Capstan then set them to work coiling down the loose ropes lying about, there being nothing else to do, as the ship had not altered her course but remained on the starboard tack with the wind well on her quarter; and, although everything had been made snug before leaving the Downs, he was just going to tell the hands to unship the motley contents of the long-boat and stow it again afresh in default of some other task, when eight bells struck, and Uncle Jack came up from below to relieve him from his watch--a relief, it may be added, to all hands in more than one sense! Presently, Captain Lennard came on deck too; although he must not be thought lazy for being so late, for he had remained up with the pilot on the bridge all night conning the ship, only turning in for a short nap at daylight. Then, the passengers, of whom there were some sixty in the first-class saloon, began to creep up the companion, one by one as if not yet accustomed to the somewhat unsteady footing of a ship's deck at sea; as for the steerage emigrants they remained below, and even after they had been weeks afloat it required almost force to drive them up into the fresh air. Teddy was looking at the queer figures some of the gentlemen and ladies presented on the poop, when all at once the breakfast gong sounded, and they all scuttled down much faster than they had come up, the sea air having given those able to get out of their bunks fresh appetites after they had paid homage to Neptune. He was not invited to go down with these, however, having to mess along with Jones and Maitland in the deck-house close to the galley, where the three mids consoled themselves with the reflection that if they were excluded from the saloon, at all events they were nearer the place where their meals were cooked, and so had the advantage of getting them hotter! After breakfast the pilot left the ship, a boat putting out for him from the land when they were near Saint Michael's; and then Captain Lennard, hauling round a bit, shaped a west-south-west course, steering out into the broad Atlantic until he had reached longitude 12 degrees West, when the vessel's head was turned to the south for Madeira and the Canaries. Strange to say, Teddy up to now had not been once sick. It is true they had not as yet had any rough weather; but the sea was brisk enough to try the stomachs of all the landsmen on board, so it was curious he was not affected in any way by the ship's motion. As Uncle Jack said at the first, he was a born sailor! Soon he began, too, to understand his duties; and being naturally quick of intellect and active, he after a time became handier on the yards and up aloft than little Maitland, who had been two voyages out and home before; while Jones had to exert himself to hold his own with him--with Uncle Jack, besides, coaching him up in seamanship, Teddy ere the vessel had reached Madeira was a greenhand no longer. At Teneriffe Captain Lennard put in to coal, the ship being, as formerly mentioned, an auxiliary screw, and able to enlist the aid of steam when she came to the calm latitudes, which they were now approaching. The passengers being allowed to go on shore for a few hours, Teddy received permission to accompany those taking advantage of the opportunity of landing. There was no time to try and climb up the celebrated peak, which can be seen so far out at sea that it looks like an island in the clouds; but there was much amusement gained in donkey riding and studying the manners and customs of the natives. The garments, Teddy noticed, of the ladies were rather limited in dimensions; but what they lacked in quantity they made up for in style, all the dresses being provided with those "improvers" of late fashion in England. These made the skirts of the Portuguese damsels stick out all round, giving them a very funny appearance with their brown skins and bare feet! It was well they coaled here, for while they were yet in sight of the huge cloud-cap't mountain above Santa Cruz, the wind that had favoured them so well up to now dropped to a dead calm; so, Captain Lennard, ordering the sails to be furled and the screw-propeller lowered, the vessel was able to proceed under steam across the equator, making almost as good time as when sailing before a good breeze--almost, but not quite, as she was a clipper under canvas. They touched once more at the Cape of Good Hope, to fill up the coal they had expended in case of another emergency necessitating their steaming again; but, the wind being favourable when the _Greenock_ got below the forties, she bowled along steadily before it under canvas, reaching Melbourne within sixty days. Altogether, the voyage was uneventful except for one thing, and that was the persistent bullying of Mr Capstan the second-mate, who, whether from his relationship to Uncle Jack, his superior officer, or from some other cause, had apparently conceived such a dislike to Teddy that he tyrannised over him more than he seemed to think necessary either with little Maitland or Jones--although they suffered, too, at his hands! Teddy would not complain, though, to the captain; and as for his Uncle Jack, he would have thought it dishonourable to breathe a word to him. He would rather have suffered the crudest torture the bully could inflict than that! However, he and little Maitland matured their plans together, and coming to the conclusion that they could not very well have any satisfaction from Mr Capstan without telling tales, they determined to steal away from the ship when she got into harbour, and run away ashore up into the bush, Val Maitland retailing for Teddy's benefit the most wonderful stories anent gold-digging and bush-ranging--stories that cordially agreed with his own fancy. Not long, therefore, after the _Greenock_ had entered within Port Philip Heads and got up to Sandridge Pier, the two boys, mixing amongst the crowd of passengers landing, touters touting for various boarding- houses, and all the different sorts of people that throng round the newly-arrived at the colonial metropolis, especially at its harbour mouth, managed easily to get into the town unobserved, giving the slip most successfully to their ship and all its belongings. "And what shall we do now?" asked Teddy, his companion, although smaller than himself, taking the lead, from being an older sailor and having been previously in Australia. "Do! why, go into the bush, of course!" promptly answered the other. "And how shall we get there?" next inquired Teddy cheerfully, wishing to start off that very moment for the golden land he had dreamt of. "Why, by train," said Val. "By train!" echoed Teddy in a voice of consternation, the idea was such a terrible come down to what he had imagined. "Yes, by train; come along with me," repeated little Maitland, catching hold of his arm; and turning into Collins Street he soon made his way to the railway depot and took a couple of tickets for Ballarat. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE WRECK. "I say," began Val presently when the train was in motion. "Well?" said Teddy rather grumpily. He could not stomach the fact that here they were journeying along by the aid of an ordinary railway, just as they would have done in England. When Val had suggested their going to the diggings he had imagined they would tramp thither through the bush, with their blankets and swag on their shoulders, as he had often read of men doing; and that they would end by picking up a big nugget of gold that would make all their fortunes! The train disposed of all these dreams in a moment; for, how could they pick up nuggets along a line of "permanent way," as Jupp would have called it--a beaten track that thousands traversed every day by the aid of the potent iron-horse and a bucket of hot water? It was scandalous that Val hadn't told him of the railroad! It dispelled all the romance of the expedition at once, he thought grumblingly. Despite all Mr Capstan's bullying, he had not run away from the ship for that; so he was not at all in a mood to have any conversation with such an unprincipled fellow as Val, who ought to have enlightened him before. "Well?" he said again, seeing that young Maitland hesitated about proceeding, his grumpy tone acting as a sort of damper to his contemplated eloquence. "I say, old fellow," then began Val again, making a fresh start and blurting out his question, "have you got any money?" Teddy was all sympathy now. A comrade in distress should never appeal to him in vain! So he commenced searching his pockets. "I ought to have some," he said. "Father gave me a five-pound note before I left home, and Uncle Jack when I was in London with him tipped me a sovereign, and I haven't spent or changed either for that matter; but, now I come to think of it, they're both in my chest in the cabin. I never thought of taking them out before we left the _Greenock_." "That's precious unlucky," observed Val, searching his pockets too, and trying each vainly in turn. "I've only a couple of shillings left now after paying for the railway tickets. Whatever shall we do?" "Oh, bother that!" replied Teddy sanguinely; "we sha'n't want any. The fellows I've read about who went to the diggings never had a halfpenny, but they always met with a friendly squatter or tumbled into luck in some way or other." "That was in the old days," said Val in a forlorn way. "The squatters have all been cleared out, and there are only hotels and boarding-houses left, where they expect people to pay for what they have to eat." "They're a stingy lot then, and quite unlike what I've read in books about the customs in Australia; but what can you expect when they have a railway!" Teddy spoke in such a scornful manner of this sign of civilisation that he made Val laugh, raising his spirits again. "All right, old chap!" said the little fellow. "I daresay we'll get along very well although we haven't any money to speak of with us. Two shillings, you know, is something; and no doubt it will keep us from starving till we come across luck." Teddy cheerfully acquiesced in this hopeful view of things; and then the two, being alone in the carriage, chatted away merrily on all sorts of subjects until they arrived at their station, which a porter sang out the name of exactly in the same fashion as if they were at home. This quite exasperated Teddy, who, when he got down and looked about him, opened his eyes with even greater wonder. Surely this large town couldn't be Ballarat! Why, that place ought to be only a collection of hastily-run-up wooden shanties, he thought, with perhaps one big store where they sold everything, provisions, and picks and shovels, with cradles for rocking the gold-dust out of the quartz and mud. Where were the canvas tents of the diggers, and the claims, and all? But, yes, Ballarat it was; although the only diggings were quarries worked by public mining companies with an immense mass of machinery that crushed the rock and sent streams of water through the refuse, using quicksilver to make an amalgam with--companies that were satisfied to get a grain of gold for every ton of quartz they excavated and pounded into powder, and realised a handsome dividend at that, where ordinary diggers wouldn't have had a chance of keeping themselves from starving. He and little Maitland wandered about; and then, feeling hungry, exhausted all their capital in one meal, "burning their boats," like the old Athenians. They would now have either to find something to do to get lodging or food, or else tramp it back to the ship. They slept that night in the open air, under some scaffolding round a new building that was being run up on the outskirts of the town; and the next morning were wandering about again, feeling very miserable and wishing they were safely back on board the _Greenock_, it being just breakfast-time, when they were accosted by a stout, hairy sort of man, dressed in a species of undress uniform. "Hullo, my young friends!" the man said, his voice being much pleasanter than his looks, "where do you hail from? I don't think I've ever seen you in Ballarat before." "You wouldn't again if we could help it," replied Teddy so heartily that the hairy man laughed as jollily as might have been expected from his musical voice. "Ah! I think I know who you are," he observed, eyeing them both critically. "Well, you must be a conjuror if you do," answered little Maitland, who had a good deal of native impudence about him, "considering we haven't been twenty-four hours in Australia!" "What say you to Maitland being your name and Vernon that of your companion, eh, my young cocksparrow?" said the man with a quizzical look. "Am I conjuror or not?" The boys stared at each other in amazement. "Well," exclaimed Teddy at length, "this is certainly the funniest country I have ever been in. The diggings that I've read about in print over and over again have all vanished into nothing, and here there are railways running through the bush, with people knowing who you are twenty thousand miles away from home. It is wonderful!" "Not so very wonderful after all, Master Teddy Vernon," suggested the hairy man at this juncture. "I'm an inspector of police here, and we received a telegram last night which had been circulated in all directions from the chief office at Melbourne, saying that you two young gentlemen were missing from the ship _Greenock_, just arrived from England, and that any information about you would be gladly received and rewarded by Captain Lennard, the commander of the vessel." "I'm very glad," said Teddy, interrupting any further remark the inspector might have made. "We came away suddenly because of something that occurred on board; and now I sha'n't be at all sorry to go back again, for we have no money or anything to eat. Besides, the place isn't a bit like what I expected--there!" "Ah! you're hungry, my young friends, and that soon takes the pluck out of a body," observed the inspector kindly. "Come along with me and have some breakfast, after which I'll see you into the train for Melbourne." "But we haven't got any money," said Teddy, looking at him frankly in the face. "Never mind that," he replied jokingly. "I daresay I can put my hand on an odd sixpence or so, and this I've no doubt your captain will pay me back." "That he will," cried Teddy and Val together in one breath; "besides, we've got money of our own on board the ship, only we forgot to bring it with us." "And a very good job too," said the inspector laughing, "otherwise, you might not perhaps have been so glad to meet me this morning; but come on now, lads. Let us go into the town to some restaurant, and then I will see you to the depot, if I can depend on your going back." "That you can, sir," replied Val drily, "if you buy the tickets for us." "Oh, I'll see about that," said the inspector; and so, under his escort, they went into the nearest restaurant and had a good meal, after which the inspector took tickets for them, seeing them into the railway- carriage. The worthy policeman must also have said something to the guard, for after he had given Teddy his name, at the lad's especial request, and wished them good-bye, some official or other came up and locked the door of the compartment, so that they could not have got out again if they had wished save by climbing through the window. "He needn't have been alarmed at our giving him the slip," observed little Maitland. "I am only too glad to be sent back in any fashion, ignominious though it may be to be under charge of the police." "So am I," said Teddy; "but the inspector is a nice fellow after all, and has behaved very well to us." He had been even more thoughtful, however, than the boys imagined; for, on the train arriving once more at the Melbourne terminus, who should be there to meet them but Uncle Jack! "Well, you're a nice pair of young scamps," was his exclamation when the door of the carriage was opened by another policeman, and they got out right in front of where he was standing. "What have you got to say for yourselves, eh, for taking leave in French fashion like that? Why, you ought to be keel-hauled both of you!" But he saved them a long explanation by telling them that Jones, the other midshipman, having been knocked down with a marlinespike by the second-mate, Captain Lennard had both him and Mr Capstan brought before him, when, sifting the matter to the bottom, Jones had made a clean breast of the way in which he and the other youngsters had been bullied. "And the upshot of the whole affair is," continued Uncle Jack, "Captain Lennard has dismissed Capstan from his ship, giving him such a discharge certificate that I don't think he'll get another second-mate's place in a hurry! As for you, my young scamps, I don't think the skipper will be very hard on you; but, Teddy, you ought to have told me of the treatment you three poor beggars were receiving at that ruffian's hands all the voyage. Old Bill Summers, the boatswain, confirmed every word that Jones said, and was quite indignant about it." "I didn't like to tell, you being my uncle and over Mr Capstan," said Teddy; "I thought it would be mean." "It is never mean to complain of injustice," replied Uncle Jack gravely; "still, the matter now rests with the skipper." Captain Lennard gave the boys a good talking to for running away, saying that it wasn't manly for young sailors to shirk their work in that way for any reason. However, considering all the circumstances of the case and the lesson they had learnt, that boys couldn't be absolutely independent of those in authority over them, he said that he had made up his mind to forgive them, telling them they might return to their duty. The passengers having all landed and the ship cleared of her home cargo, she began immediately taking in wool for her return voyage, and in a few weeks' time set sail from the Heads for England--though _via_ Cape Horn this time, as is generally the routine with vessels sailing to Australia when coming back to the Channel. There were only two passengers on board, the captain and mate of a vessel that had been sold at Melbourne, she having only been navigated out by these officers for the purpose, and the vessel being unencumbered by emigrants the sailors had more room to move about. Teddy found it much pleasanter than on the passage out, as Captain Lennard was able to spare more time in teaching him his duty, a task which he was ably backed up in by Uncle Jack and Robins, the new second-mate, a smart young seaman whom the captain had promoted from the fo'c's'le to take Capstan's vacant place, and a wonderful improvement in every way to that bully. After leaving Port Philip, they had a fair enough passage till they got about midway between New Zealand and the American continent, Captain Lennard taking a more northerly route than usual on account of its being the summer season in those latitudes, and the drift-ice coming up from the south in such quantities as to be dangerous if they had run down below the forties. When the _Greenock_ was in longitude somewhere about 150 West and latitude 39 South a fierce gale sprung up from the north-east, right in their teeth, causing the lighter sails of the ship to be handed and the topgallants to be taken in. At midnight on the same day, the wind having increased in force, the upper topsails were handed and the foresail reefed, the ship running under this reduced canvas, and steering east-south-east, the direction of the wind having shifted round more to the northward. The next evening, the wind veered to the westward, and was accompanied with such terrific squalls and high confused sea that Captain Lennard, who had thought at first he could weather out the storm under sail, determined to get up steam, and lowered the propeller so that the ship might lay-to more easily. Later on in the afternoon, however, another shift of wind took place, the gale veering to sou'-sou'-west in a squall heavier than any of its predecessors; while a heavy sea, flooding the decks, broke through the hatchway and put out the engine fires. Being a smart seaman, the captain had sail set again as soon as possible, hoisting reefed topsails and foresail to lift the vessel out of the trough of the following seas, in which she rolled from side to side like a whale in its death flurry. All seemed going on well for a short time after this; and he and Uncle Jack thought they had weathered the worst of it, when the foresheet parted and the clew of the foresail, going through the lower foretopsail, split it in ribbons. The barque was then brought to the wind on the port tack under the lower maintopsail, and she lay-to pretty well; but the wind kept on veering and beating with frequent squalls from sou'-sou'-west to west, so that at noon a strong gale prevailed again fiercer than before. Teddy had not seen anything like this; but he wasn't a bit frightened, and he was as active as the oldest sailor in lending help to carry out the captain's orders, jumping here, there, and everywhere like a monkey. The skipper was so pleased with his behaviour that he complimented him by telling Uncle Jack he was as good as his right hand! Later on, the weather seemed calming down and all were very busy repairing damages; but, in the evening, a tremendous sea broke on board carrying away the bulwarks and chain-plates fore and aft on the port side, the accompanying violent gust of wind jerking the maintopsail as if it had been tissue paper out of the ship. Immediately after this, with the first lee roll, the foremast broke off almost flush with the deck and fell with a crash over the side, taking with it everything that stood but the lower main and mizzen masts, leaving the _Greenock_ rolling a hopeless wreck on the waste of raging waters. CHAPTER TWELVE. EASTER ISLAND. The gale suddenly ceased during the night, but all hands remained on deck; for, the sea was still rolling mountains high and coming in occasionally over the broken bulwarks, causing Captain Lennard much anxiety about the boats, which, fortunately, the broken top hamper kept from being washed overboard. In the morning it was quite calm again; but the poor old ship presented a piteous scene of desolation, with her broken sides, and her gay array of towering masts and spreading yards and spread of canvas all swept away. Teddy could nearly have cried at the sorry sight; not reflecting that through the merciful care of a divine providence watching over all not a life had been lost. With the daylight, Captain Lennard took a rapid review of their position. He had caused a stout tarpaulin to be lashed over the engine-room hatch, thus preventing any more water from passing down into the hold there in any perceptible quantity; still, the carrying away of the bulwarks and chain-plates had strained the ship very much on the port side, and when the carpenter sounded the well at eight bells the ship was found to be leaking fast, having already a depth of two feet in her. "Man the pumps!" cried the captain; when Uncle Jack lending a willing hand, the crew under his encouragement were soon working away steadily with a clink-clank, clink-clank, the water pouring out through the scuppers in a continuous stream. However, on the well being sounded again presently, it was found to be flowing in equally steadily, having risen already six inches more in spite of all their pumping! What was to be done? The captain and Uncle Jack deliberated together, summoning the new third mate to assist their counsels; but, they could only arrive at one opinion. The ship was sinking fast, and all hands knew it as well as they themselves; for, in addition to the damage done to the sides and bulwarks, the heavy propeller had aided the waves in wrenching away the rudder, which carried with it the greater portion of the stern-post. "We must take to the boats," said Captain Lennard. "Thank God, they are all right, and haven't been washed away in the storm!" Leaving the useless pumps, therefore, for it was of no avail fatiguing the men with the unnecessary exertion any longer, all the pumping in the world being idle to save the vessel, the hands were at once set to work clearing the boats and getting them over the side. It was a ticklish job, the long-boat especially being very heavy, and there being no means, now they had lost their masts, of rigging a tackle aloft to hoist it off the chocks amidships. Still, necessity teaches men alternatives in moments of great peril; so, now, knocking away the under fastenings of the boat by main force, the crew managed at last to get it free. Then, improvising rollers out of pieces of the broken topmast, they contrived by pulling and hauling and shoving, all working with a will together, to launch it over the side through the hole in the bulwarks. The jolly-boat followed suit, an easier task; and then, the two being deemed sufficient to accommodate all on board, just sixty-one in number including the two passengers, Captain Lennard gave the order to provision them, telling the steward to bring out all the cabin stores for this purpose, there being now no further use for them on board the ship, and officers and men being entitled to share alike without distinction. The captain himself, while this was being done, saw to the ship's log and other papers, taking also out of the cabin his best chronometer and a chart or two, as well as a sextant and some mathematical instruments. These preparations for departure, though, were abruptly cut short by a warning cry from Bill Summers, the boatswain. "We'd better look sharp, sir," he called out to Uncle Jack, who was busily engaged superintending the stowage of the provisions in the two boats. "The water is arising rapidly, and is now nearly up to the 'tween-decks!" Uncle Jack passed on the word to the captain, who instantly came up the companion. Seeing the truth of the boatswain's statement from the deeper immersion of the ship since he had gone below, he at once ordered the men down into the boats, the passengers going first; then the foremast hands; and, lastly, the officers. "Mr Althorp," said the captain, "you will take charge of the jolly-boat and shove off as soon as she's got her complement. I will command the long-boat myself." "Aye, aye, sir," responded Uncle Jack, descending into the boat when she had as many in her as she could safely hold; when, shoving off from the ship's side and rowing a few strokes, the men lay on their oars, remaining some twenty yards off so as to be out of the whirlpool or eddy that would be formed when the vessel presently foundered. The long-boat now received its quota of passengers, all descending into it and seating themselves on the thwarts and in the bottom so as not to be in the way of those rowing, Captain Lennard waiting till the last to get into her. Just as he got in, however, he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten a compass, and hastily climbed back on board to get it. "Look sharp, Cap'en!" shouted Bill Summers from the bow as the ship gave a quiver all over. "She's just about to founder." The captain was quick enough, racing back to the companion and down the stairs in two bounds, where, although the cabin was half full of water, he contrived to wrench away the "tell-tale" compass that swung over the saloon-table; and he was on the poop again with it in an instant. The instrument, however, was heavy, but he had hard work to carry it with both hands; and he managed to get to the side with it, when bending down handed it to Bill Summers, who stood up in the bow of the boat to receive it. At that instant, the ship gave a violent lurch, and some one sang out to shove off; when, the oars being dropped in the water, the boat was impelled some yards from the side, leaving Captain Lennard still on board. "What, men, abandon your captain!" Teddy cried, his voice quivering with emotion. "You cowards, row back at once!" "We can't," sang out the same voice that had before ordered the men to shove off. Who it was no one noticed in the general flurry, nor knew afterwards; but, while the men were hesitating which course to adopt, Teddy, without saying another word, plunged overboard and swam back to the sinking _Greenock_, having no difficulty in getting up the side now for it was almost flush with the water. "Come on board, sir!" said he jokingly, touching his forehead with his finger, his cap having been washed off as he dived. "My poor boy!" cried Captain Lennard, overcome with emotion at the gallant lad's devotion; "you have only sacrificed two lives instead of one! Why did you not stay in the boat?" "Because," began Teddy; but ere he could complete the sentence there was a violent rush of air upwards from the hold, and a loud explosion, the decks having burst. At the same time, the ship made a deep bend forwards. Then, her bows rose high in the air above the waves as the stern sank with a gurgling moan; and, the next moment, Teddy and Captain Lennard were drawn below the surface with the vessel as she foundered! Teddy was nearly suffocated; but, holding his breath bravely, as Jupp had taught him, and striking downwards with all his force, he presently got his head above water, inhaling the delicious air of heaven, which he thought would never more have entered his nostrils. When he came to himself, he saw the captain's body floating face downwards amongst a lot of broken planks and other debris of the wreck, by some fragment of which he must have been struck as the _Greenock_ foundered. To swim forwards and seize poor Captain Lennard, turning him face upwards again and supporting his head above the water, was the work of a moment only with Teddy; and then, holding on to a piece of broken spar, he awaited the coming up of the launch, which, now that all danger was over from the eddy rowed up to the scene, when he and the captain were lifted on board--all hands enthusiastic about the courageous action of the little hero, and none more so than Captain Lennard when he recovered his consciousness. "You have saved my life!" he said. "Had you not been close by to turn me over when I rose to the surface I should have been drowned before the boat could have come up. I will never forget it!" Nor did he, as Teddy's subsequent advancement showed; but, there was no time now for congratulation or passing compliments. The peril of those preserved from the wreck was not yet over, for, they were thousands of miles away from land floating on the wide ocean! Hailing the jolly-boat, Captain Lennard announced what he thought the proper course should be. "The best place for us to make for now is Valparaiso," he said; "and if we steer to the east-nor'-east we ought to fetch it in three weeks or so under sail; that is, if our provisions hold out so long." Uncle Jack approving, this course was adopted; and, day after day, the boats, setting their sails, which Bill Summers had not forgotten to place on board, made slow but steady progress towards the wished-for goal. One morning, all were wakened up by the welcome cry of "Land ho!" from the look-out forwards in the bow of the long-boat, which kept a little ahead of the jolly-boat, although always reducing sail if she forged too much forward so as not to lose her. A signal was made, therefore, telling the glad news to Uncle Jack and those with him; while the boat pressed onwards towards the spot where the hazy outline of a mountain could be dimly seen in the distance. "That is not the American continent," said Captain Lennard to the men, in order to allay any future disappointment that might be afterwards felt. "We are nearly a thousand miles off that yet. It must be Easter Island. That is the only land I know of hereabouts in the Pacific; and, although I have never visited the place myself, I have heard that the natives are friendly to strangers. At all events we'll pay them a call; it will be a break in our long journey!" Bye and bye the boats approached the shore and all landed, when a lot of copper-coloured savages came down to the beach waving branches of trees in sign of welcome. The islanders had not much to eat; but Captain Lennard, seeing that their provisions were well-nigh expended, determined to stop here, while sending on Uncle Jack with a small party to Valparaiso to charter some vessel to come and fetch them all, the boats being so crowded that misfortune might await them all if they continued the voyage in such small craft. For months and months all awaited in constant expectation Uncle Jack's return; but, he came not, and they at length believed that he and those with him must have been lost in some hurricane that had sprung up off the Chilian coast, and so had never reached Valparaiso at all! They had no fear of starvation, however, the islands abounding in poultry in a semi-wild state, which they had to hunt down for themselves; for the natives lent them no assistance. Indeed they were rather hostile after a time; although the Englishmen were too numerous for them to attack, especially as they were always on their guard against surprise. In wandering over the island, which is only some thirty miles round, Teddy was surprised, like the others, by the numbers of stone obelisks, rudely carved into the semblance of human faces and statues, which could not possibly have been executed by the present inhabitants. It is believed by geographers that Easter Island must have formed a portion of a vast Polynesian continent peopled by some kindred race to those that designed the colossal monuments of an extinct civilisation, now almost overgrown with vegetation, that are yet to be found as evidences of a past age amidst the forests of Central America. One day, more than a year after Uncle Jack had left, and when they had almost given up all hope of ever seeing him again, or of being relieved from their island prison--the long-boat being dashed to pieces in the surf soon after he started--a schooner in full sail was discovered making for the island. Presently, she came nearer and nearer. Then she hove to, and a boat was seen to be lowered from her side, and shortly afterwards being pulled in to the shore. A moment later, and Uncle Jack's well-known face could be seen in the stern-sheets, a glad hurrah being raised by the shipwrecked men at the sight of him. Soon, Uncle Jack landed, and he had a long tale to tell of the jolly- boat losing her sail, and being tossed about on the ocean till picked up by an American whaler, which first took a cruise down the South Seas, there detaining him many weary months before landing him at Sandy Point, in the Straits of Magellan, from whence he got finally to Valparaiso after awaiting a passage for weeks. Arrived here, however, he at once got in communication with the British consul, and chartered a schooner to go to Easter Island and fetch his comrades. Uncle Jack, too, mentioned that he had written home to the owners of the _Greenock_, telling of her loss and the safety of all hands on their temporary island home; and he had also sent a letter to Endleigh, he said, narrating all about Master Teddy's adventures, and saying that he was safe and well. Captain Lennard did not long delay the embarkation of his little band, who were glad enough to leave Easter Island; so, in a couple of weeks' time all landed safely in Valparaiso, where they luckily caught the outgoing mail steamer as they arrived, and started off to England, rejoicing in their timely rescue and preservation from peril amid all the dangers of the deep. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. AT HOME AGAIN. It was a bright August day at Endleigh. There was a scent of new-mown hay in the air, and gangs of reapers were out in the fields getting in the harvest, the whirr of the threshing- machine, which the squire had lately brought down from London, making a hideous din in the meadows by the pond, where it had been set up; puffing and panting away as if its very existence were a trial, and scandalising the old-fashioned village folk--who did not believe in such new-fangled notions, and thought a judgment would come on those having to do with the machine, depriving, as it did, honest men who could wield the flail of a job! In the garden of the vicarage, the warm sun seemed to incubate a dreamy stillness, the butterflies hardly taking the trouble to fly, and the very flowers hanging down their lazy heads; while the trees drooping their leaves, as if faint and exhausted with the heat. Everything out of doors looked asleep, taking a mid-day siesta. Everything, that is, but the bees, which carried on their honey- gathering business as briskly as ever, utterly impervious to the warmth. Indeed, perhaps they got on all the better for it, probing the petals of the white lilies yet in bloom, and investigating the cavities of the foxglove and wonderful spider-trap of the Australian balsam, or else sweeping the golden dust off the discs of the gorgeous sunflowers, a regular mine of mellifluent wealth; a host of gnats and wasps and other idle insects buzzing round them all the time and pretending to be busy too, but really doing nothing at all! The heat-laden atmosphere was so still that it had that oily sort of haze that distinguishes the mirage in the East, when the air appears composed of little waving lines wavering to and fro that dazzle your eyes with their almost-imperceptible motion as you look at them; and the silence was unbroken save by the chuck-chuck-chuck of some meddlesome blackbird in the shrubbery annoying the sparrows in their nap, and the answering click-clink-tweedle-deedle-dum-tum-tweedle-um of the yellow- hammer, telling as plainly as the little songster could tell that he at all events was wide awake, while, in the far distance, there could be heard the coo of ring-doves and the melancholy lament of the cuckoo investigating the hedgerows in quest of other birds' nests wherein to lay its solitary egg, and finding itself forestalled at every turn! But if everything was so quiet without, such was not the case indoors at the vicarage. A telegram had been received from Uncle Jack, saying that he and Teddy, having reached London in safety, would be down by the afternoon train; so, all in the house were in a state of wild excitement at meeting again those they had thought lost for ever. Even the vicar was roused out of his usual placidity, although Uncle Jack's letter from Valparaiso had told all about the wonderful escape of the survivors of the _Greenock_; while, as for Miss Conny, who was now a perfectly grown-up young lady of eighteen, all her sedateness was gone for the moment and she was every bit as wild as the rest. "Dear me, I'm sure the afternoon will never come!" exclaimed Cissy, walking to the window after arranging and re-arranging the flowers in the vases on the little table in the centre of the drawing-room and on the mantel-piece for about the one-and-twentieth time. "It's the longest day I ever knew." "Don't be so impatient, dear," said Conny, trying to appear cool and tranquil as usual, but failing utterly in the attempt as she followed Cissy to the window and looked out over the lawn; "the time will soon pass by if you'll only try and think of something else but the hour for the train to come in." "You're a fine counsellor," cried Cissy laughing, as she watched Conny's hands nervously twisting within each other. "Why, you are as bad as I am, and can't keep still a moment! Only Liz is calm--as if nothing had happened or was going to happen. I declare I could bang her, as Teddy used to say, for sitting there in the corner reading that heavy-looking book. I believe it must be a treatise on metaphysics or something of that sort." "Mistaken for once, Miss Ciss," said the student, looking up with a smile. "It's a volume of travels telling all about the Pacific Ocean and Easter Island, where Teddy and Uncle Jack stopped so long with the natives; so, it is very interesting." "Well, I'd rather for my part wait and hear about the place from our own travellers," rejoined Cissy impatiently. "I do wish they would come! I think I will go and see how Molly is getting on with the dinner. I'm sure she'll be late if somebody doesn't look after her." "You had better leave her alone, Cissy," remonstrated Conny. "Molly, you know, doesn't like being interfered with; and, besides, it is very early yet, for they can't be here before three o'clock at the earliest." "Oh, she won't mind me, Con," replied Cissy as she whisked out of the room, gaily singing now, the idea of having an object or doing something banishing her ennui; "Molly and I are the best of friends." However, on entering the cook's domain Cissy found the old servant the reverse of amiable, for her face was red and hot with basting a little sucking-pig that was slowly revolving on the spit before a glowing fire that seemed to send out all the more heat from the fact of its being August, as if in rivalry of the sun without. "Well, how are you getting on?" asked Cissy cheerfully, the sight of the little roasting piggy which Molly had selected for the repast that was to welcome Teddy, with some dim association of the fatted calf that was killed on the return of the prodigal son, making her feel more assured that the time was speeding on, and that the expected ones would arrive soon. But, Molly was not amenable to friendly overtures at the moment. "Excuse me, miss, I don't want to be bothered now," she replied, turning her perspiring countenance round an instant from her task and then instantly resuming it again and pouring a ladleful of gravy over the blistering crackling of her charge. "There, now--you almost made me burn it by interrupting me!" "I'm very sorry, I'm sure, Molly," said Cissy apologetically; and seeing that her room was preferred to her company, she went out into the kitchen-garden to seek solace for her listlessness there. It was a vain task, though. The bees were still busily engaged hovering from flower to flower and mixing up in their pouches the different sorts of sweet flavours they extracted with their mandibles from the scabius, whose many-hued blossoms of brown, and olive, and pink, and creamy-white, scented one especial patch near the greenhouse. This corner the industrious little insects made the headquarters of their honey campaign, sallying out from thence to taste a sweet-pea or scarlet-runner and giving a passing kiss to a gaudy fuchsia, who wore a red coat and blue corporation sort of waistcoat, as they went homeward to their hive. On the ground below quite a crowd of sparrows were taking baths in turn in a flat earthenware pan which was always kept filled with water for their particular delectation; and the butterflies, too, waking up, were poising themselves in graceful attitudes on the nasturtiums that twined over the gooseberry bushes, which were running a race with the broad- leaved pumpkins and vegetable marrow plants to see who would first clamber over the wall, the red tomatoes laughing through the greenery at the fun. But there was little amusement for Cissy in all this at such a period of expectancy, when her pulses throbbed with excitement; so, she turned back towards the house with a yawn, uttering her longing wish aloud, "Why can't Teddy come?" It being summer time, all the doors and windows were wide open to let in all the air possible, and as she retraced her steps slowly and disconsolately from the bottom of the garden at the back she heard a noise in front like the sound of wheels in the lane. To dart through the side gate instead of returning by way of the kitchen was the work of a moment; and she reached the front of the house almost as soon as Conny and Liz, who had only to step out on to the smooth turf from the low French windows of the drawing-room. It was only a false alarm, though, Doctor Jolly having driven up from visiting a patient to know when the travellers were expected. "By the three o'clock train, eh?" he said on being told; then looking at his watch he added: "Why, it's close on two now. Any of you going down to the station to meet them?" "Yes," answered Miss Conny in her prim way, "I was thinking of taking the children, if you do not consider it too warm to venture out in the heat of the sun? Poor papa is not so well to-day and unable to walk so far." "Pooh, pooh!" ejaculated the doctor, with his hearty laugh. "Call this fine day too warm; you ought to be ashamed of yourself! You need not any of you walk. Go and put on your bonnets, and tell the vicar, and I'll cram you all into my old shanderadan and drive you down." The Reverend Mr Vernon, however, besides suffering from one of his usual nervous headaches, which always came on when he was excited by anything as he was now, wished to be alone on first meeting with his lost son again, so that none might witness his emotion, being a particularly shy man amongst strangers; so, although he came out of his study on hearing Doctor Jolly's voice he begged him to excuse his going, while accepting his kind offer for the girls--who were ready in less than no time, Miss Conny losing her primness in her anxiety not to keep the doctor waiting, and the generally slow Liz being for once quick in her movements. In another minute they were all packed within the hybrid vehicle, half gig, half wagonette, which the doctor only used on state occasions, and must have brought out this afternoon with the preconceived idea of its being specially wanted. "This _is_ jolly!" exclaimed Cissy as they all drove off gaily down the sleepy lane, passing neither man nor beast on their way. "You are very good to us, doctor!" "Ho, ho, ho! Miss Cissy," laughed he; "you're getting extremely familiar to address me like that. Jolly, indeed! why, that's my name, ho, ho!" "I--I didn't think," stammered poor Cissy rather abashed, blushing furiously, while Conny took advantage of the opportunity to point out to her the evil effects of using slang words; but the little lecture of the elder sister was soon joked away by the doctor, and they arrived at the station in the best of spirits. Here they met with a wonderful surprise. Some one who must have heard the news somehow or other of Teddy's return home had decorated the front of the old waiting-room with evergreens and sunflowers; and a sort of triumphal arch also being erected on the arrival platform of the same floral pattern. Who could have done it? Why, no less a person than Jupp, whose black beard seemed all the blacker, surrounding his good-humoured face, as he came out of the office with Mary on his arm, and a young Master Jupp and another little Mary toddling behind them--the whilom porter no longer dressed in grimy velveteens, but in a smart black frock-coat, his Sunday best, while his wife was equally spruce. "I know it's ag'in the rules, miss," he explained to Conny; "but I see the telegram as said Master Teddy'd be here this arternoon, God bless him, and I'm thankful, that I am, he's restored safe and sound from the bottom of the sea and Davy Jones's Locker, as we all on us thought. So says I to Grigson, my old mate as was, who's in charge here now, and we detarmined as how we'd make a kind of show like to welcome of him home." "You're a right-down brick, Jupp!" said Doctor Jolly, shaking him by the hand, while Mary kissed her former nurse children all round; and, while they were all exchanging congratulations, up came the train rumbling and whistling and panting and puffing into the station, the engine bearing a Union Jack tied to the funnel, for Jupp's interest in two of the special passengers being brought to Endleigh was well-known on the line. Hardly had the train come to a standstill than out jumped Teddy, a trifle taller and broader across the shoulders as might have been expected from his two years of absence, but the same open-faced boy with the curly brown hair and blue eyes that all remembered so well. What a meeting it was, to be sure, and how he hugged his sisters and Dr Jolly and Jupp and Mary all round--Uncle Jack almost being unnoticed for the moment, although he did not appear to mind it, looking on with a sympathetic grin of delight at the general joy expressed in every countenance present! The doctor's "shanderadan" had a full cargo back to the vicarage, everybody talking to everybody all at once and none being able to finish a complete sentence--little Cissy keeping tight hold of Teddy's arm the while as if fearful of losing him again and thinking it might be all a dream. When they got to the house Teddy was through the gate and across the lawn in two bounds, tapping at the door of the study before his father knew that he had come. Like another father, the vicar was overcome with glad emotion, clasping him in his arms and embracing him, weeping as he cried in a broken voice: "This, my son, was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!" Only a word more. The terrible experiences Teddy had had, and the sense of discipline inculcated in him during his short training at sea, made such a change in his character that henceforth he lost his former justly-earned titles, being never more called either "pickle" or "scapegrace." He has not, however, abandoned the profession he originally adopted, in spite of its many perils and dangers, and the fact that a sailor's life is not altogether of that rose-coloured nature which story-writers usually make out. No, he still sails under his old captain in the same line, and voyages backwards and forwards between Melbourne and London with praiseworthy punctuality, in the new ship Captain Lennard commands in place of the old _Greenock_. The vessel, too, is a regular clipper in her way, beating everything that tries to compete with her, whether outwards or inwards bound. Teddy looks forward some day to taking his skipper's place when he retires from active life afloat, and following the example of Uncle Jack, who is already a captain too in his own right; for he is as steady and trustworthy now as he was formerly impetuous and headstrong. But, mind you, he has lost none of his pluck or fearless spirit, and is the same genial, good-tempered, and happy-dispositioned boy he was in earliest childhood--knowing now the difference between true courage and mere bravado, and the value of obedience to those in authority over him. As for Miss Conny, in spite of her ordinary sedateness of demeanour and constant asseveration that she would only marry a clergyman like her father, she is, to use Teddy's expressive diction, "spliced to a sodger," having become engaged some time since to a gallant captain in a marching regiment that was quartered for a while at Bigton, within easy access of Endleigh. Cissy and Liz are both growing up nice girls; while the vicar is still hale and hearty, giving his parishioners the benefit every Sunday of a "thirdly" and sometimes "fourthly, brethren," in addition to the first and second divisions of his sermon; and never omitting his favourite "lastly" with "a word in conclusion" to wind up with. Doctor Jolly, to complete our list of characters, is yet to the fore with his catching laugh, as "jolly" as ever; and, Jupp and Mary have likewise been so tenderly dealt with by time that they hardly look a day older than on that memorable occasion when Master Teddy introduced himself to public notice. Don't you remember? Why, when he casually mentioned to the porter and reader alike, and all whom it might concern, in the most matter-of-fact way in the world, that he wanted to "do dan'ma!" THE END. 
45168	----	FRONTISPIECE. to "Rhymes for Harry and his Nurse-Maid". [Illustration: Nursery Furniture. _pa 21._] [Illustration: A simple tale will oft prevail, When sober prose is spurn'd; The charm of rhyme beguiles the time, And still a lesson's learn'd. ] RHYMES FOR _HARRY_ AND HIS NURSE-MAID. A simple tale will oft prevail, When sober prose is spurn'd; The charm of rhyme beguiles the time, And still a lesson's learn'd. Thus lines for youth, in simple truth, We never will despise; For maxims old, tho' frequent told, May still assist the wise. LONDON: WILLIAM DARTON AND SON, HOLBORN HILL. PREFACE. It is with feelings of great humility, from a sense of her own deficiency in the important duties of a mother, that the writer of the following rhymes submits them to the public. Her wish is to convey a few useful hints to nurse-maids, as well as to those mothers who have had but little experience in the care of children. Many young mothers, more especially in the middle circles of life, have scarcely leisure to make education a study; while others, perhaps, do not reflect on the very great importance of early habits; to such persons, the few practical observations contained in the notes, may not be unacceptable. The subjection of the will, in the first place, by _mild_ yet firm and persevering conduct, will generally ensure success to the parent, and will save the child _hours_ and even _days_ of fretfulness and sorrow. The employment of a nurse-maid is a responsible one; those who really perform their duty from pure and conscientious motives, will not lose their reward; and though such may feel _themselves_ to be placed in a very humble situation, they are, in reality, laying the foundation for future happiness or misery. In the first three years of childhood, that basis is often formed upon which the conduct of future life is built. If self-will, and a spirit of contradiction, be allowed to take deep root in the infant mind, Divine Grace _only_ can counteract their evils. But, on the other hand, if good feelings be cherished, and the evil passions (which _all_ have more or less, by nature,) be gradually subjected, early blossoms of virtue will appear; and, by the blessing of Providence, those beautiful fruits will be matured, by which the tree may be known to be good; and by which, from the cradle to the grave, the designs of the benevolent Creator will be accomplished. [Illustration: Nurse's first thoughts about her baby. _pa 7._] [Illustration: Finding a Pin which had pricked baby. _pa 8._] The writer only wishes to say, that these rhymes were undertaken at the particular request of a valued friend of hers, who has bestowed much of his time, with truly benevolent intentions, in adding to the instruction and amusement of the rising generation; and she cannot but acknowledge the obligation she feels for the kind assistance he has lent her in several of the subjects which occupy the following pages. The design of the writer is, that _each piece_ shall convey some hint which may tend to the physical or moral advantage of the child, in those duties which immediately devolve upon a mother, and her nurse-maid; so that, while they are amusing their little ones with the recital of a simple narrative, adapted to the most humble capacity, they may sometimes be pleasantly reminded of their own obligations. M. A. RHYMES, &c. NURSE'S FIRST THOUGHTS ABOUT HER BABY. Little Baby, just new born, Naked, trembling, and forlorn, My hand the willing help supplies, To ease thy pain, and soothe thy cries; Nor can I tell thee little dear, How much we're pleased to see thee here. O, it will be my sweet delight To serve thee with this milk so white! But tho' my babe so nicely feeds, I'll only give just what it needs; If I the spoon too often fill, 'Twould make my baby sick and ill. Mamma too will be able soon To feed her babe without a spoon, And _that_ we know is better far Than milk and barley-water are. FINDING A PIN WHICH HAD PRICKED BABY. Hark! I hear my baby weeping, Tho' it seemed so nicely sleeping; Sure its wrapping is not right! I fear there is some string too tight. Ah! now I find the reason why,-- My precious baby well might cry. Upon its bosom, close within The barrow-coat, I've found a pin; But I can tell thee o'er and o'er, No pin shall ever prick thee more; Some buttons shall be snugly set Upon the flannels of my pet. Ah, baby dear, so feeble, fair! Thou call'st forth many an anxious care! Thou canst not speak thy pain or wo, Or tell me whence thy pleasures flow; Then o'er my babe a watch I'll keep, And guard it when 'tis fast asleep. [Illustration: The crust.--Teething. _pa 15._] [Illustration: Babes are fretful when suddenly aroused from sleep. _pa 16._ ] BABY ASLEEP AGAIN IN THE COT. Should any cause of inward pain Make baby cry or start again, I'll warm its feet before the fire, Or see what else it may require; Over my shoulder gently throw And rock my baby to and fro. And now, asleep within the cot, It must be neither cold nor hot. If cold, I know it shortly will Awake, and feel itself quite ill; And if 'tis wrapp'd too tight and warm, Tho' babe may feel no present harm, 'Twill be relax'd, and feeble grow, And shortly lose its healthy glow. But with a blanket _warm_, yet _light_, And pillow not too great a height, With nothing else to tease or cumber, Baby will most sweetly slumber. WASHING. My baby must be clean and neat, With cap and pinafore complete; I'll daily sponge its little head, And wash its skin, so soft and red. My seat must not be over high, Lest babe roll off my lap, and cry: Upon my knee, I'll safely hold, And do it quick for fear of cold. Hush, hush, my dear! I'll not be long; Washing will make thee stout and strong: Thy little nerves 'twill help to brace, 'Twill make thee have a rosy face. Some helpless babes scarce ever get A wholesome washing, like my pet; Then weak, and weaker still, they grow, No sprightliness or pleasure show; Whereas, by constant daily care, With skin so fresh, and clean brush'd hair, They might have stouter grown, and stronger, And liv'd in cheerful health much longer. RESTLESS NIGHTS. When a babe is uneasy and restless in bed, "Child's cordial" will soothe it to sleep, it is said; And ignorant people, who know not its harm, Think this dangerous stuff has a powerful charm. But _one drop_ of such poison I never will give, Because I would rather my darling should live; And I know very well, if this cordial I try, That baby will want more and more, till it die. Tho' made with such art as to lull and give ease, It lays the foundation for lasting disease; No mother deserves a sweet babe for her prize, Who would poison her infant, to silence its cries. And a nurse who loves baby, or values her place, Will ne'er use this drug; 'tis a sin and disgrace; Well then, I will try with much patience and care, To soothe my dear babe, or some food to prepare; And the true satisfaction of doing my best Will repay all my labour and sweeten my rest. A WALK IN THE COUNTRY. Must we take a nice walk?-- Where are spencer and hat? Why, my Harry looks pleas'd, When I tell him of that! We must trip rather briskly, Not saunter and stay; Then we catch the fresh breeze As it hastens away. And now for the gate,-- Let us open it, dear; We have got to the field, And the daisies appear. The cowslips and buttercups[1] Make it look yellow; Must I pluck one, to give To my sweet little fellow? Come, look at this flower-- Ah! now he has caught it; Well really, my Harry, I scarce could have thought it! And now, to his mouth, He is bearing the prize, Ah! I see very well That I have not been wise. Some insect may lurk On the stalk or the leaves; I must take it away, Though my darling it grieves. [1] The writer has been told that one species of the buttercup is poisonous: and there are many flowers which it would be hurtful for children to suck. NOTE.--Children are sent out into the country for the benefit of fresh air and exercise; but it is impossible to say what evils arise through the thoughtlessness of some nurse-maids, who will even let their helpless babes sit upon the cold grass, in order that _they_ may loiter with their associates. [Illustration: Baby asleep again in the cot. _pa 9._] [Illustration: Washing. _pa 10._] A WALK IN THE TOWN. How cheerful is the live-long day, When babe and I together stray! Among the fields and daisy-flowers, We love to spend the happy hours; But when Mamma shall send us down To make her markets in the town, Much we shall see to please the boy And make him almost jump for joy: Horses and carts will please him well, And twenty things we need not tell. But then we must not stop too long, Mamma would say that we did wrong. We must not saunter in the street, Or chatter with the folks we meet, But hasten homeward with our store, Until we reach the well-known door: With dirty feet we'll not be seen, For Mary's steps are neat and clean. If Harry for my basket begs, I must not let him break my eggs, Or lose my curds, or spill, or waste; But find some toy to suit his taste: Then Harry, nurse, and basket-store, Will safely land at home once more. TEETHING. Babies, when cutting teeth, oft cry, And bite their little thumbs; Aught they can seize, they'll often try To carry to their gums. Some people give them coral bright With bells all hung together; And some will give them glass to bite, Or ivory, or leather.[2] But things that are so hard as glass Mamma approves of never; They grieve and hurt poor babes, alas! And make them worse than ever. A nurse should _then_ be very kind In finding what will please, A crust of bread, if they're inclined, Will nourish and not tease. Their diet should be thought of too, With care about their dress: Lancing, when teeth are nearly thro,' Makes babies suffer less. [2] The writer was recommended to try a piece of leather, and has found it to produce less irritation than any of the hard substances so often used. Some mothers prefer Indian-rubber. BABIES ARE FRETFUL WHEN SUDDENLY AROUSED FROM SLEEP. Come, come, my sweet deary Has slept rather long, But now that he's waking I'll sing him a song. But softly awhile-- I must not be forgetful, That suddenly rousing Makes Harry quite fretful. I must not with haste Toss my baby about, If I make too much noise I shall grieve him, I doubt. Then be-boo, my darling, My bosom shall hide thee; I'll pat thee, and kiss thee, No fear shall betide thee. Ah! how sweetly he smiles, Now I've gained all my ends; For my baby and I Can soon make-up good friends. [Illustration: Learning to walk. _pa 17._] [Illustration: In-doors play. _pa 18._] LEARNING TO WALK. My baby trips with steps complete, And loves to stand upon his feet; But then 'tis only when I hold His finger, that he feels so bold; Until his limbs are firmer grown I must not let him stand alone; I'll notice every new desire, That, while I _teach_, I may not _tire_; His little wants with care supply, And guard against each danger nigh. We'll sometimes walk, and sometimes rest, Just as my darling likes the best: For ah! his legs are young and slender, His tripping toes are soft and tender; Much at once he cannot bear, Needing patience, thought, and care. Yet frequent walking, not _too long_, Will make his little limbs grow strong. IN-DOORS PLAY. Look out, my dear, how fast it rains, Pelting upon the window panes! We'll shut them till the storm is o'er, Lest it should rain upon the floor. When all above seems clear and dry, Again we'll throw the windows high; The shower makes all look green and fair, And wholesome is the freshen'd air. Come, Harry, get his ball the while-- (Harry loves play, it makes him smile.) We'll roll it on the floor, and then Quickly we'll fetch it back again. And, if I think his looks betray Some anxious wish for change of play, We'll try a hundred little tricks, We'll fetch his horse, his cart, his bricks; And, when he seems well pleas'd, we'll strive To keep good-temper all alive: With kindness and obliging aim I'll join in every childish game, Nor interrupt with thoughtless air, Aught that has claim'd my Harry's care. [Illustration: See how my Harry hangs his head. _pa 19._] [Illustration: Bed-time. Now, on the little cap we'll put. _pa 20._] [Illustration: Never grieve one to please another. _pa 22._] [Illustration: Warm Feet. _pa 24._] HARRY HAS A SISTER. When little sister Jane arriv'd, Harry was two years old; His dimpled cheeks and lively air A cheerful temper told. Well pleas'd, he sat by nurse's side, As she the babe would dress. And, though he kiss'd or patted her, _Too_ hard he did not press. He learn'd to wait upon himself, His pinafore to loose, Now on he'd nicely put his socks, And clasp his little shoes. He nimbly went up stairs or down, At nurse or mother's call; But then, he took _fast hold_ the while, Lest he should get a fall. BED-TIME. See how my Harry hangs his head, And rubs his little peepy; 'Tis time to trot up stairs to bed When babies are so sleepy. Then let us put his playthings by, Jane's rattle, and her dolly; We must not leave all things awry, To make more work for Molly. Come trip up stairs with nimble feet, --A kiss for dear Mamma; Hark, hark, she says "farewell my sweet," And Harry says, "ta, ta." (He does not say--"Mamma, do let Me stop a little longer?" Indulgence soon would spoil her pet, And make his will grow stronger.) Now, we must all the windows shut, And let the curtains down; Now, on the little cap we'll put, And now the sleeping gown. My Harry must lie still, and keep The bed-clothes nice and even; "Ta, ta,"--he'll soon be fast asleep, For, hark! the clock strikes seven. [Illustration: Harry has a Sister. _pa 19._] [Illustration: And, though he kiss'd or patted her, _Too_ hard he did not press. _pa 19._] NURSERY FURNITURE. Harry can skip, or jump, or play, Just at his own desire; But once he was a careless boy, And went too near the fire. And had not nurse, with watchful eye, Beheld, and quickly turn'd His pinafore had caught the flame, His hair had all been burn'd. Papa had seen a guard so nice, That fitted round a fire; He order'd one for Harry's room, With closely platted wire. See now he plays with nimble step, And fearless of all harm; And yet he can, on Winter days, His little fingers warm. A lamp, two yards above the floor, Is fasten'd to the wall; For candles, on a table put, Might quickly get a fall. A basin and a jug, and soap, With water from the well, Plac'd on a little frame of wood, Suit nurse and Harry well. And nicely furnish'd is our room, With things that will not spoil; Mamma too kind and thoughtful is To make much care or toil. She likes her darling babes to play At liberty and ease, And still, in having useful things, Takes care they do not tease. NEVER GRIEVE ONE TO PLEASE ANOTHER. Poor Jane! what is it grieves her so? Why sobs her little heart? She cries, because she wants to have Her brother's nice new cart. But Harry now is so intent Unloading all his store, She must, my darling, wait awhile, Until his game is o'er. To please and gratify, we must Not rob and grieve another; Justice should always be our guide, And feeling for the other. And tho' 'tis pleasant, when a child Will _freely_ give or lend; If we _oblige them to be kind_, We soon defeat our end. We'll pacify with kindest art, And other thoughts excite; We'll try, with tender care, to lead, The infant wish aright. We _must_ a good beginning make For every useful lesson; We _must_ enforce from earliest years The practice of submission. N. B.--A little publication, entitled "Hints for the Improvement of Early Education," the writer recommends to the increased attention of every conscientious mother.--These rhymes make but very humble pretensions, and are likewise much limited, from various considerations; so that many of the more important subjects of education could not be touched upon. WARM FEET. Harry looks so sick and ill, Harry is so cold and chill, Nurse does almost think, and fear, Something's the matter with her dear. Let me feel his little feet, If they're nicely warm, my sweet! Ah! they are both damp and cold; And that should never be, I'm told. Let us fetch the little tub, And water warm, his feet to rub; We'll bathe them well; then by and by We'll wash them clean, and wipe them dry. If feet are cold, Mamma can tell Her children will not long be well; And often have I heard her say, "That case admits of no delay." HARRY AT DINNER. My Harry is not quite so good At dinner as I wish; He sometimes is a dainty boy, Unless he likes the dish. He, sometimes says he does not like His pudding and his meat, If, on the sideboard he can see A pie or custard sweet. But mother does not choose her boy Should follow ways like these; And if his plate he does not clean, He has no pie nor cheese. Mamma knows that, whate'er she gives Her boy, is always good; And she is never pleas'd to hear Remarks about his food. How many a half-starv'd little boy Has nought whereon to feed! While happy Henry, day by day, Has all that he can need. NOTE. What a privilege those children enjoy who are allowed to take their meals with their parents! Many children are really brought up in habits of daintiness and gluttony, through the mistaken kindness of nurses, who are not aware that they are laying the foundation for future misery. And who is more miserable than the epicure? surrounded by the blessings of a bountiful Giver,--and yet dissatisfied with _all_! Surely poverty, with thankfulness, is not half so wretched a condition! [Illustration: Nurse telling Harry a tale, about catching flies. _pa 27._] [Illustration: The girl who hurt herself with the table. _pa 30._] TAKING MEDICINE. What have I got in this blue cup? 'Tis senna-tea: come, drink it up. Now come, my little Harry, haste; What! say he does not like the taste? These raisins, with a crust of bread, Will make a pleasant taste instead, There! now 'tis gone,--both taste and smell; My little boy has managed well; Mamma shall know her darling can Drink senna-tea, just like a man: For, tho' it is not nice to take, Med'cine oft cures both pain and ache. Some naughty children will not try To drink their senna-tea, but cry; Then worse and worse they grow, instead, And often lie for weeks in bed, When early care, without delay, Might send their poorliness away. When nurses have a sickly charge, Their stock of patience should be large; Their kindness and obliging care, Should teach them peevishness to _bear_; But _then_, in what is _needful_,--_right_, Their hold should be both _firm_ and _tight_; Then love and confidence would still Meet in obedience to their will, And children would not dare to be Unruly with their senna-tea. NOTE. The practice of giving children sweet things, such as comfits and lozenges, cannot be too much reprobated. They fill children with ill-humors, by impairing digestion; they disorder the bowels, by producing an unnatural fermentation; they prevent the relish and enjoyment of plain food, and create in the little sufferer a continual craving for indulgencies. A little dried fruit, on proper occasions, is not unwholesome. NURSE TELLING HARRY A TALE, ABOUT CATCHING FLIES. Now, Harry, I've a tale to tell, So sit upon this chair; It is of what one day befell A little maid so fair. She had a trick of catching flies, And as I understand, Regardless of their shape or size, Would clasp them in her hand. A sly young bee that knew the way Some window-plants to gain, Yet choosing an unwise delay Was creeping on the pane: The thoughtless child, on mischief bent, Soon caught him by the wing; But she, on cruelty intent, Was punished with a sting. Nurse heard a cry of pain and grief, And tho' it seems quite funny, The little girl soon found relief From poultice made of honey.[3] Now since that time, I do expect, She'll hurt poor flies no more; The little maid will oft reflect On all she's done before. O, Harry, it is sad, indeed, To hurt a living thing! And those who do it, _really need_, A _rod_, if not a _sting_. [3] Spirits of hartshorn, if immediately applied, will likewise effectually remove the pain of a sting. Spirits of turpentine, in case of a burn or scald, is a valuable acquisition to a nurse-maid's closet. Its constant application till the fire is extracted, prevents those bad consequences which sometimes arise from neglect, or inefficient means. [Illustration: A little Boy who was afraid in the dark. _pa 32._] [Illustration: Nurse's reflections on the advantages of truth and sincerity. _pa 34._] ANOTHER TALE. A little girl, I also knew, With cheeks of red, and eyes of blue; And though she was at learning quick, She had full many an awkward trick. She ate so fast,--so often spoke,-- Mamma was much afraid she'd choke; Her spice she ate, too, with such haste, She would not let her brother taste. And habits such as these 'twas thought, She learn'd from what her nurse had taught.[4] This little girl would often climb, And so it happen'd that, one time, Attempting more than she was able, She fell against a dining table. Loud did she cry "I've hurt my head! O, naughty table!" then she said, And sobbing loud, and crying more, Began to beat the table sore. Mamma was sadly griev'd to find Her darling to such tricks inclin'd, But watchful care, with language mild, Soon check'd this temper in the child. "Such foolish ways, my Harry! shock! _He_ knows a table feels no knock: And, if it did, he would not _like_, He would not even _dare_, to strike. He knows the maxim of the good-- 'Do as you wish that others should.' Revenge makes naughty passions grow, It plants the root of endless wo; A boy that follows long this plan, Will fight when he is grown a man." [4] In order to induce children to take their food, some persons are apt to say, "Come, my dear, make haste, or brother (or sister) shall have it! no, no, brother! you shall not have it!" Now every expression of this kind will infallibly create selfishness and greediness. A mode of conduct directly opposite should be enforced; that children may be taught to find their chief happiness in promoting the pleasure of their brothers and sisters, even by the sacrifice of their own. NURSE'S THIRD TALE, ABOUT A LITTLE BOY WHO WAS AFRAID IN THE DARK. Young Andrew Fearful was a child Most pleasing to behold, His temper was so sweet and mild, And he was four years old. But one sad failing Andrew had, Tho' gay as any lark, With scarce one habit that was bad, He did not like the dark. As soon as candlelight appear'd On evening fireside table, To walk about he scarcely dared, Though he was strong and able. And shadows flitting on the wall, Made Andrew jump and stare; He thought some mischief would befall With such great monsters there. Mamma, in many a pleasant way, Contriv'd the help he needed; And glad I am that I can say, Her care at last succeeded. She took him to a room quite dark, And led him by the hand To some known object, as a mark, And then they both would stand. The room shut in, without a light, He did not much enjoy, And Andrew fear'd to step aright; So foolish was this boy. But growing bolder, he would try The furniture to handle; And Andrew, _fearless_ by and by, Scarce wish'd to have a candle, Mamma, a paper nicely tied. Would place behind the curtain, With figs, or Pomfret cakes, supplied, And then the joy was certain. The shadows which he used to fear, Became his great delight; With joy mamma beheld her dear So pleas'd with candlelight. Thus many a pleasant hour beguil'd, Young Andrew's courage grew; Mamma was happier in her child, And he was happier too. NOTE. Nurses are not sufficiently aware of the importance of guarding against early impressions of fear. In this respect, as in many others, it is much easier to prevent a bad habit, than to cure one. Too much care and tenderness of feeling cannot be used towards those children who have unfortunately imbibed a fear of the dark; yet, on the other hand, judicious care should be exercised, that the habit may not be fostered by over-indulgence. [Illustration: Harry at dinner. _pa 24._] [Illustration: Taking medicine. _pa 26._] NURSE'S REFLECTIONS ON THE ADVANTAGES OF TRUTH & SINCERITY. If children are taught the whole lesson of truth, "'Twill bud in their childhood, and blossom in youth." This maxim I learnt from the pen of a sage, Whose vigor of mind was still green in old age: And much do I wish that my charge may be found On that ladder of learning where Truth is the ground; The foundation so broad makes the ladder stand even; And Truth's certain steps lead with safety to Heaven. Then, first, I'll be careful what language I use, That simple chaste words may express all my views: I'll watch o'er my actions with studious aim, That I may not, in future, deserve any blame; That bad habits may not from my errors proceed, Or my fair little plants be o'ergrown with a weed, My word and my promise shall always abide. And Truth and Sincerity sit side by side. Should I promise a thing which I do not perform, I lay the foundation for much future harm: If children learn falsehood from nurses or mothers, When grown up they will practise deceit upon others. Then nought but the truth to my child shall be spoken: If I once make a promise, it _shall not be broken_.[5] As the best thing of all, I will constantly try To watch over _myself_ with a vigilant eye; My passions and faults so to mend or remove, That all may be lost in obedience and love; That, in practice, I never may knowingly swerve, From the wishes of those whom I honour and serve: But with eye _singly fix'd_, to my duty inclin'd, Let me show forth a meek and a teachable mind; On reproof or instruction not daring to trample, May I always remember the _force of example_! [5] Nurses should also be very cautious how they use threats to children. If they threaten to tell Mamma any thing, or to withhold any indulgence in case of naughtiness, let it be strictly attended to. If it be _not_ attended to, children are great observers, and will soon find that but little regard is paid to truth; and thus incalculable evils may be the result. Some nurses, and even mothers, are apt to bribe their children in this way: "If my dear will do this, I'll give him a sugar-plum;" or, "Will he do so or so, if I give him a sugar-plum?" thus bringing down the standard of parental authority to the petulance or caprice of the child.--Can obedience ever be expected from one whose self-will is thus nurtured? Surely it must be from want of reflection, that mothers entail so much trouble upon themselves and their children! FINIS. J. May, Printer, &c. Dover. [Illustration: A walk in the country. _pa 12._] [Illustration: A walk in the town. _pa 14._] ONE SHILLING BOOKS, With Copper-plates. Bird Fancier, (The British) _plates_. Book of Trades, 12 mo. _cold._ British Sovereigns, from William the Conqueror to William the Fourth, 12mo. _cold._ Crocus (The) containing Original Poems for Young Persons, by I. E. M. 12mo. _plts. col._ Early Seeds, to produce Spring Flowers, by Mary Elliot, 12mo. _cold._ Industry and Idleness. Ladder to the Alphabet, 12mo. _cold._ Little Scenes, 12mo. _cold._ Little Truths better than great Fables, 2 parts. Pet Lamb; (The) to which is added the Ladder to Learning, &c. 12mo. _cold._ Plain Things for Little Folks, by Mary Elliot. Present for a Little Boy, 12mo. ---- ---- Little Girl, ditto. Rational Exhibition, 12mo. Rose, (The) containing Original Poems, by Mary Elliot, 12mo. _cold._ Rural Amusements, 12mo. _cold._ Simple Studies. Natural History. Quadrupeds, 12mo. _cold._ Ditto, ditto, Birds, ditto. Simple Scenes in Rural Life, 12mo. _cold._ Wild Garland, (The) 12mo. _cold. plates_. Yellow Shoe Strings, or the Good Effects of Obedience to Parents, 18mo. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 
43127	----	An Enchanted Garden Fairy Stories By Mrs Molesworth Illustrations by W.J. Hennessy Published by T. Fisher Unwin. An Enchanted Garden, by Mrs Molesworth. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ AN ENCHANTED GARDEN, BY MRS MOLESWORTH. CHAPTER ONE. MADAM WREN. "No," said Alix, "that's not a good plan at all. It's perfectly stupid. If you've no better ideas than that, Rafe, we needn't talk about it any more." Rafe looked and felt very snubbed indeed. He was ten, she was nine. But she generally took the lead; not always, as I daresay you will see when you hear more about them, but _generally_. They were a nice little pair, and they were constantly together, at lessons, at play, at everything. This was a convenient arrangement, for they were a good deal younger than the other brothers and sisters of the family, and what Rafe would have been without Alix, or Alix without Rafe, it would be difficult to imagine. But there is not much use in thinking over about might-have-beens, or would-have-beens, unless to make us more thankful for what _is_. So it is enough to say that as things really were, they were very happy children. Still they had their troubles, and it was one of these they were discussing this lovely spring morning, when they were sitting under their favourite tree--a magnificent ilex in the garden, at one corner of the great lawn which was one of the beauties of their home. It was a lovely day, clear and bright and joyous, full of its own delights, and yet almost fuller of the summer ones to come! This is, I suppose, the real secret of the charm of spring-time--the promise and hope it tells of. Everything seemed bursting with good news, the birds most of all perhaps, though the smiling faces of the early flowers, and the tender whispers of the gentle wind through the branches, were not behindhand. But the children's faces were clouded. This was their trouble. They could not get any one to tell them any more stories! They had read all their books through, over and over again, and besides, books aren't _quite_ as nice as "told" stories. At least not when they have to be shared by two. Rafe and Alix had tried several plans--reading aloud did not answer _very_ well, and looking over the pages was worse. They never managed to keep quite together, and then the one who got down to the last line first was sure to fidget or to try in some way to hurry up the other, which was apt to lead to unpleasant results. And besides this, at present there was no question of story-books, for, as I said, the children had read all they possessed really _too_ often. Hitherto perhaps they had been a little spoilt about having stories told to them. Papa, who was an old soldier, had a good many tales of adventure; mamma had some lovely ones about "when she was a little girl." And the big brothers and sisters were very kind too, especially if Rafe or Alix, or both, as sometimes was the case, happened to be ill. But their stories were mostly out of books; now and then indeed they would unluckily turn out to be already known to the children, and though they did not altogether object to them on this account--I have noticed that children rather enjoy a book story retold by voice--it was not always so pleasant for Ena or Jean, or Eric when he was at home from college. For Rafe and Alix were so exceedingly particular. "No," one of them would say, just when Eric had got to the most thrilling part of a robber story, "the entrance to the inner cave was at the _left_ side of the big one;" or if Jean was describing her heroine's dress, "It wasn't green--I'm sure it was blue--blue with tiny rosebuds on," so that sometimes Jean would reply, "Really, children, if you interrupt so I can't go on," or Eric would go off with a grunt and tell them to provide stories for themselves. This had happened the evening before, and this it was which put the idea into Rafe's mind which Alix snubbed so. "Suppose," he said, "that we make stories for each other--you for me, Alix, and I for you?" It sounded rather nice, but it did not find favour in her eyes at all. "I know exactly what they'd be," she said; "just mixings up of all our other ones. It might do to amuse stranger children with, perhaps--but not for us ourselves. I know all that's in your head, and you know what's in mine, far too well. So it would be perfectly stupid." And Rafe had no more to say. It was Easter holidays--Easter was as late as it could be that year--and the weather was so beautiful that it really felt like summer. You would think the children should have been content; but they weren't. They had no lessons at all to do, and a whole fortnight of nothing you really must do is, in my opinion, a mistake. During the long summer holidays Miss Brander, their governess, always left them _something_ to do, just enough to give a nice fresh taste to the holidaying the rest of their time, and to prevent their feeling the reins _quite_ loose on their necks like runaway ponies. And even without this, in the summer it was different, for they generally went to the seaside or to some hilly place for a month or so, to have a change of air, and away from home in a new place time seldom hangs much on children's hands. This Easter it was certainly doing so a good deal. There were other reasons too why the little couple felt rather at a loose end, rather tired of themselves. The big people were all unusually busy, for Ena was going to be married in June; and she and their mother or she and Jean were always going somewhere or other to order things, or to give their opinion about the doing up of the pretty old house, ten miles or so away, which was to be her new home. And though Ena was very kind when she had time, and the new brother-to-be held out grand promises of the visits they were to pay to their sister, and the fun they should have, still, all that seemed a good way off, and in the meantime Rafe and Alix felt rather out of it all. I am not sure but that they were just a little jealous of the new brother. "It's only a pretence sort of brother," said Alix one day when her feelings had been ruffled. I am afraid they felt as if he had some how put both their small noses out of joint. So now you understand why Rafe and Alix were sitting rather disconsolately under the ilex, though the sun was shining brightly enough to melt away all clouds and mists inside as well as outside, any one would have thought. In spite of Alix's snub, Rafe looked up again in a minute or two. "Why don't you think of a better plan, then, if you don't like mine?" he said. "It's always easy to say things won't do," (which is exceedingly true!), "but why don't you find something that _will_ do?" Alix turned round. She was sitting on the end of the rustic bench, swinging her legs, which was not difficult, as they scarcely reached the ground, and staring up at the thickly-growing branches overhead. But now she looked at Rafe--he felt a little nervous; was she going to take offence at his speech? No--she had heard what he said, but she was not vexed. "I know what I wish we _could_ find," she said. "Do you remember, Rafe, the story of a white lady, up, up in a room at the very top of a castle somewhere, who was always spinning stories? They came out of the hum of her spinning-wheel somehow, and the children could hear them when they sat down on the floor beside her. _Oh_, if we could find somebody like that!" "It was fairies," said Rafe doubtfully. "At least the white lady was a fairy, and there aren't any really, I suppose." "Everybody says so," Alix replied doubtfully, "but I don't quite see why there mightn't be. If there have never been any, what began all the fairy stories? And I know one thing--papa said so himself one day when he was telling some--what's the word?--it means a sort of a fairy story that's been told over and over since ever, _ever_ so long ago, ledge--_what_ is it?" "Legends, you mean," said her brother. "Yes, I remember papa telling us some very queer ones he had heard in India." "And he said there were fairy stories in _every_ country," Alix went on. "So what _I_ say is there must have been something to make them begin!" This sounded very convincing to Rafe--Alix certainly had clever ways of putting things. "Oh!" he said, with a deep sigh. "If we could but find some one old enough to remember the beginnings of them--something like the white lady, you know." Both children sat silent for a moment or two, their eyes gazing before them. Suddenly on the short green turf appeared a tiny figure, a wren, so tame that she hopped fearlessly to within a very short distance of the little brother and sister, and then, standing still, seemed to look up at them with her bright eyes, her small head cocked knowingly on one side. "Rafe," exclaimed Alix eagerly, though in a low voice. "Alix," said Rafe in his turn. Then they looked at each other, thinking the same thoughts. "Rafe," whispered Alix, while the wren still stood there looking at them, "just look at her; she's not a bird, she's a fairy--or at least if she's not a fairy she's got some message for us from one." The wren hopped on a few steps, still looking back at them. The children slipped off the seat and moved softly after her without speaking. On she went, hopping, then fluttering just a little way above the ground, then hopping again, till in this way she had led them right across the wide stretch of lawn to some shrubberies at the far side. Here a small footpath, scarcely visible till you were close to it, led through the bushes to a strip of half-wild garden ground, used as a sort of nursery for young trees, which skirted a lane known by the name of the "Ladywood Path." And indeed it was little more than a path nowadays, for few passed that way, though the story went that in the old days it had been a good road leading to a house that was no longer in existence. Over the low wall clambered the children, to find to their delight that the wren was in the lane before them, just a little way ahead. But now she took to flying higher and faster than she had yet done; to keep up with her at all they had to run, and even with this they sometimes lost sight of her altogether for a minute or two. But they kept up bravely-- they were too eager and excited to waste breath by speaking. The race lasted for some minutes, till at last, just as Alix was about to give in, Rafe suddenly twitched her arm. "Stop, Alix," he panted--truth to tell, the running was harder on him than on his sister, for Rafe was of an easy-going disposition, and not given to violent exercise--"stop, Alix, she's lighted on the old gateway." They both stood still and looked. Yes, there was Madam Wren on the topmost bar of a dilapidated wooden gate, standing between two solid posts at what had once been the entrance to the beautiful garden of an ancient house. How beautiful neither the children nor any one now living knew, for even the very oldest inhabitants of that part of the country could only dimly remember having been told by their grandparents, or great-grandparents perhaps, how once upon a time Ladywood Hall had been the pride of the neighbourhood. The wren flapped her wings, then rose upwards and flew off. This time, somehow, the children felt that it was no use trying to follow her. "She's gone for good," said Rafe dolefully; but Alix's eyes sparkled. "You _are_ stupid," she said. "Don't you see what she's told us. We're to look for--for something, or some one, I don't quite know what, in the Lady's garden." For so somehow the grounds of the vanished house had come to be spoken of. "I think it was very dull of us not to have thought of it for ourselves, for it is a very fairy sort of place." "If it is that way," said Rafe, "_they_ must have heard us talking, and sent the wren to tell us." "Of course," said Alix, "that's just what I mean. Perhaps the wren is one herself." "Shall we go on now?" said Rafe. "No"--for just at that moment the clear sound of a bell ringing reached them from the direction of their own home--"for there's our dinner." And dinner was an important event in Rafe's eyes, even when rivalled by a fairy hunt. "How provoking," said Alix. "_How_ quickly the morning has gone. We must go in now or they will come hunting us up and find out all about it; and you know, Rafe, if it has anything to do with fairies we must keep it a secret." Rafe nodded his head sagely. "Of course," he replied. "When do you think we had best come? This afternoon we are going a walk with nurse, and she'd never let us off." "No," said Alix, with a sigh, for a walk with nurse was not a very interesting affair. "But I'll tell you what, Rafe; if I can get hold of mamma to-night, just even for a minute, I'll ask her if we mayn't take something for dinner out with us to-morrow, and not come in till tea-time--the way we sometimes did last summer; for just now it's really as fine and warm as if it was June. I think she'll let us." "I do hope she will," said the boy. CHAPTER TWO. TAPPING. The children were not very fortunate in their nurse. Perhaps this helped to make them feel lonely and dull sometimes, when there scarcely seemed real reason for their being so. She was a good woman, and meant to be kind, and their mother trusted her completely. But she was getting old, and was rather tired of children. She had had such a lot to bring up--the four big brothers and sisters of Rafe and Alix, and before them a large family of their cousins. And I don't think she was really very fond of children, though she was devoted to tiny babies. She didn't in the least understand children's fancifulnesses or many of their little ways, and was far too fond of saying, "Stuff and nonsense, Master Rafe," or "Miss Alix," as the case might be. The walk this afternoon would not have been any livelier than usual, so far as nurse was concerned, but the children were so brimful of their new ideas that they felt quite bright and happy, and after a while even nurse was won over to enter into their talk, or at least to answer their questions pretty cheerfully. For though of course they had not the least idea of telling her their secret, it was too much on their minds for them not to chatter round about it, so to say. "Have you ever seen a fairy, nurse?" said Alix; and, rather to her surprise, nurse answered quite seriously: "No, my dear. Time was, I suppose, as such things were to be seen, but that's past and gone. People have to work too hard nowadays to give any thought to fairies or fairyland." But on the whole this reply was rather encouraging. "You must have heard of fairies, though," said Rafe. "Can't you remember any stories about them?" Nurse had never been great at story-telling. "Oh dear no, Master Rafe," she replied; "I never knew any except the regular old ones, that you've got far prettier in your books than I could tell them. _Sayings_ I may have heard, just countryside talk, when I was a child. My old granny, who lived and died in the village here, would have it that, for those that cared to look for them, there were odd sights and sounds in the grounds of the old house down the lane. Beautiful singing _her_ mother had heard there when she was a girl; and once when a cow strayed in there for a night, they said when she came out again she was twice the cow she had been before, and that no milk was ever as good as hers." The children looked at each other. "I wonder they didn't turn all the cows in there," said Rafe practically. "Why didn't they, nurse?" "Oh dear me, Master Rafe, that's more than I can tell. It was but an old tale. You can't expect much sense in such." "Whom did the old house belong to? Who lived there?" said Alix. "Nobody knows," said nurse. "It's too long ago to say. But there's always been good luck about the place, that's certain. You've seen the flowers there in the summer time. Some of them look as beautiful as if they were in a proper garden; and it's certain sure there's no wood near here like it for the nightingales." This was very satisfactory so far as it went, but nurse would say no more, doubtless because she had nothing more to say. "I do believe, Rafe," said Alix, when they were sitting together after tea, "that the old garden is a sort of entrance to fairyland, and that it's been waiting for us to find it out." Her eyes were shining with eagerness, and Rafe, too, felt very excited. "I do hope mamma will let us have all to-morrow to ourselves," he said. "You see, one has to be very careful with fairies, Alix--all the stories agree about that. We must go to work very cautiously, so as not to offend them in any way." "You're always cautious," said Alix, with a little contempt; "rather too cautious for me. Of course we shall be very _polite_, and take care not to spoil any of the plants, but we'll have to be a little venturesome too. And," she went on, "you may count that they've invited us. The wren brought a regular message. I only hope they're not offended with us for not going to-day." "If they're good kind of fairies," said Rafe sagely--"and I think they're sure to be--they wouldn't have liked us to be disobedient; and you know mamma's awfully particular about our coming in the moment we hear the bell ring." "Yes," said Alix; "that's true." Mamma's heart was extra soft that evening, I think. She had seen so little of the children lately that she was feeling rather sorry for them, and all the more ready to agree to any wish of theirs. So they had no difficulty in getting her consent to their picnic plan for to-morrow. And the weather was wonderfully settled, as it sometimes is even in England, though early in the year. So the next morning saw them set off, carrying a little basket of provisions and a large parasol, full of eagerness and excitement as to what might be before them. They did not cross the lawn as they had done the day before, for they had a sort of feeling that they did not wish anyone to see them start, or to know exactly which way they went. It added to the pleasant mystery of the expedition. So they went straight out by the front gates, and after following the high road for a quarter of a mile or so, entered a little wood which skirted the grass-grown lane along one side, and from which they made their way out with some scrambling and clambering at only a few yards' distance from the entrance to the deserted garden where they had last seen the wren. The sight of the gate-posts reminded Alix of the bird, and she stopped short with some misgiving. "Rafe," she said, "do you think perhaps we should have waited for her at the ilex tree? I never thought of it before." "Oh no," said Rafe; "I'm sure it's all right. We've come to the place she led us to. She didn't need to show us the way twice! Fairies don't like stupid people." "You seem to know a great lot about fairies," said Alix, who had no idea of being snubbed herself, though she was fond of snubbing other people; "so I think you'd better settle what we're to do." "I expect we'll find the wren inside the gate," said Rafe; and they made their way on in silence. There was no difficulty in getting into the grounds, for though the gate on its rusty hinges would have been far too heavy for the children to move, there was a space between it and the posts where the wood had rotted away, through which it was easy for them to creep. First came Rafe, then the basket, next Alix, and finally the big parasol. It was a good while since they had been in the Ladywood garden, and when they had got on to their feet again, they stood still for a minute or two looking round them. It was a curious-looking place certainly; the very beauty of it had something strange and dream-like about it. Here and there the old paths were clearly to be traced. The main approach, or drive, as we should now call it, leading to where the house had been, was still quite distinct, though the house itself was entirely gone--not even any remains of ruins were to be seen, for all the stone and wood of which it had been built had long since been carted away to be used elsewhere. But the children knew where the old hall had actually stood--a large, square, level plateau, bordered on three sides by a broad terrace, all grass-grown, showing in two or three places where stone steps had once led down to the lower grounds, told its own tale. Along the front of this plateau, supporting it, as it were, there was still a very strongly-built stone wall banked up into the soil. The children walked on slowly till they were near the foot of this wall, and then stood still again. It was about five feet high; they seemed attracted to it, they scarcely knew why--perhaps because it was the only remaining thing actually to show that here had been once a home where people had lived. "I daresay," said Alix, looking up, "that the children used to run along the terrace at the top of that wall, and their mammas and nurses would call after them to take care they didn't fall over. Doesn't it seem funny, Rafe, to think there have _always_ been children in the world?" "I daresay the boys jumped down sometimes," said Rafe. "I'd like to try, but I won't to-day, for I promised mamma to take care of you, and if I sprained my ankle it would be rather awkward." They had forgotten their little quarrel, and for the moment they had forgotten about the wren. She was nowhere to be seen. What was to be done? "If we were only looking for a nice place for our picnic," said Rafe, "nothing could be better than the shelter of this wall. With it on one side, and the parasol tilted up on the other, it would be as good as a tent." "But we're not only looking for a picnic place," said Alix impatiently. "The only thing to do is to poke about till we find _something_, for I'm perfectly certain the wren didn't bring us here for nothing; and then, you know, there's even what nurse told us about this garden." Alix's words roused Rafe's energy again; for he was a trifle lazy, and wouldn't have been altogether disinclined to sit down comfortably and think about dinner. But once he got a thing in his head, he was not without ideas. "Let's follow right along the wall," he said, "and examine it closely." "I don't know what you expect to find," said Alix. "It's just a wall, as straight and plain as can be." And so indeed it seemed from where they stood. "I'll look all along the ground, in case there might be a ring fixed in a stone somewhere, like in the _Arabian Nights_. That's a regular fairy sort of plan," said Alix. "Very well," agreed Rafe; "you can do that, and I'll keep tapping the wall to see if it sounds hollow anywhere." And so they proceeded, Alix carrying the basket now, and Rafe the parasol, as it came in handy for his tapping. For some moments neither of them spoke. Alix's eyes were fixed on the ground. Once or twice, where it looked rough and uneven, she stooped to examine it more closely, but nothing came of it, except a little grumbling from Rafe at her stopping the way. To avoid this she ran on a few paces in front of him, so that when, within a few yards of the end of the wall, her brother suddenly stopped short, she wasn't aware that he had done so till she heard him calling her in a low but eager voice. "What is it?" she said breathlessly, hurrying back again. "Alix," he said, "there's some one tapping back at us from the other side. Listen." "A woodpecker," said Alix hastily; "or the echo of your tappings." She was in such a hurry that she didn't stop to reflect what silly things she was saying. To tell the truth, she didn't quite like the idea of Rafe having the honour and glory of the discovery, if such it was. "A woodpecker," repeated Rafe. "What nonsense! Do woodpeckers tap inside a wall? And an echo wouldn't wait till I had finished tapping to begin. It's just like answering me. Listen again." He tapped three times, slowly and distinctly, then stopped. Yes, sure enough there came what seemed indeed like an answer. Three clear, sharp little raps--clearer and sharper, indeed, than those he made with the parasol handle. Alix was now quite convinced. "It sounds like a little silver hammer," she said. "Oh, Rafe, _suppose_ we've really found something magic!" and her bright eyes danced with eagerness. Rafe did not reply. He seemed intent on listening. "Alix," he said, "the tapping is going on--a little farther off now, and then it comes back again, as if it was to lead us on. It must be on purpose." CHAPTER THREE. THE CARETAKER. "Let's follow it along," said Alix, after another moment or two's hesitation. They were standing, as I said, not many yards from the end of the wall, and thither the sound seemed to lead them. When they got quite to the corner the tapping had stopped. But the children were not discouraged. "That's what fairies do," said Alix, as if all her life she had lived on intimate terms with the beings she spoke of. "They show you a bit, and then they leave you to find out a bit for yourself. We must poke about now and see what we can find." Rafe had already set to work in this way: he was feeling and prodding the big, solid-looking stones which finished off the corner. "Alix," he exclaimed, "one of these stones shakes a little; let's push at it together." Yes, there was no doubt that it yielded a little, especially at one side. The children pushed with all their might and main, but for some time an uncertain sort of wobbling was the only result. Rafe stood back a little to recover his breath, and to look at the stone more critically. "There may be some sort of spring or hinge about it," he said at last. "Give me the parasol again, Alix." He then pressed the point of it firmly along the side of the stone, down the seam of mortar which appeared to join it to its neighbour in the wall. He need not have pressed so hard, for when he got to the middle of the line the stone suddenly yielded, turning inwards so quickly and sharply that Rafe almost fell forward on the parasol, and a square dark hole was open before them. Alix darted forward and peeped in. "Rafe," she cried, "there's a sort of handle inside; shall I try to turn it?" She did so without waiting for his answer. It moved quite easily, and then they found that the two or three stones completing the row to the ground, below the one that had already opened, were really only thin slabs joined together and forming a little door. It was like the doors you sometimes see in a library, which on the outside have the appearance of a row of books. The opening was now clear before them, and they did not hesitate to pass through. They had to stoop a little, but once within, it was easy to stand upright, and even side by side. Alix caught hold of Rafe's hand. "Let's keep fast hold of each other," she whispered. For a few steps they advanced in almost total darkness, for the door behind them had noiselessly closed. But this was in the nature of things, and quite according to Alix's programme. "I only hope," she went on, "that we haven't somehow or other got inside the cave where the pied piper took the children. It might have an opening into England somehow, even though I think Hamelin was in Germany; but, of course, there's nothing to be frightened at, is there, Rafe?" though her own heart was beating fast. Rafe's only answer was a sort of grunt, which expressed doubt, though we will not say fear. Perhaps it was the safest answer he could make under the very peculiar circumstances. But no doubt it was a great relief to both when, before they had time really to ask themselves whether they were frightened or not, a faint light showed itself in front of them, growing stronger and brighter as they stepped on, till at last they could clearly make out in what sort of a place they were. It was a short, fairly wide passage, seemingly hollowed out of the ground, and built up in the same way as the wall outside into the soil-- in fact it was like a small tunnel. The light was of a reddish hue, and soon they saw the reason of this. It came from an inner room, the door of which was half open, where a fire was brightly burning, and by the hearth sat a small figure. The children looked at each other, then they bent forward to see more. Noiseless though they were, the little person seemed to know they were coming. She lifted her head, and though her face was partly hidden by the hood of the scarlet cloak which covered her almost entirely, they saw that it was that of a very old woman. "Welcome, my dears," she said at once. "I have been looking for you this long time." Her voice, though strange--in what way it was strange the children could not have told, for it seemed to come from far away, and yet it seemed to them that they had often heard it before--encouraged them to step forward. "Good-morning," Alix began, but then she hesitated. Was it morning, or evening, or night, or what? It was difficult to believe that only a few minutes ago they had been standing outside in the warm sunshine, with the soft spring breeze wafting among the fresh green leaves, and the birds singing overhead. _That_ all seemed a dream. "I beg your pardon," the little girl began again; "I don't quite know what I should say, but thank you for speaking so kindly. How did you know we were coming?" "I heard you," replied the old woman. "I heard your little footsteps up to the gateway yesterday, and I knew you'd come again to-day." By this time Rafe had found his tongue too. "Did you send the wren?" he said. "Never mind about that just now," she answered. "I've many a messenger; and what's better still, I've quick eyes, and even quicker ears, for all that I'm so very old. I know what you want of me, and if you're good children you shall not be disappointed. I've been getting ready for you in more ways than one." "Do you mean you've got stories to tell us?" exclaimed the children eagerly. "Of course," she replied, with a smile. "I wouldn't be much good if I hadn't stories for you." All this time, I must tell you, the old woman had been busily knitting. Her needles made a little silvery click, but there was nothing fidgeting about this sound; now and then her words seemed to go in a sort of time with it. What she was knitting they could not see. Alix gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. "How beautiful!" she said; "and may we come every day, and may we stay as long as we like, and will you sometimes invite us to tea, perhaps? and--" "Alix!" said Rafe, in a tone of reproval. "Nay, nay," said their hostess. "Let her chatter. All in good time, my love," she added to Alix, and the click of the needles seemed to repeat the words, "All in good time," like a little song. Rafe's eyes, which were sometimes more observant than Alix's, as his tongue did not use up so much of his attention as hers, had meanwhile been wandering round the room. It can, I think, be best described as a very cosy kitchen, but, unlike many kitchens, it was fresh and not the least too hot. There was a strange, pleasant fragrance in the air that made one think of pine woods. Afterwards the children found out that this came from the fire, for it was entirely of fir-cones, of which a large heap stood neatly stacked in one corner. Along chain hung down the chimney, with a hook at the end, to which a bright red copper pan was fastened; a little kettle of the same metal stood on the hearthstone, which was snowy white. The walls of the room were of rough stone, redder in colour than the wall outside, or else the firelight made them seem so. Behind where the old woman sat hung a grass-green curtain, closely drawn; there was no lamp or candle, but the firelight was quite enough. A wooden dresser ran along one side, and on its shelves were arranged cups and plates and jugs of the queerest shapes and colours you could imagine. I must tell you more about these later on. There was a settle with a very curious patchwork cushion, but besides this and the rocking-chair on which sat the old woman--I forgot to say that she was sitting on a rocking-chair--the only seats were two little three-legged stools. The middle of the floor was covered by matting of a kind the children had never seen; it was shaded brown, and made you think of a path strewn over with fallen leaves in autumn. The old woman's kindly tone encouraged Rafe to speak in his turn. "May I ask you one or two things," he said, "before you begin telling us the stories?" "As many as you like, my boy," she replied cheerfully. "I don't say I'll answer them all--that's rather a different matter--but you can ask all the same." "It's so puzzling," said Rafe, hesitating a little. "I don't think it puzzles Alix so much as me; she knows more about fairy things, I think. I do so want to know if you've lived here a very long time. Have you always lived here--even when the old house was standing and there were people in it?" "Never mind about always," replied the old woman. "A very, very long time? Yes, longer than you could understand, even if I explained it! Long before the old house was pulled down? Yes, indeed, long before the old house was ever thought of! I'm the caretaker here nowadays, you see." "The caretaker!" Rafe repeated; "but there's no house to take care of." "There's a great deal to take care of nevertheless," she replied. "Think of all the creatures up in the garden, the birds and the butterflies, not to speak of the flowers and the blossom. Ah, yes! we caretakers have a busy time of it, I can tell you, little as you might think it. _And_ the stories--why, if I had nothing else to do, the looking after them would keep me busy. They take a deal of tidying. You'd scarcely believe the state they come home in sometimes when they've been out for a ramble--all torn and jagged and draggle-tailed, or else, what's worse, dressed up in such vulgar new clothes that their own mother, and I'm as good as their mother, would scarcely know them again. No, no," and she shook her head, "I've no patience with such ways." Alix looked delighted. She quite understood the old woman. "How nicely you say it," she exclaimed. "It's like something papa told us the other day about legends; don't you remember, Rafe?" Rafe's slower wits were still rather perplexed, but he took things comfortably. Somehow he no longer remembered any more questions to ask. The old woman's bright eyes as she looked at him gave him a pleasant, contented feeling. "Have you got a story quite ready for us?" asked Alix. "One, two, three, four," said the old woman, counting her stitches. "I'm setting it on, my dear; it'll be ready directly. But what have you got in your basket? It's your dinner, isn't it? You must be getting hungry. Wouldn't you like to eat something while the story's getting ready?" "Are you going to _knit_ the story?" said Alix, looking very surprised. "Oh dear no!" said the old woman, smiling. "It's only a way I have. The knitting keeps it straight, otherwise it might fly off once I've let it out. Now open your basket and let's see what you've got for your dinner. There, set it on the table, and you may reach down plates and jugs for yourselves." "It's nothing much," said Alix, "just some sandwiches and two hard-boiled eggs and some slices of cake." "Very good things in their way," said the old woman, as Alix unpacked the little parcels and laid them on the plates which Rafe handed her from the dresser. "And if you look into my larder you'll find some fruit, maybe, which won't go badly for dessert. What should you say to strawberries and cream?" She nodded towards one corner of the kitchen where there was a little door which the children had not before noticed, so very neatly was it fitted into the wall. The opening of it was another surprise; the "larder" was quite different from the room inside. It was a little arbour, so covered over with greenery that you could not see through the leaves to the outside, though the sunshine managed to creep in here and there, and the twittering of the birds was clearly heard. On a stone slab stood a curiously-shaped basket filled with--oh! such lovely strawberries! and beside it a bowl of tempting yellow cream; these were the only eatables to be seen in the larder. "Strawberries!" exclaimed Rafe; "just fancy, Alix, and it's only April." "But we're in Fairyland, you stupid boy," said Alix; "or at least somewhere very near it." "Quick, children," came the old woman's voice from the kitchen. "You bring the strawberries, Alix, and Rafe the cream. There'll be no time for stories if you dawdle!" This made them hurry back, and soon they were seated at the table, with all the nice things neatly before them. They were not greedy children fortunately, for, as everybody knows, fairy-folk hold few things in greater horror than greediness; and they were orderly children too. They packed up their basket neatly again when they had finished, and Alix asked if they should wash up the plates that had been lent to them, which seemed to please their old friend, for she smiled as she replied that it wasn't necessary. "My china is of a different kind from any you've ever seen," she said. "_Whiff_, plates," she added; and then, to the children's amusement, there was a slight rattle, and all the crockery was up in its place again, shining as clean and bright as before it had been used. There was now no doubt at all that they were really in Fairyland. CHAPTER FOUR. THE STORY OF THE THREE WISHES. "And now for a story," said Alix joyfully. "May we sit close beside you, Mrs--oh dear! Mayn't we call you something?" "Anything you like," replied the old woman, smiling. "I know," cried Alix; "Mrs Caretaker--will that do? It's rather a nice name when you come to think of it." "Yes," agreed their old friend; "and it should be everybody's name, more or less, if everybody did their duty. There's no one without something to take care of." "No," said Rafe thoughtfully; "I suppose not." "Draw the two little stools close beside me--one at the right, one at the left; and if you like, you may lean your heads on my knee, you'll hear none the worse." "Oh, that's beautiful," said Alix; "it's like the children and the white lady. Do you know about the white lady?" she went on, starting up suddenly. Mrs Caretaker nodded. "Oh yes," she said; "she's a relation of mine. But we mustn't chatter any more if you're to have a story." And the children sat quite silent. Click, click, went the knitting-needles. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Story of the Three Wishes. That was the name of the first of Mrs Caretaker's stories. Once upon a time there lived two sisters in a cottage on the edge of a forest. It was rather a lonely place in some ways, though there was an old town not more than a mile off, where there were plenty of friendly people. But it was lonely in this way, that but seldom any of the townsfolk passed near the cottage, or cared to come to see the sisters, even though they were good and pretty girls, much esteemed by all who knew them. For the forest had a bad name. Nobody seemed to know exactly why, or what the bad name meant, but there it was. Even in the bright long summer days the children of the town would walk twice as far on the other side to gather posies of the pretty wood-flowers in a little copse, not to be compared with the forest for beauty, rather than venture within its shade. And the young men and maidens of a summer evening, though occasionally they might come to its outskirts in their strolls, were never tempted to do more than stand for a moment or two glancing along its leafy glades. Only the sisters, Arminel and Chloe, had sometimes entered the forest, though but for a little way, and not without some fear and trembling. But they had no misgiving as to living in its near neighbourhood. Custom does a great deal, and here in the cottage by the forest-side they had spent all their lives. And the grandmother, who had taken care of them since they had been left orphans in their babyhood, told them there was no need for fear so long as they loved each other and did their duty. All the same, she never denied that the great forest was an uncanny place. This was the story of it, so far as any one knew. Long, long ago, when many things in the world were different from what they are now, a race of giants, powerful and strong, were the owners of the forest, and so long as they were just and kindly to their weaker neighbours, all went well. But after a while they grew proud and tyrannical, and did some very cruel things. Then their power was taken from them, and they became, as a punishment, as weak and puny as they had been the opposite. Now and then, so it was said about the countryside, one or two of them had been seen, miserable-looking little dwarfs. And the seeing of them was the great thing to be dreaded, for it was supposed to be a certain sign of bad luck. But the grandmother had heard more than this, though where, or when, or how, she could not remember. The spell over the forest dwarfs was not to be for ever; something some day was to break it, though what she did not know. "And who can tell," she would say now and then, "how better things may come about for the poor creatures? There's maybe a reason for your being here, children. Keep love and pity in your hearts, and never let any fear prevent you doing a kind action if it comes in your way." But till now, though they had gone on living in the old cottage since their grandmother's death in the same way, never forgetting what she had said, Arminel and Chloe had never caught sight of their strange neighbours. True, once or twice they had seen a small figure scuttering away when they had ventured rather farther than usual along the forest paths, but then it might have been only some wild wood creature, of whom, no doubt, there were many who had their dwellings in the lonely gloom. Sometimes a strange curiosity really to see one of the dwarfs for themselves would come over them; they often talked about it in the long winter evenings when they had nothing to amuse them. But it was only to each other that they talked in this way. To their friends in the town, for they had friends there whom they saw once a week on the market-day, they never chattered about the forest or the dwarfs; and when they were asked why they went on living in this strange and lonely place, they smiled and said it was their home, and they were happier there than anywhere else. And so they were. They were very busy to begin with, for their butter and eggs and poultry were more prized than any to be had far or near. Arminel was the dairy-woman, and Chloe the hen-wife, and at the end of each week they would count up their earnings, eager to see which had made the more by their labours. Fortunately for their happy feelings to each other, up till now their gains had been pretty nearly equal, for there is no saying where jealousy will not creep in, even between the dearest of friends. But quite lately, for the first time, things had not been going so well. It was late in the autumn, and there had been unusually heavy rains, and when they ceased the winter seemed to begin all at once, and before its time, and the animals suffered for it. The cow's milk fell off before Arminel had looked for its doing so, and some great plans which she had been making for the future seemed likely to be disappointed. She had hoped to save enough through the winter to buy another cow in the spring, so that with the two she would have had a supply of butter for her customers in the town all the year round. And Chloe's hens were not doing well either. One or two of them had even died, and she couldn't get her autumn chickens to fatten. Worst of all, the eggs grew fewer day by day. These misfortunes distressed the sisters very much. Sadder still, they grew irritable and short-tempered, each reproaching the other, and making out that she herself had managed better. "It is all your want of foresight," said Arminel to Chloe one market-day when the egg-basket looked but poorly filled. "Everybody knows that hens stop laying with the first cold. You should have potted some eggs a few weeks ago when they were so plentiful." "My customers don't care for potted eggs," said Chloe. "Till now I have always had a pretty fair supply of fresh ones, except for a week or two about Christmas time. How should I have known that this year would be different from other years? If you are so wonderfully wise, why did you not bring Strawberry indoors a month sooner than usual? It is evident that she has caught cold. You need not sneer at my eggs when you count your pats of butter. Why, there are not above half what you had two months ago." "When you manage your own affairs properly, you may find fault with mine," said Arminel snappishly. And they felt so unamiable towards each other that all the way to market and back they walked on separate sides of the road without speaking a word. Such a state of things had never been known before. It was late when they got home that afternoon, and being a dull and cloudy day it was almost dark. The poor girls felt tired and unhappy, for each was sad with the double sadness of having to bear her troubles alone. And besides this, there is nothing more tiring than ill-temper. Arminel sat down weariedly on a chair. The fire was out; the cottage felt very chilly; the one little candle which Chloe had lighted gave but a feeble ray. Arminel sighed deeply. Chloe, whose heart was very soft, felt sorry for her, and setting down her basket began to see to the fire. "Leave it alone," said her sister. "We may as well go to bed without any supper. I'm too tired to eat; and it's just as well to get accustomed to scanty fare. It is what is before us, I suppose." "You need not be quite so downhearted," said Chloe, persevering in her efforts. "Things may mend again. I sold my eggs for more than ever before. It seems that everybody's hens are doing badly. I'll have the fire burning in a minute, and some nice hot coffee ready, and then you'll feel better." But Arminel was not to be so easily consoled. "If you've done well with your eggs it's more than I did with my butter," she said. "Dame Margery, the housekeeper from the castle, says she'll take no more from me if I can't promise as much as last year. She doesn't like to go changing about for her butter, she says; and mine was enough for the ladies." "I'm sure you've enough for two ladies still," said Chloe. "Yes; but if I don't keep a little for my other customers, they won't come back to me when I have plenty again," answered her sister, who seemed determined to look on the black side of things. Then, unluckily, in spite of Chloe's care, the cold and the damp of the chimney made the fire smoke; great clouds puffed out, almost filling the kitchen. "I wish you had let me go to bed," said Arminel hastily; and Chloe's patience being exhausted, she retorted by calling her sister unkind and ungrateful. The smoke was very disagreeable, no doubt. Arminel opened the window wide to let it clear off. The wind was blowing from the forest which lay on this side of the house. All looked dark and gloomy, and Arminel gave a little shiver as she glanced out. Suddenly she started. "Chloe," she said, "did you hear that?" "What?" said Chloe. "A cry--yes, there it is again, as if some one was in great trouble." Chloe heard it too, but she was feeling rather sulky and contradictory. "It's nothing," she said. "Only a hare or some wild creature; they often scream," and she turned back to the table where she was preparing coffee. But though the room was now pretty clear of smoke and the fire was behaving better, Arminel did not close the window. She still stood by it listening. And again there came the strange shrill yet feeble cry, telling unmistakably of anguish, or whether of beast or man no one could have told. And this time Chloe stood still with the kettle in her hand, more startled than she had been before. "Sister," said Arminel decidedly, "that is not the squeal of a hare; it is something worse. Perhaps some child from the town may have strayed into the forest and got benighted. It is possible at least. And the forest is not like other places. Who knows what might happen to one astray there?" "What could we do in such a case?" said Chloe. "We're not all-powerful." She spoke more out of a little remaining temper than from cowardice or indifference, for like her sister she was both brave and kind. "Remember what our grandmother said," said Arminel, and she repeated the grandmother's words: "`Never hang back from doing a kind action; no harm can come to you while you love each other and do your duty.' I am going alone to the forest if you will not come," she went on, and she turned towards the door as she spoke. "Of course I will come with you," said Chloe, reaching down her mantle and hood which she had hung up on a nail. "Close the window, Arminel," she said. "I'll leave the coffee on the hob. The fire is burning nicely now, and we shall find it bright and warm when we come back." As they stepped outside, closing the door behind them, the cry broke out again. Tired though they were with their long day at market, the sisters set off running. Two or three fields lay between them and the edge of the wood, and part of the way the ground was very rough, but they were nimble and sure-footed. And ever as they ran came the cries, feebler yet more distinct, and before long they could distinguish the words, "Help! comrades, help!" "It is not a hare, you see," said Arminel. "No, indeed," answered Chloe, and both felt a thrill of fear, though they only ran the faster. The cries, though now they grew rarer, becoming indeed mingled with groans, still served to guide them. Soon they were in the midst of the trees, making their way more by a sort of instinct, for it was almost dark. Suddenly a ray of moonlight glimmered through the firs, and a few paces in front of them they saw lying on the ground a small dark object writhing and groaning. Just here the trees were not so thick. It was like a little clearing. The girls stepped onwards cautiously, catching hold of each other. "It is--" whispered Arminel--"Oh, Chloe, it is one of the dwarfs." "Courage," murmured Chloe in return, though her own heart was beating very fast. "He seems in no state to hurt us now, if only it be not a trick." The groans had ceased, and when they got close to the strange figure on the ground it seemed quite motionless. The moonlight had grown stronger. They stooped down and examined the dwarf. His eyes were closed; his face was wrinkled and brown; he was brown all over. He wore a furry coat, much the same colour as his own skin. Arminel lifted one of his queer clawlike hands; it fell down again by his side. "I believe he is dead," she said. "I didn't know the dwarfs ever could die. What shall we do, Chloe? We cannot leave him here, in case he should be still living." "We must carry him home, I'm afraid," said Chloe. "Yes, I'm afraid we must, for see, Arminel, he's opening his eyes," as two bright black beads suddenly glanced up at them. "Nimbo, Hugo," said a weak, hoarse little voice. "Are you there? No," and the dwarf opened his eyes more widely, and tried to sit up. "No," he went on, "it is not my comrades! Who are you?" and he shuddered as if with fear. CHAPTER FIVE. THE STORY OF THE THREE WISHES--CONTINUED. It was indeed a turning of the tables for a dwarf to be afraid of them. It gave the sisters courage to speak to him. "We heard your cries," said Arminel. "Ever so far off in our cottage across the fields we heard them. What is the matter? Have you hurt yourself?" The little man groaned. "I have had a fall," he said, "from a branch of the tree under which I am lying. I climbed up to shake down some large fir-cones, and lost my footing. I have hurt myself sadly. I feel bruised all over. How I shall ever get back to my comrades I do not know," and again he groaned. He was not a very courageous dwarf evidently; perhaps the courage of the race had been lost with its stature! But the sisters felt very sorry for him. "Have you broken any bones, do you think?" said Chloe, who was very practical. The dwarf turned and twisted himself about with many sighs and moans. "No," said he, "I think I am only bruised and terribly cold. I have been lying here so long, so long. I cannot go home; they are miles away in the centre of the forest." Arminel and Chloe considered. They did not much like the idea of the uncanny creature spending a night under their roof, even though they no longer feared that he was playing them any trick. If the mere sight of a dwarf brought ill-luck, what might not they expect from the visit of one of the spell-bound race? But their grandmother's words returned to their mind. "You must come home with us," they said, speaking together. "We can at least give you shelter and warmth, and a night's rest may do you much good." "There is the salve for bruises which granny taught us to make," added Chloe. "We have some of it by us, I know." The dwarf gave a sigh of relief. "Maidens," he said, "you shall never have cause to regret your kindness. I know your cottage. We have often watched you when you little knew it. I think I could make shift to walk there if you will each give me an arm." They got him to his feet with some difficulty. He was so small, hardly reaching up to their elbows, that it ended in their almost carrying him between them. And they seemed to get home much more quickly than they had come, even though they walked slowly. The dwarf knew every step of the way, and his queer bead-like eyes pierced through the darkness as if it had been noonday. "A little to the right," he would say, or, "a few paces to the left, the ground is better." And almost before they knew where they were they found themselves before their own door. The wind had gone down, all was peaceful and still, and inside the kitchen was a picture of comfort, the fire burning red and cheerily. "Ah," said the little man, when they had settled him on a stool in front of the hearth, "this is good!" and he stretched out his small brown hands to the ruddy glow. "It is long since I have seen such a fire, and very long since I have been in a room like this." But then he grew quite silent, and the sisters did not like to ask him what he meant. Chloe busied herself with the coffee which boiled up in no time; and in the larder, to her surprise, when she went in to fetch a loaf of bread intended for the sisters' supper, she found a pat of butter and a jug of cream which she had not known were there. She was very pleased, for both she and Arminel had hospitable hearts, and she would have been sorry to have had nothing for their guest but dry bread and skim-milk coffee. "Arminel," she said, as she came back into the kitchen, "you had forgotten this cream and butter, fortunately so, for now we can give our friend a nice supper." Arminel looked quite astonished. "I took all the butter there was with me to market this morning, and I never keep cream except for our Sunday treat." But there was another surprise in store. Arminel in her turn went into the larder. "Chloe!" she called out, "see what _you_ have forgotten. Eggs!" and she held up three large, beautiful brown eggs. "I don't know where they have come from," said Chloe. "I'm certain they were not there when I packed my basket. Besides, none of my hens lay eggs of that colour." "Never mind," said the dwarf; "here they are, and that is enough. We shall now have an omelette for supper. An omelette and hot coffee! That is a supper for a king." He seemed to be getting quite bright and cheerful, and complained no more of his bruises as he sat there basking in the pleasant warmth of the fire. Supper was soon ready, and the three spent a pleasant evening; the little man asking the sisters many questions about their life and occupations. They told him all about their present troubles, and he told them to keep up heart, and never forget their good grandmother's counsel. "Did you know our grandmother?" they asked in surprise. "I have heard of her," was all he said; and though they were curious to know more, they did not venture to question him further. After supper they made up a bed for him on the kitchen settle, where he said he was sure he would sleep most comfortably. "And now farewell," he added; "I shall be off in the morning before you are stirring. Your kindness has so refreshed me that I feel sure I shall be able to make my way home without difficulty." He gave a little sigh as he spoke. "I would fain do what I can in return for your goodness," he continued. "Some things are still in my power. I can give you three wishes which, under certain conditions, will be fulfilled." The sisters' eyes sparkled with delight. "Oh, thank you a thousand times," they said. "Pray tell us what we must do, and we will follow your orders exactly." "Three wishes between you are all I can give," he replied. "One each, and the fulfilment of these depends upon the third, to which a secret is attached, and this secret you must discover for yourselves. The key of it is, I trust, in your own hearts." "We will do our best to find it," said Arminel. "If it has to do with our love for each other you may trust us. Chloe and I never quarrel." But suddenly, as she said this, the remembrance of that day struck her, and she grew red, feeling the dwarfs eyes fixed upon her. "At least," she added hurriedly, "I should say we seldom quarrel, though I'm afraid our anxieties lately have not sweetened our tempers." "Beware, then, for the future," said the dwarf. "All will depend on yourselves." The sisters went to bed full of eagerness and hopefulness, longing for the next day to come that they might decide how to use their strange friend's gift. "I shall not be able to sleep," said Arminel; "my head is so full of the three wishes." "And so is mine," said her sister. "You shall have the first, Arminel, and I the second. The third will be the one to ponder over." "I shall have no difficulty in deciding," said Arminel. "And you, Chloe, being the younger, must, of course, be guided partly by my advice." "I don't see that at all," said Chloe. "The dwarf said nothing about elder or younger, and--" At this moment a loud snore from the kitchen reminded them that their guest was still there. "Dear, dear," said Chloe. "What would he think if he heard us beginning to quarrel already? We must beware." But Arminel was not so ready to give in, and there is no saying what might not have befallen, had it not happened that the moment her head touched the pillow she fell fast asleep. And Chloe quickly followed her example. They awoke later than usual the next morning, feeling quite rested and refreshed. "I never slept so soundly in my life," said Arminel. "I suppose it was with being so tired." "I don't know," said Chloe. "I have an idea that our friend had something to do with our falling asleep so quickly to prevent us quarrelling. Now, Arminel, whatever we do, let us remember his warning." "Of course, I don't want to quarrel," her sister replied. "We didn't need the dwarf to come here to tell us to be good friends. But, after all, his promise of fulfilling our wishes may be nonsense. I long to test it. I wonder if he is still there, by the bye." No, he was gone; the little bed they had made up for him on the settle, of some extra blankets and pillows, was neatly folded away. The fire was already lighted and burning brightly, the kettle singing on the hearth--the room showed signs of having been carefully swept and dusted, and the window was slightly open to admit a breath of the fresh morning air. "Good little dwarf!" exclaimed Arminel. "I wish he would pay us a visit often if he helps us so nicely with our work." They sat down to breakfast in the best of spirits; and when the meal was over, and they went out, they found that the dwarf's good offices had not been confined to the house. The cow was carefully foddered, and looking most prosperous and comfortable--the poultry had been seen to, the hen-house cleaned out, and already, early as it was, several lovely cream white eggs had been laid in the nests. All this was very encouraging. "There can be no sort of doubt," said Chloe, "that our friend, dwarf though he be, has a kind heart and magic power. I feel certain his promises are to be relied upon. But remember, Arminel, the first two wishes will be no good unless we agree about the third. What shall we do?" "I propose," said Arminel, who had plenty of good sense, "that we go about our work as usual till this evening. Then each of us will have had time to decide as to her own wish, and each of us can propose something for the third. As to the third, we can then consult together." To this Chloe agreed. They spoke little to each other during the day, but when the light began to fail their work was over. They sat down together by the fire. "Now for a good talk," said Chloe. "We have the whole evening before us." "Five minutes would be enough for me," said Arminel. "I've got my wish cut and dry. I have been longing to tell you all day, but I thought it best to keep to our determination of this morning." "How strange!" said Chloe. "I am just in the same condition. I decided upon my wish almost immediately. Tell me what yours is, and I will tell you mine." "My wish," said Arminel, "is to have a cow. A dun-coloured cow I think I should prefer--I can picture her so sweet and pretty--who would give milk all the year round without ever running short." "Excellent," cried Chloe; "my wish goes well with yours. For what I want is a dozen hens who would each lay an egg every morning in the year without fail. I should thus have as many fresh eggs as I could possibly want, and enough to spare for setting whenever I liked. Some of my present hens are very good mothers, and would hatch them beautifully." "I think your wish a very good one," said Arminel. "But now as to the fulfilment. We have now expressed our wishes distinctly, but there is no use as yet in going to look for the new cow in the shed or hens in the hen-house, seeing that there remains, alas! the third one! What can it be?" "Could it be for a hen-house?" said Chloe; "my poor hens are not very well off in their present one, and it is right to make one's animals comfortable; so this would be a kind-hearted wish." "Not more than to wish for a warm shed for my cows," said Arminel. "Cows require much more care than hens. I daresay that is what we are meant to wish for." "I am certain it is not," said Chloe. "At least, if you wish for a cow-shed, _I_ wish for a hen-house." "That, of course, is nonsense," said Arminel. "I feel sure the dwarf meant we were to agree in what we wished for. And if you were amiable and unselfish you would join with me, Chloe." "I might say precisely the same thing to you," said Chloe coldly. And though they went on talking till bedtime they came to no conclusion. Indeed, I fear a good many sharp and unkind words passed between them, and they went to bed without saying good-night to each other. So far it did not seem as if the dwarf's gift was to bring them happiness. CHAPTER SIX. THE STORY OF THE THREE WISHES--CONCLUDED. When they woke in the morning they were in a calmer state of mind, and began to see how foolish they had been. "Chloe," said Arminel, as they sat at breakfast, "we were very nearly quarrelling last night; and if we quarrel we shall certainly never find out the secret of the third wish; and all our hopes will be at an end. Now, let us think over quietly what the third wish is likely to be. Let me see--what were the dwarf's exact words?" "He said we must seek for it in our own hearts," replied Chloe. "That means, of course, that it must be something kind." "Perhaps he meant that it must be something to do us both good," said Arminel. "What is there we are equally in want of? Oh! I know; suppose we wish for a good stack of fuel for the winter. That would certainly benefit us both." "It can do no harm to try," said Chloe; "so I agree to the wish for a stack of fuel." Arminel's eyes sparkled. "I daresay we have guessed it," she exclaimed, jumping up. "Come out at once to see, Chloe." But, alas! the heap of brushwood for their winter's firing, in the corner of the yard, had grown no bigger than the day before. No fresh sounds of cheerful cackling reached them from the hen-house; and Strawberry stood alone in her stall. The wishes were still unfulfilled. The sisters returned to the house rather crestfallen. "What can it be?" said Arminel; and this time Chloe made a suggestion. "Supposing we wish that the copper coins we have put aside for our Christmas charities should be turned into silver," she said. "That would be a kind thought for the very poor folk we try to help a little." "As you like," said her sister; "but I doubt its being any use. We are always told that charity which costs us nothing is little worth." She was right. When they opened the little box which held the coins she spoke of, there they still were, copper as before, so this time it was no use to look outside for the new cow and hens. And all through the day they went on thinking first of one thing, then of another, without any success, so that by the evening their work had suffered from their neglect, and they went tired and dispirited to bed. The next day they were obliged to work doubly hard to make up, and one or two new ideas occurred to them which they put to the test, always, alas! with the same result. "We are wasting our time and our temper for no use," said Arminel at last. "I am afraid the truth is that the dwarf was only playing us a mischievous trick." And even Chloe was forced to allow that it seemed as if her sister was in the right. "We will try to forget all about it," said Arminel. "It must be indeed true that having anything to do with the dwarfs only brings bad luck." But though she spoke courageously, Chloe was wakened in the night by hearing her sister crying softly to herself. "Poor dear Arminel," thought Chloe, though she took care to lie quite still as if sleeping. "I do feel for her. If I had but my hens I could soon make up to her for her disappointment." But of course as the dun cow did not come, neither did the fairy hens, and a time of really great anxiety began for the sisters. Strawberry's milk dwindled daily; so did the number of eggs, till at last something very like real poverty lay before them. They were almost ashamed to go to market, so little had they to offer to their customers. Never had they been so unhappy or distressed. But out of trouble often comes good. Their affection for each other grew stronger, and all feelings of jealousy died away as each felt more and more sorry for her sister. "If only we had never gone near the wood," said Arminel one evening when things were looking very gloomy indeed, "none of these worst troubles would have come upon us, I feel sure. I begin to believe everything that has been said about those miserable dwarfs. It is very good of you, dear Chloe, not to blame me as the cause of all our misfortunes, for it was I who heard the cries in the wood and made you come with me to see what was the matter." "How could I blame you?" said Chloe. "We did it together, and it was what grandmother would have wished. If we had not gone we should always have reproached ourselves for not doing a kind action, and even as things are, even supposing we are suffering from the dwarfs spitefulness, it is better to suffer with a clear conscience than to prosper with a bad one." Her words comforted her sister a little. They kissed each other affectionately and went to bed, sad at heart certainly, but not altogether despondent. In the night Arminel awoke. There was bright moonlight in the room, and as she glanced at her sleeping sister, she saw traces of tears on Chloe's pale face. "My poor sister!" she said to herself. "She has been crying, and would not let me know it. I do not care for myself, if only dear Chloe could have her hens. I could bear the disappointment about my cow. How I wish it might be so." As the thought passed through her mind, a sweet feeling of peace and satisfaction stole over her. She closed her eyes and almost immediately fell asleep, and slept soundly. Very soon after this in her turn Chloe awoke. She, too, sat up and looked at her sister. There was a smile on Arminel's sleeping face which touched Chloe almost more than the traces of tears on her own had touched her sister. "Poor dear Arminel," she thought. "She is dreaming, perhaps, of her dun cow. How little I should mind my own disappointment if I could see her happy. Oh! I do wish she could have her cow!" And having thought this, she, too, as her sister had done, fell asleep with a feeling of peace and hopefulness such as she had not had for long. The winter sun was already some little way up on his journey when the sisters awoke the next morning, for they had slept much later than usual. Arminel was the first to start up with a feeling that something pleasant had happened. "Chloe!" she exclaimed. "We have overslept ourselves. And on such a bright morning, too! How can it have happened?" Chloe opened her eyes and looked about her with a smile. "Yes, indeed," she replied. "One could imagine it was summer time, and I have had such a good night, and such pleasant dreams." "So have I," answered her sister. "And I am so hungry!" That was scarcely to be wondered at, for they had gone almost supperless to bed, and there was little if anything in the larder for their breakfast. "I am hungry too," said Chloe. "But I am afraid there isn't much for our breakfast. However, I feel in much better spirits, though I don't know why." Chloe was ready a little before her sister, and hastened into the kitchen, to light the fire and prepare such food as there was. But just as Arminel was turning to follow her, she was startled by a cry from Chloe. "Sister!" she called. "Come quick! See what I have found!" She was in the larder, which served them also as a dairy. Arminel hurried in. There stood Chloe, her face rosy with pleasure and surprise, a basket in her hands full of beautiful large eggs of the same rich browny colour as those which had come so mysteriously the evening of the dwarfs visit. "After all," said Chloe, "I believe the little man meant well by us. It must be he who has sent these eggs. Oh, Arminel! do let us try again to discover the secret of the third wish!" But Arminel didn't seem to hear what her sister was saying. Her eyes were fixed in amazement on the stone slab behind where Chloe was standing. There were two large bowls filled to the brim with new milk; it was many weeks since such a sight had been seen in the cottage. "Chloe," was all she could say as she pointed it out to her sister. Chloe did not speak; she darted outside closely followed by Arminel. The same idea had come to them both, and they were not mistaken in it. There in the cow-house, in the hitherto unused stall beside Strawberry's, stood the dearest little cow you could picture to yourself, dun-coloured, sleek, and silky, as if indeed she had just come from fairyland. She turned her large soft brown eyes on Arminel as the happy girl ran up to her, and gave a low soft "moo," as if to say--"You're my dear mistress. I know you will be kind to me, and in return I promise you that you shall find me the best of cows." But Arminel only waited to give her one loving pat, and then hurried off to the poultry yard. There too a welcome sight awaited them. Twelve beautiful white hens were pecking about, and as Chloe drew near them she was greeted with clucks of welcome as the pretty creatures ran towards her. "They know they belong to you, Chloe, you see," said Arminel. "They are asking for their breakfast! See, what is that sack in the corner? it looks like corn for them." So it was, and in another moment Chloe had thrown them out a good handful, in which her old hens were allowed to share. Poor things, they had not had too much to eat just lately, and evidently the new-comers were of most amiable dispositions. All promised peace and prosperity. The sisters made their way back to their little kitchen, but though they had now eggs in plenty and new milk for their coffee they felt too excited to eat. "How can it have come about?" said Arminel. "Chloe, have you wished for anything without telling me?" "Have you?" said Chloe, in her turn. "One of us wishing alone would not have been enough. All I know is, that in the night I felt so sorry for you that I said to myself if only _your_ wish could be fulfilled I would give up my own." "How strange!" exclaimed Arminel; "the very same thing happened to me. I woke up and saw traces of tears on your face, and the thought went through me that if _your_ wish could come to pass, I should be content." "Then we have found the secret," said Chloe. "Each of us was to forget herself for the sake of the other; and the dwarf has indeed been a good friend." It would be difficult to describe the happiness that now reigned in the cottage, or the pride with which the sisters set off to market the next time with their well-filled baskets. And all through the winter it was the same. Never did the little cow's milk fail, nor the number of eggs fall off, so that the sisters became quite famous in the neighbourhood for always having a supply of butter, poultry, and eggs of the best quality. One evening, when the spring-time had come round again, the sisters were strolling in the outskirts of the forest, everything was looking calm and peaceful--the ground covered with the early wood-flowers, the little birds twittering softly before they settled to roost for the night. "How sweet it is here," said Arminel. "I never feel now as if I could be the least afraid of the forest, nor of a whole army of dwarfs if we met them." "I wish we could meet our dwarf," said Chloe. "I would love to thank him for all the happiness he has given us." This was a wish they had often expressed before. "Somehow," said Arminel, "I have an idea that the dwarfs no longer inhabit the forest. Everything seems so much brighter and less gloomy than it used to do here. Besides, if our friend were still anywhere near, I cannot help thinking we should have seen him." As she said the words, they heard a rustling beside them. Where they stood there was a good deal of undergrowth, and for a moment or two they saw nothing, though the sound continued. Then suddenly a little figure emerged from among the trees and stood before them. It was their friend the dwarf. At first sight he looked much the same as when they had last seen him; but the moment he began to speak they felt there was a difference. His voice was soft and mellow, instead of harsh and croaking; his brown eyes had lost the hunted, suspicious look which had helped to give him such a miserable expression. "I am pleased that you have wished to see me again," he said, kindly. "Oh yes, indeed!" the sisters exclaimed; "we can never thank you enough for the happiness you have given us." "You have yourselves to thank for it as much as me, my children," said the little man; "and in discovering the secret which has brought you prosperity, you have done for others also what you had no idea of. The spell under which I and my comrades have suffered so long is broken, now that one of us has been able to be of real and lasting benefit to some beings of the race who, ages ago, were the victims of our cruelty. We are now leaving the forest for ever. No longer need the young men and maidens shrink from strolling under these ancient trees, or the little children start away in terror from every rustle among the leaves for fear of seeing one of us." "Are you going to be giants again?" said Arminel, curiously. The dwarf smiled. "That I cannot tell you," he said, as he shook his head; "and what does it matter? In some far-off land we shall again be happy, for we shall have learnt our lesson." And before the sisters had time to speak, he had disappeared; only the same little rustle among the bushes was to be heard for a moment or two. Then all was silent, till a faint "tu-whit--" from an owl waking up in the distance, and the first glimmer of the moonlight among the branches, warned Arminel and Chloe that it was time for them to be turning homewards. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE SUMMER PRINCESS. All was silent too in the little kitchen as the old woman's voice died away and the click of her knitting-needles ceased. Alix was the first to speak. "That was a lovely story," she said approvingly. "It will give Rafe and me a lot to talk about. It is so interesting to think what we would wish for if we had the chance." "I'm afraid you mustn't stay with me any longer to talk about it to-day," said the old woman. "It is quite--time--for you--to go home;" and somehow her voice seemed to grow into a sort of singing, and the needles began to click again, though very faintly, as if heard from some way off. What was the matter? Alix felt as if she were going to sleep. She rubbed her eyes, but Rafe's voice speaking to her quite clearly and distinctly woke her up again. "Alix," he was saying, "don't you see where we are?" and glancing up, she found that she and her brother were sitting on a moss-grown stone in the old garden, not very far from the gate by which the wren had invited them to enter. It was growing towards evening. Already the "going to bed" feeling seemed about in the air. The birds' voices came softly; a little chill evening breeze made the children shiver slightly, though it only meant to wish them "good-night." "It feels like the end of the story," said Alix. "Let's go home, Rafe." This was how the next story came to be told. The days had passed happily for Rafe and Alix; the weather had been very fine and mild, and they had played a great deal in the old garden, which grew lovelier every day. "I hardly feel as if we had anything to wish for just now," said Alix, one afternoon, when, tired with playing, she and her brother were resting for a little while on the remains of a rustic bench which they had found in a corner under the trees. "We've been so happy lately, Rafe; haven't we? Ever since that day!" Somehow they had not talked very much to each other of their visit to the old caretaker; but now and then they had amused themselves by planning what they would have wished for had they come across a dwarf with magic power. Rafe did not answer for a moment. He was looking up, high up among the branches. "Hush," he said, in a half whisper. "Do you hear that bird, Alix? I never heard a note like it before." "Two notes," said Alix, in the same low voice. "It's two birds talking to each other, I feel certain." "It does sound like it," said Rafe. "Oh, I say, Alix, wouldn't you like to understand what they're saying?" "Yes," said his sister. "I do wish we could. There must be some sense in it. It sounds so real and--Look, Rafe," she went on, "they're coming nearer us;" and so they were. Still chirping, the birds flew downwards till they lighted on a branch not very far above the children's heads. Suddenly Alix caught hold of Rafe's arm. "Be quite, quite still," she whispered. "I have an idea that if we listen very carefully we can make sense of what they're saying." She almost held her breath, so eager was she; and Rafe, too, sat perfectly motionless. And Alix was not mistaken. After a while the birds' chirps took shape to the children's ears. Bit by bit the "tweet, tweet" varied and changed, like a voice heard in the distance, which, as it draws nearer, grows from a murmur into syllables and words. One bird was answering the other; in fact, there was a lively discussion going on between them. "No, no," said the first. "I tell you it is my turn to begin, brother. I have my story quite ready, just as I heard it down there in the sunny lands from one of my companions, and I must tell it at once before I forget it." "Mine is ready too," replied the other bird. "At least almost. I have just to--think over a few little points, and I am just as anxious as you to amuse the dear children. However, it would be setting them a bad example if we began to quarrel about it, so I will give in. I will fly to a higher branch to meditate a little undisturbed, while you can hop lower still and attract their attention." Alix and Rafe looked at each other with a smile as the little fellow fluttered downwards and alighted on a branch still nearer them. There he flapped his wings and cleared his throat. "Cheep, cheep," he began. At least that is what it would have sounded to any one else, but the children knew it meant "good-afternoon." "Thank you," they said. That was not exactly a reply to "good-afternoon," certainly; but they meant to thank him for his kind intentions. "Oh, so you know all about it, I see," said the bird. "If you do not mind, I should prefer your making no further observations. It interrupts the thread of my narration." The children were perfectly silent. One has to be very careful, you see, when a bird is telling a story; you can't catch hold of him and push him back into the arm-chair, as if he was a big person to be coaxed into entertaining you. "The title of my story," began the bird, "is `The Summer Princess,'" and again he cleared his throat. Once upon a time, in a country far to the north of the world, lived a King and a Queen, who had everything they could wish for except an heir to their throne. When I say they had everything they could wish for, that does not mean they had no troubles at all. The Queen thought she had a good many; and the King had one which was more real than any of her fancied ones. He had a wife who was a terrible grumbler. She was a grumbler by nature, and besides this she had been a spoilt child. As she was very beautiful and could be very sweet and charming when in a contented mood, the King had fallen deeply in love with her when he was on his travels round the world, and had persuaded her to leave her own home in the sunny south to accompany him to his northern kingdom. There she had much to make her happy. Her husband was devoted to her, and while the first bright summer lasted, she almost forgot to grumble, but when the winter came, fierce and boisterous as it always is in those lands, she grew very miserable. She shivered with the cold and instead of bracing herself to bear it, she wrapped herself in her furs and sat from morning till night cowering over a huge fire. In vain the King endeavoured to persuade her to go out with him in his beautiful sledge drawn by the fleetest reindeer, or to make one in the merry skating parties which were the great amusement of his court. "No, no," she cried fretfully. "It would kill me to do anything of the kind." And though she brightened up as each summer came round, with the return of each winter it was again the same sad story. As the years passed on another and more real trouble came upon the discontented young Queen. She had no children. She longed so grievously to have a little baby that sometimes she almost forgot her other causes for complaint and left off looking out for the signs of the winter's approach in the melancholy way she was wont to do. So that one day late in the autumn she actually forgot her terror of the cold so far as to remain out walking in the grounds of the palace, though the snow clouds were gathering thick and heavy overhead. She was alone. For sometimes in her saddest moods she could bear no one, not even the most faithful of her ladies, near her. "If only I had a little baby, a dear little baby of my own, I would never complain of anything again." No doubt she quite meant what she said. And I must say if her only complaints had been of the cold northern winter, I could indeed find it in my heart to pity her--not that I have any experience of them myself (and the bird gave a little shiver), but I can imagine how terrible they must be. Indeed the friend from whom I have this story has often described his sufferings to me, one year when he was belated in the north, owing to an injured wing. That is how he came to know the story. As the Queen uttered her wish, she raised her eyes upwards, and was startled to see some snowflakes already falling; she turned to hasten indoors, exclaiming as she went: "To think that winter is upon us already; I shall no longer have even the small pleasure of a stroll in the garden. But if I had a little baby to play with and care for, even the dreary winter would not seem long. Everything would be bright and sunshiny to me." "Are you sure of that?" said a voice beside her, and glancing up the Queen saw a lovely figure. It was that of a beautiful woman, with golden hair wreathed with flowers. But her face was somewhat pale and she drew round her a mantle of russet brown as if to protect her from the cold. "I am the Spirit of the Summer," she said. "I knew you well in your childhood in the south, and here too I have watched you, though you did not know it. Your wish shall be fulfilled. When I return to my northern home, I will bring you the child you are longing for. But remember, the gift will lead to no lasting happiness unless you overcome your habit of discontent. For I can only do my part. My brother, the powerful Spirit of the Winter, though good and true and faithful, is stern and severe. He has heard your murmurings already, and if, when your great wish is granted, you still continue them, I tremble for the fate of your child." The Queen could hardly speak, so overcome was she with delight. "Thank you, oh, thank you, sweet spirit," she said. "I will indeed take heed for the future and never murmur again." "I trust so," replied the fairy, "for listen what will happen if you forget your resolution. The slightest touch of snow would, in that case, put the baby into my stern brother's power, and you would find yourself terribly punished. Beware, therefore! Now I must hasten away. I have lingered too long this year, and though my brother and I work together and trust each other, he brooks no interference." And as she said this, the gracious figure seemed to disappear in a rosy haze, and almost at the same moment a cold blast, driving the snowflakes before it, came with a rush from behind where the young Queen stood, almost lifting her from her feet. "That must surely be the Spirit of the Winter himself," she thought as she hurried indoors. But her cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright. It was whispered in the palace that evening that for the first time the young Queen had the brave and fearless air of a true daughter of the north. And that winter was far the happiest that the King and his wife had yet spent. Scarce a murmur was heard to escape from the Queen's lips, and in her anxiety to win the good-will of the Winter Spirit, she often went out sleighing and joined in the other amusements which hitherto she had refused to take any part in during the cold season. More than once, even, she was heard to express admiration of the snow-covered mountains, or of the wonderful northern sunsets and clear star-bespangled skies. Nevertheless, the return of the warm and sunny days was watched for by her most eagerly. And the Summer Spirit was true to her promise. On the loveliest morning of all that year was born a baby Princess, the prettiest baby that ever was seen, with dark-blue eyes and little golden curls all over her head. "A true child of the summer," said the happy Queen. "And strong to brave and enjoy the winter too, I trust," added the King. "She must be a true Princess of the north, as her mother is fast becoming, I hope," he went on with a smile. But his words did not please the Queen, though they were so kindly meant. With the possession of the baby, though she was so overjoyed to have her, the young Queen's wayward and dissatisfied spirit began to return. She seemed to think the Princess was to be only hers, that the nation and even the King, who naturally felt they had a share in her, must give way, in everything that concerned the child, to its mother's will. She was even displeased one day when she overheard some of her ladies admiring the beautiful colour of the baby's hair and saying that it showed her a true daughter of the north. "No such thing," said the Queen. "It shows her a child of the sunshine and the summer. My sweet Rose!" for so, to please the Queen, the baby had been named. On the whole, however, while the summer lasted the Queen was too happy with her baby to give way to any real murmuring, and once or twice when she might perhaps have done so, there was wafted to her by the breeze the sound of a gentle "Beware!" and she knew that the summer fairy was near. So for the first winter of the baby's life she was on her guard, and nothing went wrong, except now and then when the King reproached his wife with overcare of the child when the weather was at all severe. "Do you wish to kill her?" the Queen would reply, angrily. "I wish to make her brave and hardy, like all the daughters of our race," replied the King. But not wishing to distress his wife, he said no more, reflecting that it would be time enough when the little girl could walk and run to accustom her to the keen and bracing air of the northern winter. But in some strange, mysterious way, the princess, baby though she was, seemed to understand what her father felt about her. It was noticed that before she could speak at all, she would dance in her nurse's arms and stretch out her little hands with glee at the sight of the snowflakes falling steadily. And once or twice when a draught of the frosty air blew upon her she laughed with delight, instead of shrinking or shivering. But so well were the Queen's feelings understood that no one ventured to tell her of these clear signs that little Rose felt herself at home in the land of the snow. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE SUMMER PRINCESS--CONTINUED. The winter passed and the summer came again--the second summer of the baby's life. She had grown like the flowers, and was as happy as the butterflies. Never was a sweeter or a merrier child. The Queen idolised her, and the King loved her quite as dearly, though in a wiser way. And that summer passed very happily. Unfortunately, however, the warm fine days came to an end unusually early that year. Many of the birds took flight for the south sooner than their wont, and the flowers drooped and withered as if afraid of what was coming. The Queen noticed these signs with a sinking heart. Standing one chilly morning at the palace windows, she watched the grey autumn sky and sighed deeply. "Alas, alas!" she said. "All the beauty and brightness are going again." She did not know that the King had entered the room, and was standing behind her. "Nay," he said, cheerfully. "You have no reason to feel so sad. If you have no other flower you have our little Rose, blooming as brightly in the winter as in the warmth." He meant it well, but it would have been wiser if he had said nothing. The Queen turned towards him impatiently. "It is not so," she said angrily. "Rose is like me. She loves the summer and the sunshine! I do not believe she would live through your wretched northern winters but for my incessant care and constant watchfulness. And the anxiety is too much for me; it will wear me to death before she is grown up. Indeed there are times when I almost regret that she ever was born. The life in this country is but half a life. Would that I had known it before I ever came hither." It was rarely, discontented and complaining though she was, that the Queen had so yielded to her temper. The King was deeply hurt and disappointed, and he left the room without speaking. He was generally so kind and patient that this startled her, and brought her to her senses. "How wrong of me to grieve him so by my wild words," she thought, penitently. "And--" A sudden horror came over her. What had she been saying? What had she done? And the fairy's warning returned to her memory: "If you forget your resolution, the slightest touch of snow will put the baby into my stern brother's power, and you will find yourself terribly punished." The poor Queen shivered. Already to her excited fancy, as she glanced at the sky, it seemed that the lurid grey which betokened snow was coming over it. "Oh, sweet Summer Spirit!" she cried; "forgive me and plead for me." But a melancholy wail from the cold wind blowing through the trees in the grounds of the palace was the only reply; the summer fairy was far away. The sky cleared again later that day, and for some short time the cold did not increase. But it would be difficult to describe what the Queen went through. It was useless to hope that the winter would pass without snow; for, so far north, such a thing had never been known. Still, no doubt, its coming appeared to be delayed, and the weather prophets felt somewhat at fault. The Queen began to breathe rather more freely again, in the hope that possibly her appeal to the Summer Spirit had, after all, been heard. Every one had noticed her pale and anxious looks; every one had noticed also how very gentle and uncomplaining she had become. She was so eager to make all the amends she could, that one day, when the King remarked that he thought it very wrong for the Princess to be so guarded from the open air as she had been lately, the Queen, though with fear and trembling, gave orders that the baby should be taken out. "I will accompany her myself," she said to the attendants; so the little Princess was wrapped up in her costly furs and placed in her tiny chariot drawn by goats, the Queen walking beside her. The little girl laughed with delight, and chattered in her baby way about everything she saw. She seemed like a little prisoner suddenly set at liberty; for the last few weeks had been spent by the poor little thing in rooms specially prepared, where no breath of the outer air could find its way in. "For who knows," thought the Queen, "how some tiny flake of snow might be wafted down the chimney, or through the slightest chink of the window." To-day, in spite of her anxiety, the baby's happy face made her mother's heart feel lighter. "Surely," she said to herself, "it must be a sign that I am forgiven, and that all will yet be well." And to please her little daughter she took her farther than she had intended, even entering a little way into a pine wood skirting the palace grounds at one side, a favourite resort of hers in the summer. The Princess's nurse picked up some fir-cones and gave them to the little girl, who threw them about in glee and called out for more. They were all so busy playing with her that they did not notice how, above the heads of the tall fir-trees, the sky was growing dark and overcast, till suddenly a strange, chill blast made the Queen gather her mantle round her and gaze up in alarm. "We must hasten home," she said; "it is growing so cold." "Yes, indeed," said one of the ladies; "it almost looks like--" But the Queen interrupted her; she could not bear even the mention of the fatal word. "Wrap up the Princess!" she exclaimed. "Cover her over, face and all! Never mind if she cries! My darling, we shall be home directly. The cold wind would hurt you," added she to the little girl. Then they hurried back to the palace as quickly as the goats could be persuaded to go, even the Queen herself running fast to keep up with the little carriage. They were within a short distance of the palace before any snow fell, though it was clear to be seen that it was not far off; and the Queen was beginning to breathe again more freely, when suddenly Princess Rose, who had behaved beautifully till now, with a cry of baby mischief, pushed away the shawl that was over her face, shouting with glee. At that very moment the first fluttering snowflakes began to fall. The little Princess opened wide her eyes as she caught sight of them, and smiled as if in greeting; and alas! before the terrified Queen had time to replace the covering the child had thrown off, one solitary flake alighted on her cheek, melting there into a tiny drop which looked like a tear, though still the little Princess smiled. The Queen seized the child in her arms, and, though her heart had almost ceased beating with terror, rushed up the long flights of steps, all through the great halls and corridors like a mad creature, nor stopped even to draw breath till she had reached the Princess's apartments, and had her safe in the rooms specially prepared for her during the winter. But was she safe? Was it not already too late? With trembling dread the Queen drew away the furs and shawls wrapped round the baby, almost expecting to find her changed in some strange way, perhaps even dead; and it was with thankfulness that she saw that little Rose was still herself--sweet and smiling in her sleep. For she was fast asleep. "The darling, the precious angel," thought the poor mother as she laid her in her little cot, just as the ladies, and nurses, and all the attendants came trooping into the room. "She is only asleep," said the Queen, in a whisper. "Nothing has happened to her--she is sleeping sweetly." The ladies stared--the Queen's behaviour had been so strange they could not understand her. "It is a pity to be so anxious about the child," they said to each other. "It will bring no blessing," for they thought it all came from the Queen's foolish terror lest the little Princess should catch cold, and they shook their heads. But the Queen seemed full of thankfulness, very gentle, and subdued. Many times that afternoon she came back to see if little Rose was well-- the baby looked a picture of health, but--she was still sleeping. "The fresh keen air has made her drowsy, I suppose," said the head nurse, late in the evening when the Queen returned again. "And she has had nothing to eat since the middle of the day," said the mother, anxiously. "I almost think if she does not wake of herself in an hour or so, you will have to rouse her." To this the nurse agreed. But two hours later, on the Queen's next visit to the nursery, there was a strange report to give her. The nurse had tried to wake the baby, but it was all in vain. Little Rose just smiled sweetly and rolled over on her other side, without attempting in the least to open her eyes. It seemed cruel to disturb her. She was so very sleepy. "I think we must let the Princess have her sleep out--children are like that sometimes," said the nurse. And the Queen was forced to agree to it, though she had a strange sinking at the heart, and even the King when he came to look at his little daughter felt uneasy, though he tried to speak cheerfully. "No doubt she will awake in the morning quite bright and merry," he said,--"all the brighter and merrier for sleeping a good round and a half of the clock." The morning dawned--the slow-coming winter daylight of the north found its way into the Princess's nursery through the one thickly glazed window--a tiny gleam of ruddy sunshine even managed to creep in to kiss her dimpled cheek, but still the baby slept--as soundly as if the night was only beginning. And matters grew serious. It was no use trying to wake her. They all did their best--King, Queen, ladies, nurses; and after them the great court physicians and learned men of every kind. All were summoned and all consulted, and as the days went on, a hundred different things were tried. They held the strongest smelling salts to her poor little nostrils; the baby only drew up her small nose the least bit in the world and turned over again with a tiny snore. They rang the bells, they had the loudest German bands to be found far or near to play all at once in her room; they fetched all the pet dogs in the neighbourhood and set them snarling and snapping at each other close beside her; as a last resource they lifted her out of bed and plunged her into a cold bath--she did not even shiver! And with tears rolling down their faces, the Queen and the ladies and the nurses wrapped her up again and put her back cosily to bed, where she seemed as contented as ever, while they all sat down together to have a good cry, which, sad to say, was of no use at all. "She is bewitched," said the cleverest of all the doctors, and as time went on, everybody began to agree with him. Even the King himself was obliged to think something of the kind must be at the bottom of it, and at last one day the Queen, unable to endure her remorse any longer, told him the whole story, entreating him to forgive her for having by her discontent and murmuring brought upon him so great a sorrow. The King was very kind but very grave. "I understand it now," he said. "The summer fairy told you true. Our northern Winter Spirit is indeed stern and implacable; we must submit-- if we are patient and resigned it is possible that in the future even his cold heart may be melted by the sight of our suffering." "It is only I who deserve it," wept the poor Queen. "The worst part of it all is to know that I have brought this sorrow upon you, my dear husband." And so repentant was she that she almost forgot to think of herself-- never had she been so sweet and loving a wife. She did everything she possibly could to please and cheer the King, concealing from him the many bitter tears she shed as she sat for hours together beside the sleeping child. The winter was terribly severe--never had the snow lain more thickly, never had the wind-blasts raged and howled more furiously. Often did the Queen think to herself that the storm spirits must be infuriated at her very presence in their special domain. "They might pity me now," she thought, "now that I am so punished;" but she bore all the winter cold and terrors uncomplainingly, nay, even cheerfully, nerving herself to go out alone in the bitterest weather with a sort of hope of pleasing the winter fairy; possibly if she could but see him, of making an appeal to him. But for many months he held his icy sway--often indeed it seemed as if gentler times were never to return. Then suddenly one night the frost went; a mild soft breeze replaced the fierce blast; spring had come. And wonderful to relate, the very next morning the Queen was roused by loud knockings and voices at her door; trembling, she knew not why, she opened it; and the head nurse fell at her feet laughing and crying at once. The Princess had awakened! Yes; there she was, chattering in her baby way, smiling and rosy, as if nothing had been the matter. She held out her arms to her mother, calling "Mamma," in the most delightful way; she knew her father again quite well; she was very hungry for her breakfast. Oh! the joy of her parents, and the jubilation all through the palace! I could not describe it. And all through the summer little Rose was wide awake, in the day-time that is to say, just like other children. She was as well and strong and happy as a baby could be. But--the summer will not last for ever; again returned the autumn bringing with it the signs of the approaching winter, and one morning when her nurse went to awaken the Princess, she found it was no use--Rose was sleeping again, with a smile on her face, calm and content, but alas! not to be awakened! And then it was remembered that the first snow had fallen during the night. More to satisfy the Queen than with the hope of its doing any good, all the efforts of the year before were repeated, but with no success. And gradually the child's distressed parents resigned themselves to the sad truth: their daughter was to be theirs only for half her life; for full six months out of every twelve, she was to be in a sense as far away from them as if the winter monarch had carried her off to his palace of ice altogether. But no; it was not quite so bad as that would have been. And the Queen, who was fast learning to count her blessings instead of her troubles, smiled through her tears as she said to the King what a mercy it was that they were still able to watch beside their precious child--to kiss her soft warm cheek every morning and every night. And so it went on. In the spring the Princess woke up again, bright and well and lively, and in every way six months older than when she had fallen asleep; so that, to see her in the summer time, no one could have guessed the strange spell that was over her. She became the sweetest and most charming girl in the world; only one thing ever saddened her, and that was any mention of the winter, especially of snow. "What does it mean?" she would ask sometimes. "What are they talking of? Show me this wonderful thing! Where does it grow? I want to see it." But no one could make her understand; and at these times a very strange look would come into her blue eyes. "I must see it," she said. "Some day I shall go away and travel far, far, till I find it." These words used to distress her mother more, than she could say; and she would shower presents and treasures on her daughter, of flowers and singing-birds, and lovely embroidered dresses--all to make her think of the sunshine and the summer. And for the time they would please the girl, till again she shook her head and murmured--"I want the snow." So the years followed each other, till Rose was sixteen. Every winter the Queen had a faint hope, which, however, grew ever fainter and fainter, that the spell was perhaps to be broken. But it was not so. And strange stories got about concerning the Princess--some saying she was a witch in disguise; others that she had no heart or understanding; others that she turned into a bird or some animal during half her life-- so that the neighbouring Princes, in spite of her beauty and sweetness, were afraid to ask her in marriage. And this brought new sorrow to her parents. For she was their only child. "What will become of her after we are dead and gone?" they said. "Who will care for and protect our darling? Who will help her to rule over our nation? No people will remain faithful to a sovereign who is only awake half the year. There will be revolts and rebellion, and our angel Rose may perhaps be put to death, or driven away." And they fretted so over this, that the hair of both King and Queen grew white long before its time. But Rose only loved them the more on this account, for she had heard some one say that white hair was like snow; though she kept the fancy to herself, for she knew it troubled the Queen if ever she mentioned the strange, mysterious word. She was so lovely that painters came from many countries just to see her face, and, if possible, be allowed to make a picture of her. And one of these portraits found its way to the court of a King who was a distant cousin of her father, and who had heard the strange things said of the Princess. He was very angry about it, for he had two sons, and he was afraid of their falling in love with the beautiful face. So he ordered the picture to be destroyed before the elder Prince, who was away on a visit, came home. But the servant who was to burn the picture thought it such a pity to do so, that he only hid it away in a lumber-room; and thither, as fate would have it, came the younger Prince one day in search of a pet kitten of his sister's which had strayed away; for he was a Prince of a most kind and amiable nature. The moment he saw the picture he fell in love with it. He made inquiry, and heard all there was to tell. Then he arrayed himself for a journey, and came to bid his father farewell. "I go," he said, "to woo the Princess Rose for my bride." And in spite of all the king could say he kept firm. "If she is a witch," he said, "I would rather perish by her hands than live with any other." And amidst tears and lamentations he set out. He was received with great delight at the court of Princess Rose's parents, though he came without any pomp or display; for he lost no time in telling the King and Queen the reason of his visit. Knowing him to be a Prince of most estimable character, they were overjoyed to hear of his resolve. "I only trust," said the Queen, "that all may go well. But, as you have doubtless heard, our darling child, despite her beauty and goodness, is under a strange spell." She then proceeded to tell him the whole matter, of which he had already heard garbled accounts. He was relieved to find that the enchantment was of no worse a nature, and declared that it made no difference in his intentions, but rather increased his love for the Princess. And when he first set eyes on her (more beautiful by far than even the beautiful portrait), he felt that his whole life would not be too much to devote to her, even considering her strange affliction. "And who knows," he said to himself, "but that such love as mine may find out a way to release her from the spell?" The Princess quickly learned to like him. She had never before had a companion so near her own age, and the last days of the summer passed most happily, till the time came when the Prince thought he might venture to ask her to be his wife. They were walking on the terrace in front of the castle when he did so. It had been a lovely day, but the afternoon had grown chilly; and as the Princess listened to his words, a cold breath of wind passed near them. The Princess started; and, aware of the Queen's anxiety about her, the Prince hastily proposed that they should return to the house; but Rose looked at him with a light in her eyes which he had never before seen, and a strange smile broke over her face. "It is new life to me," she said. "Can you not understand, you who are yourself a child of the north? Yes, Prince, I will marry you on one condition, that you will show me the snow--but on no other." Then she turned, and, without another word, walked slowly back to the palace. Prince Orso, for so he was called, felt terribly distressed. "The spell is upon her," he thought to himself. "She asks me to do what would probably kill her, or separate her for ever from all who love her." And the King and Queen, when they heard his story, were nearly as disappointed as he. But that very night the Prince had a strange dream. He thought he was walking in the wood near the castle, when again a chill blast, but still more icy, swept past him, and he heard a voice speaking to him. It sounded hoarse and stern. "Orso," it said, "you're as foolish as the rest. Have you no trust? See what came of rebellion against me, who, after all, love my many children as dearly as does my sister of the summer. Leave the Princess to the leadings of her own heart, and dare not to interfere." Then with a crash as of thunder the spirit went on his way. And the Prince awoke to find that the window of his room had been dashed in by the force of a sudden gale which had arisen. But the next morning all was again calm. It almost seemed as if the milder weather was returning again; and the Queen looked brighter; but it was not so with the Princess, who was silent and almost sad. And so things continued for some days. At last the Prince could bear it no longer. One afternoon when he found himself alone with the Princess, he turned to her suddenly. "Princess," he said, "can you not give me another answer? You must know that I would fain promise anything you wish; but I dare not bind myself to what might perhaps do you some injury." Rose turned towards him impatiently. "That is just it," she said. "I am always met by excuses when I ask for the one thing I really desire. What is there about me different from others? Why should I so often hear of what others seem to understand, and not have it explained to me? I am no longer a child; in my dreams I see things I cannot put in words; and beautiful as the world is, I feel that I only half know it. I long for what they call the winter, and what they call the snow, and they never come. Only the cold wind, which I have felt once or twice, brings new life to me, and fills me with strange joy." The Prince hesitated. He understood her perfectly, for he was himself of the same brave and hardy race. Yet the Queen's forebodings made him tremble. The Princess's words reminded him of his own dream; and again he felt as if he heard the voice of the stern Winter Spirit. And as if in answer to his uncertainty, at that moment the howl of the cold blast sounded near them among the trees, and lurid clouds began to gather overhead. The Princess's face lighted up. "Ah," she exclaimed, "it is coming again!" "I fear so indeed," said Orso; and in his terror for her he caught her hand and would have hurried her back to the palace. But at that moment a shrill little cry was heard overhead not far from where they stood, and glancing up they saw a bird of prey clutching a smaller one in his claws. With a terrible effort the captive managed to free himself, but he was sadly wounded; and as Rose gazed upwards in great concern, she saw him fall fluttering feebly to the ground. All else was forgotten in the sight. "Poor bird," she cried. "Let me go, Prince; I must find him where he has fallen, or a cruel death of slow suffering will be his." The Prince loosed her hand; he dared not hold her back, though he could have done so. "Leave her to the guidings of her own heart," resounded in his ears. Almost at once she was lost to his sight among the trees which grew very closely; almost at the same moment, to his horror, something cold and soft touched his face, and lifting his eyes, he saw that the snowflakes were falling thickly. If harm was to betide, it was too late to save her; but he pressed forward in unspeakable anxiety. It was some little time before he found her; and no reply came to his calls; but at last he caught sight of something blue on the ground. It was the Princess's robe; and there, indeed, she lay motionless--her eyes closed, a sweet smile on her face, the little wounded bird tenderly clasped in her hands. And now I may tell you that this wounded bird was the friend from whom I had the story; for, as you will hear, he had plenty of opportunity of learning it all. Orso threw himself on the ground beside the Princess. "Ah," he exclaimed, "my carelessness has killed her. How can I ever dare to face the King and Queen? Oh! Winter Spirit, you have indeed deceived me." But as he said the words the Princess opened her eyes. "No, Prince," she said. "I am not dead. I am not even asleep. It was the strange gladness that seemed to take away my breath for a moment, and I must have sunk down without knowing. But now I feel stronger and happier than ever in my life before, now that I have seen and felt the beautiful snow of my own country, now that I have breathed the winter air I have been longing for always," and she sprang to her feet, her blue eyes sparkling with delight, looking lovelier than he had ever seen her. "Orso," she went on, half shyly, "you have done what I asked you; through you I have seen the snow," and she held out her hand, which, white though it was, looked pink in comparison with the little flakes which were fluttering down on it. The Prince was overjoyed, but he hesitated. "I fear," he said, "that in reality you should rather thank the poor little bird, or most of all your own kind heart." "Poor little bird," she replied, looking at it as it lay in her other hand. "It is not dead. I will do all I can for it! Let us hasten home, Prince, so that I may bind up its poor wing. My father and mother too will be anxious about me." And together they returned to the palace. One glance at the Princess as she came in sprinkled over with snow showed the Queen that the spell was at last broken. And her joy was past all words. My friend recovered slowly. He spent all the winter in the palace, tenderly cared for by the Princess Rose, only flying away when the warm sunny days returned. He pays them a visit still every summer to show his gratitude, and tells me that in all his travels he seldom sees a happier family than his friends in the old palace away up in the far, far northern land. "Thank you," said the children, "Thank you, oh so much!" But whether the bird heard them or not they could not tell--he had already flown away. CHAPTER NINE. THE CHRISTMAS SURPRISE. For some days the story of the bewitched Princess gave Rafe and Alix enough to talk about, and to play at too, for they invented a game in which Alix was supposed to fall into an enchanted sleep if Rafe succeeded in touching her with a branch of leaves, which represented snowflakes; and as she was a very quick runner it was not so easy as it sounds. Besides, by this time the Easter holidays were over and lessons had begun again. The children had not _too_ many lessons, however, and always a good part of the afternoon to themselves, and they remained faithful to the old garden as their favourite playground. So some hours of every day--of every fine day at least--were spent there, and though they had not seen the old caretaker a second time, nor ever managed to find the concealed door in the rough stone wall again, hunt for it as they would, still they had sometimes a queer, mysterious, pleasant feeling that she knew about them--knew they were there, and was perhaps even peeping out at them through some hidden hole. It would have been a great sorrow to them if they had had to give up their visits to the garden. But fortunately their nurse rather approved of their playing there. There was something that brought good luck with it about the Lady wood grounds. No ill-chance ever happened to them there, no tumbles or sprained ankles, or torn clothes, or such not uncommon misfortunes when children are by themselves. Best of all, they almost never quarrelled when in the old garden, and perhaps _that_ had a good deal to do with the keeping clear of other troubles. They were growing "quite to be trusted," nurse told their mother, and it scarcely seemed needful for them to go regular walks now, which nurse was very glad of, as it left her free to get on nicely with all the needlework, in which--next to a baby, and there had been no new baby since Alix--her heart delighted. So the discovery of the pleasures of the deserted manor suited everybody. But after a while, the children began to think it was time to have another story, and to wonder if their old friend had forgotten them, or possibly gone away. There was no use hunting any more for the hidden door; they had hurt their fingers and tired themselves to no purpose in doing so already. And at last they came to the conclusion that if Mrs Caretaker didn't want them to find it, it was no use trying, and that if she _did_, she would soon find ways and means of fetching them. "Unless, of course," said Alix, "she has gone. Perhaps she's like the birds, you know--only turned the other way. I mean perhaps she goes off in the summer, once she's started everything, and all the plants and things _are_ growing beautifully now, in their wild way. You see she's not like a regular trim gardener--she doesn't want them to grow all properly like you can see anywhere." "Still she must take great care of them somehow," said Rafe thoughtfully, "for you know people often notice how few weeds there are about Ladywood, and in full summer the wild flowers are quite wonderful. And the birds--it's always here the nightingales are heard the best." Alix looked up. They were sitting in their favourite place, at the foot of some very tall trees. "If we'd had any sense," she said, "we might almost have seen for ourselves long ago that there was something fairy about the place, even before the wren led us here." The mention of the wren made her remember something she had noticed. "Rafe," she went on, "do you know I've seen a little robin hopping about us the last day or two, and chirping in a _talking_ sort of way. I forgot to tell you. I wonder if he has anything to say to us, for you know there were _two_ birds that wanted to tell us stories." "Per--" began Rafe in his slow fashion. But before he had time to get to "haps" his sister caught hold of his arm. "Hush!" she whispered, "there he is." Yes, there he was, and "he" _was_ a robin. He hopped about in front of them for a minute or two, now and then cocking his head on one side and looking at them over his shoulder, as it were, as if to see whether he had caught their attention. Then he flew up a little way, and settled himself on a branch not far from them, with a peculiar little chirp. "I believe," said Alix, still in a whisper, "I believe he wants us to speak to him." "Try," replied Rafe. "Robin," said Alix, clearly though softly, "robin, have you come to see us? Have you got a message for us from Mrs Caretaker, perhaps?" The bird looked at her reproachfully. I don't know that she could see it was _reproachfully_, but from the way he held his head it was plain to any one that he was not altogether pleased. Then came a succession of chirps, and gradually, just as had happened before, by dint of listening very attentively and keeping quite, quite quiet, bits of words and then words themselves began to grow out of the chirping. To tell the truth, if any one had passed that way, he or she would have imagined Rafe and Alix were asleep. For there they sat, like a picture of the babes in the wood--Alix's head resting on her brother's shoulder, and his arm thrown round her--_quite_ motionless. But they weren't asleep, of course, for their two pairs of eyes were fixed on the little red-breasted fellow up above them. "So you had forgotten all about me," in a melancholy tone, quite unlike a cheery little robin. "I gave up to that other fellow and let him tell his story first. I suppose you don't care to hear mine." "Oh, dear robin, of course we do," said Alix. "But you see we didn't understand." "I've been following you about all these days. I'm sure you might have seen me, and I've been asking you over and over again if you didn't want to listen." "But you see, dear robin, we couldn't understand what you said. It takes a good while to get used to--to your way of speaking, you know," said Alix. She was desperately afraid of hurting his feelings still more. "I am afraid that is not the real reason. You think a robin's story is sure to be stupid. You see I am not one of those fine travelled fellows--the swallows and the martins, and all the rest of them--who spend the winter in the south and know such a lot of the world. I'm only a home bird. Here I was hatched and here I have lived, and mean to live till I die. It's quite true that my story is a very stupid one. I've made no fine acquaintances such as kings and queens and princesses, and I've never visited at court, north or south either, so you know what you have to expect." He seemed rather depressed, but less offended than he had been. "Please begin," said Rafe. "I'm sure we shall like your story. We don't want always to hear the same kind." The robin cleared his throat. "Such as it is," he began, "I can vouch for the truth of it, as it happened to be my own self. I didn't `have it' from any one else. And in my own mind I have given it the name of `The Christmas Surprise.'" And after he had cleared his throat again for the last time, he went straight on. "I have often noticed," he began, "that whatever we have not got, whatever is not ours or with us at the present moment, is the thing we prize the most. This applies both to birds and human beings, and it is often the case about the seasons of the year. There is a great charm about absence. In the winter we are always looking forward to the spring and the summer; in the hot summer we think of the cool shady days of autumn, of the cheerful fires and merry doings that come with Christmas. I am speaking especially of men and women and children just now, but there is a good deal of the same kind of thing among us birds, though you mightn't think it. And of all birds, I think we robins have the most sympathy with human folk. We really love Christmas time; it is gratifying to know how much we are thought of at that season--how our portraits are sent about by one friend to another, how our figures are placed on your Christmas trees, and how every one thinks of us with kindness. And except by _very_ thoughtless people we are generally cared for well. During a hard winter it is seldom that our wants are forgotten. I myself," and here he plumed himself importantly, "I myself have been most fortunate in this respect. There are at least a dozen houses within easy flight of Ladywood where I am always sure of a good breakfast of crumbs." "But," began Alix, rather timidly, "please don't mind my interrupting you, but doesn't Mrs Caretaker look after you? I thought that was what she was here for, to take care of all the living creatures in this garden." "Exactly so, exactly so," said the robin, hastily, "far be it from me to make any complaint. I would not change my home for the garden of a palace. But, as I have said, I think we robins have much sympathy with your race. Human beings interest me extremely. I like to study their characters. So I go about in my own part of the country a good deal, and thus I know the ways of many of my wingless neighbours pretty intimately. Thus comes it that I have stories to tell, all from my own observation, you see. Well, as I was remarking, we often love to dwell in fancy on what is not ours at present, so as it is really like a summer day, quite hot for the time of year, I daresay it will amuse you to transport your thoughts to Christmas time. Most of my human stories belong to that season, for it is then we have so much to do with you. The Christmas of which I am going to tell you was what is called an `old-fashioned one,'--though it strikes me that snowy, frosty, very cold Christmases are fast becoming new-fashioned again--ah, it _was_ cold! I was a young bird then; it was my first experience of frost and snow, and in spite of my feathers I did shiver, I can tell you. Still I enjoyed it; I was strong and hearty, and I began to make acquaintance with the houses in the neighbourhood, at several of which one was pretty sure of a breakfast in front of some window. "There was a very large house which had been shut up for some time, as the owners were abroad. It had a charming terrace in front, and my friends and I often regretted that it was not inhabited. For the terrace faced south and all the sunshine going was sure to be found there, and it would have been a pleasant resort for us. And one morning our wishes were fulfilled. I met a cousin of mine flying off in great excitement. "`The Manor House is open again,' he told me. `Come quickly. Through the windows on to the terrace, fires are to be seen in all the rooms, and they are evidently preparing for a merry Christmas. No doubt they will not forget us, but it is as well to remind them that we should be glad of some crumbs.' "I flew off with him, and found it just as he had said. The house had quite a different appearance; it looked bright and cheery, and in one room a large party was assembled at breakfast. We--for several of us were there--hopped up and down the terrace for some little time, but no notice was taken of us. So one by one my companions flew away, remarking that it was no use wasting their time; they would look in again some other day when perhaps the new-comers would have thought of them. But I remained behind; I was not very busy, being a young bird, and I felt a wish to see something of the family who had been so long absent, for I am of what some people call a `curious' disposition; I myself should rather describe it as observant and thoughtful. "I perched close beside the dining-room window and peeped in. There were several grown-up people, but only two children; two little girls, very prettily dressed, but thin and pale, and with a somewhat discontented expression of face. After a while, when the meal was over and all had risen from the table, the children came to the window with a young lady and stood looking out. "Oh, how cold it is," said one of them shivering, "I wish papa and mamma had not come back to England. I liked India much better." "So did I," said the other little girl. "I don't want to go a walk when it's so cold. Need we go, Miss Meadows? And yet I don't know what to do in the house. I'm tired of all our toys. We shall have new ones next week when Christmas Day comes; that's a good thing." The young lady they called Miss Meadows looked rather troubled. In her heart she thought the children had far too many toys already, and she felt sure they would get tired of the new ones before they had had them long. "I don't care much for Christmas except for the toys," said the first little girl. "Do you, Miss Meadows?" "Yes, indeed I do, Norna dear," she said. "And I think in your heart you really care for it too--and Ivy also. You both know _why_ it should be so cared for." "Oh, yes; in that sort of a way, I know it would be naughty not to care for it," said Norna, looking a little ashamed. "But it's different when you've lived in England, I suppose. Mamma has told us stories of Christmas when she was little, that sounded very nice--all about carols, and lots of cousins playing together, and presents, and school feasts. But we haven't any cousins to play with. Had you, Miss Meadows, at your own home?" Miss Meadows' eyes looked rather odd for a moment. She turned away for half an instant and then she seemed all right again. "I had lots of brothers and sisters," she said, "and that's even better than cousins." It was her first Christmas away from home, and she had only been a few days with Norna and Ivy. "I wish we had!" sighed Norna, who always wanted what she had not got. "But surely there are some things you can have that would cheer you up," said Miss Meadows. "Perhaps it is too soon to settle about school feasts just yet, but have you no presents to get ready for any one?" "No," sighed Ivy. "Mamma has everything she wants; and so have we. It's rubbish giving each other presents just to say they're presents." "Yes," said Miss Meadows. "I think it is. But--" She said no more, for just then Ivy touched her, and whispered softly,-- "I do believe there's a real little robin redbreast. Don't let's frighten him away." The child's eyes sparkled with pleasure; she looked quite different. "It's the first _real_ one we've ever seen," said she and Norna together. "Poor little man!" said their governess; "he must be hungry to be so tame. Let us throw crumbs every morning, children. I am sure your mamma won't mind. This terrace is a splendid place." The idea pleased them mightily. I hid myself in the ivy for a few moments, and when I came out again, there was a delightful spread all ready. So I flew down and began to profit by it, expressing my thanks, of course, in a well-bred manner. The window was still open, and I heard some words that Miss Meadows murmured to herself: "I wish I could find out some little service for others that they could do, even this first Christmas," she said. "They would be so much happier, poor little things! Dear robin, I am even grateful to you for making me think of throwing out crumbs." She looked so sweet that my heart warmed to her, and I wished I could help her. And at that moment an idea struck me. You will soon hear what it was. I had another visit to pay that morning; indeed I had been on my way to do so when the exciting news about the Manor House attracted me thither. But now I flew off, to the little home where I was always welcome. It was a very small cottage at the outskirts of the same village of which the home of the newly-returned family was the great house. In this cottage lived a couple and their two children--a boy and a girl. They had always been poor, but striving and thrifty, so that the little place looked bright and comfortable though so bare, and the children tidy and rosy. But now, alas! things had changed for the worse. A bad accident to the father, who was a woodcutter, had entirely crippled him; and though some help was given them, it was all the poor mother could do to keep out of the workhouse. I made a point of visiting the cottage every day; it cheered them up, and there were generally some crumbs for me. But this morning--not that it mattered to me after my good breakfast at the Manor House--there were none; and as I alighted on the sill of the little kitchen and looked in, everything was dull and cheerless. No fire was lighted; the two children, Jem and Joyce, sat crouched together on the settle by the empty grate as if to gain a little warmth from each other. They looked blue and pinched, and scarcely awake; but when they saw me at the window they brightened up a little. "There's robin," said Joyce. "Poor robin! we've nothing for you this morning." A small pane was broken in the window and pasted over with paper, but a corner was torn, and so I could hear what they said. "No indeed," said Jem; "we've had nothing ourselves--not since yesterday at dinner time. And it is so cold." I stood still on one leg, and chirped that I was very sorry. I think they understood me. "Mother's gone to Farmer Bantry's," said Joyce, as if she was glad to have some one--"even a bird," some folk who know precious little about us would say--to tell her troubles to. "They're cleanin' up for Christmas, and she'll get a shilling and maybe some broken victuals, she said. So we're tryin' to go to sleep again to make the time pass." "There was two sixpences yesterday," said Jem, mournfully; "and one would 'a got some coal, and t'other some bread and tea. But the doctor said as father must have somefin'--" (Jem was only five and Joyce eight)--"queer stuff--I forget the name--to wunst. So mother she went to the shop, and father's got the stuff, and he's asleep; but we've not had nuffin'." "And Christmas is coming next week, mother says," Joyce added. "Last Christmas we had new shoes, and meat for dinner." I was sadly grieved for them. Joyce spoke in a dull, broken sort of tone that did not sound like a child. But I hoped to serve them better than by standing there repeating my regret; so, after a few more chirps of sympathy, I flew off. "Robin doesn't care to stay," said Jem, dolefully. Later in the day I met the children's mother trudging home. She looked tired; but she had a basket on her arm, so I hoped the farmer's wife had given them some scraps which would help them for the time. Now I had a plan in my head. Late that afternoon, after flying all round the Manor House and peeping in at a great many windows, I perched in the ivy--there was ivy over a great part of the walls--just outside one on the first floor. It was the children's bedroom. I waited anxiously, afraid that I might have no chance of getting in; but fortunately for me the fire smoked a little when it was lighted in the evening for the young ladies to be dressed by, and the nurse opened the window a tiny bit, so in I flew, very careful not to be seen, you may be sure. I found a very cosy corner on the edge of a picture in a dark part of the room, and there I had time for a nap before Norna and Ivy came to bed. Then when all was silent for the night, I flew down and took up my quarters on the rail at the head of Norna's bed; and when I had spent an hour or so beside her, I gently fluttered across to her sister; and though I was chirping nearly all the time, my voice was so low that no one entering the room would have noticed it; or if they had done so, they would probably have thought it a drowsy cricket, half aroused by the pleasant warmth of the fire. But my chirping did more than soothe my little friends' slumbers (and here the robin cocked his head afresh and looked very solemn). Children (he said), human beings know very little about themselves. You don't know, for instance, anything at all about yourselves when you're asleep, or what dreams really are. You speak of being "sleepy," or half-asleep, as if it meant something very stupid; whereas, sometimes when you are whole asleep, you are much wiser than when you are awake. Now it is not my business to teach you things you're perhaps not meant to understand at present, but this I can tell you--if I perched on your pillows at night when you're asleep, and chirped in my own way to you, you'd have no difficulty in understanding me. And this was what happened to the two little maidens a few nights before their first Christmas in England. They thought they had had a wonderful dream--each of them separately, and they never knew that the robin who flew out of the window early in the morning before any one noticed him, had had anything to do with it. I (for it was I myself, of course) perched again in the ivy beside the dining-room window, _partly_, I allow, with a view to breakfast; partly and principally to see what would happen. They did not forget me--us, perhaps I should say, for several other birds collected on the terrace, thanks to the news I had scattered about--and as soon as those within had risen from table, Miss Meadows and her two little companions came to the window, which they opened, and threw out a splendid plateful of crumbs. It was not so cold this morning. I hopped close to them, for I wanted to hear what they were saying as they stood by the open window-door, all the grown-up people having left the room. The pale little faces looked bright and eager, and very full of something their owners were relating. "Yes, Miss Meadows; it was quite wonderful. Ivy dreamed it, and I dreamed it. I believe it was a fairy dream." "And please do let us try to find out if there are any poor children like that near here," said Ivy. "I don't think there _could_ be; do you, Miss Meadows?" Miss Meadows shook her head. "I'm afraid, dear, it is not uncommon in either town or country to find children quite as poor as those you dreamt of. But when we go out a walk to-day, we'll try and inquire a little. It would be nice if you could do something for other people even this first Christmas in England." She looked quite bright and eager herself; and as the three started off down the drive about an hour later, on their way to the village, I noticed that they were all talking eagerly, and that Norna and Ivy were giving little springs as they walked along one on each side of their kind governess; and I must confess I felt pleased to think I had had some hand in this improvement. Miss Meadows had lived most of her life in the country, and she was accustomed to country ways. So she meant to go to the village, and there try to pick up a little information about any of the families who might be very poor this Christmas time. But I had no intention of letting them go so far--no indeed--I knew what I was about. The cottage of my little friends, Joyce and Jem, was about half-way between the Manor House and the village, and the village was a good mile from the great house. A lane led from the high road to the cottage. Just as the three reached the corner of the lane, Ivy gave a little cry. "Miss Meadows, Norna," she said, "there is the robin. I'm sure it's our robin. Don't you think it is, Miss Meadows?" The governess smiled. "There are a great many robins, Ivy dear. It's not very likely it's the same one. We human beings are too stupid to tell the difference between birds of the same kind, you see." But, as _you_ know, Ivy was right. "Do let's follow him a little way down the lane," she said. "He keeps hopping on and then looking back at us. I wonder if his home is down here." No, it was not _my_ home, but it was my little friends' home; and soon I managed to bring the little party to a standstill before the cottage gate, where I had perched. "What a nice cottage," said Norna; and so it looked at the first glance. But in a moment or two she added: "Oh, do look at that little girl; how very thin and pale she is!" It was Joyce. Miss Meadows called to her; and in her kind way soon got the little girl to tell her something of their troubles. Things were even worse with them to-day; for Jem's feet were so bad with chilblains that he could not get about at all. The governess satisfied herself that there was no illness in the cottage that could hurt Norna and Ivy, and then they all went in to see poor Jem; and Miss Meadows went upstairs to speak to the bedridden father. When she came down again her face looked very sad, but bright too. "Children," she said, as soon as they were out on the road again, "I don't think we need go on to the village. We have found what we were looking for." Then she went on to tell them that she had left a message with the woodcutter, asking his wife to come up to speak to her that evening at the Manor House. "I know your mamma won't mind," she said. "I will tell her all about it as soon as we get home. She will like you to try to do something for these poor children,"--which was quite true. The lady of the Manor was kind and gentle; only, you see, many years in India had got her out of English ways. So that evening, when the woodcutter's wife came up to the great house, there was a grand consultation. And for some days to come, for Christmas was very near, Ivy and Norna were so busy that they had no time to grumble at the cold or to wish they were back in India, though they did find time to skip and dance along the passages, and to sing verses of the carols Miss Meadows was teaching them. Things improved at the cottage from that day. But it is about Christmas morning I want to tell you. Joyce and Jem woke early--long before it was light--but they lay still and spoke in a whisper, not to wake their poor father or their tired mother. There was no one to hear except a little robin, who had managed to creep in the night before. "It's Christmas, Jem," said Joyce; "and we shall have a nice fire. They've sent mother some coals from the great house; and I _believe_ we're going to have meat for dinner." Jem sighed with pleasure. He could scarcely believe it. "Shall we go to church like last Christmas, Joyce?" he asked. "My boots is so drefful bad, I don't know as I could walk in them." "So's mine," said Joyce. "But p'r'aps if the roads is very dry, we might manage." And so they chattered, till at last the first rays of winter daylight began to find their way into the little room. The children looked about them--somehow they had a feeling that things could not look _quite_ the same on Christmas morning! But what they did see was something very wonderful. On the floor near the window were two _very_ big brown paper parcels; and Joyce jumping out of bed to see what they were, saw that to each was pinned a card; and on one card was written, "Joyce," on the other, "Jem." "_Jem_," she cried, "it must be fairies," and with trembling fingers they undid the packages. It is difficult to tell you their delight! There was a new frock of warm linsey for Joyce, and a suit of corduroy for Jem, boots for both--stockings and socks--two splendid red comforters, one knitted by Ivy and one by Norna; a picture book for each, a bag of oranges, and a beautiful home-made cake. Never were children so wild with joy; never had there been such a Christmas surprise. I was so pleased that I could not remain hidden any longer. Out I came, and perching on the window-sill, warbled a Christmas carol in my own way. And I must say children are very quick. "Dear robin," said Joyce; "do you know, Jem, I do believe he's a fairy! I shouldn't wonder if he'd somehow told the kind little young ladies to come and see us." There was a pause. Rafe and Alix waited a moment to make sure that the robin had quite finished; then they looked up. He was not in such a hurry to fly off as the other bird had been. "Thank you _very_ much, dear robin," they said. "It is a very pretty story indeed; and then it's so nice to know it's quite true." The robin looked pleased. "Yes," he said, "there's that to be said for it. It's a very simple, homely story; but it's my own experience. But now I think I must bid you good-bye for the present, though there's no saying but what we may meet again." He flew off. "Rafe," said Alix, "besides all the things mamma does and lets us help in sometimes for the poor people, wouldn't it be nice if we found some children we could do things for, more our own selves, you know?" "Yes," Rafe agreed, "I think it would be." CHAPTER TEN. THE MAGIC ROSE. The days and weeks and months went on, till it was full summer time again; more than full summer indeed. For it was August, and in a day or two Rafe and Alix were to go to the seaside for several weeks. They were very pleased of course, but still there is always a _little_ sad feeling at "going away," especially from one's own home, even though it is only for a short time. They went all round the garden saying good-bye, as well as to the stables and the poultry yard and all the familiar places. Then a sudden thought struck Alix. "Rafe," she said--it was the very evening before they left--"do let's say good-bye to the old garden too. And perhaps if we stood close to the corner of the wall and called through very loud, _perhaps_ Mrs Caretaker would hear us. It seems so funny that we've never seen her again. I think she _must_ be away." "I don't know, I'm sure," Rafe replied. "I've sometimes had a feeling like you, Alix, that she was there all the time." "And of course it was she who made the birds tell us their stories," said Alix, "so we really should be very much obliged to her. Just think what nice games we've made out of them; and what nice things we've begun to get ready for the poor children next Christmas. I do think, Rafe, we've _never_ felt dull since we've played so much in the Lady wood garden." Rafe quite agreed with her, and they made their way down the lane and through the well-known old gateway. It was the first time they had been in the deserted grounds so late of an evening. For they had had tea long ago, and it was not so _very_ far off bedtime: already the bushes and shrubs began to look shadowy and mysterious in the twilight, and the moon's profile--for it was about half-way to full--to gleam pearl-like up among the branches. "We mustn't stay very long," said Rafe. "Nurse won't mind our being a little later than usual, as she's busy packing," said Alix. "And it's still so hot, indoors at least. Last night I _couldn't_ get to sleep, though I pushed off everything except one sheet. I was just boiling. And when I told mamma she said it was no use going to bed only to toss about, and that we might as well sit up a little later." "I hope it will be cooler at the seaside," said Rafe. "It's pretty sure to be," Alix replied. "If it was just about as cool as it is here just now. Isn't it lovely? And that breeze is so refreshing." They were standing near the walled-up mound as she spoke, and the wind came with a long sighing sound through the trees. It seemed at first like a sigh, but by degrees it changed into a soft kind of laughter, which did not fade away, but grew, as they listened, more and more distinct. And then it sounded as if coming not from up among the trees overhead, but from somewhere underground. And it was not the wind after all, for by this time everything was perfectly, strangely still. The children looked at each other; they were used to odd things happening in the garden. They just stood still and waited to see what was going to take place. The laughing ceased, and there came a voice instead, and the voice grew clearer as the hidden door in the wall which they had sought for so often, swung round, and out from the dark passage came the small figure, red cloak, hood, and all, of Mrs Caretaker. She was still laughing just a little, and her laugh was so bright and rippling that it made the children laugh too, though they did not know why. "And so you are going away, my dears," said their old friend. How she got up so quickly to where they stood they did not see, but there she was, as alert as possible. And again she laughed. "If you please, if it's not rude, we'd like to know what you're laughing at," said Alix, not quite sure if she was pleased or not. "Only a little joke, my dear; only a little joke I was having all to myself. I hear so many funny stories, you see. They all have to tell me them: the wind and the rain often chatter to me, as well as the birds and the bees and all the others that _you_ call living creatures. And the sea, ah! the sea has grand stories to tell sometimes." "We're going to the seaside," said Rafe. Mrs Caretaker nodded. "I know," she said, "I know most things about my friends. I thought you would come to say good-bye before you left. I've been waiting for you. And if there is anything you would like me to take care of for you while you're away, you have only to tell me." "Thank you," said the children. But Alix did not feel quite pleased yet. "Mrs Caretaker," she said, "you shouldn't speak as if this was the only time we've come to see you. We've been and been _ever_ so often, but we never could find the door. And we've always kept saying how kind you'd been; making the birds tell us stories too." "It's all right, my dear," said the old woman. "Yes, I heard you on the other side of the wall. But I'm very busy sometimes; too busy for visitors. I'm not busy to-night though, and it's getting chilly out here. Come inside with me for a while, and tell me about where you're going to." "We mustn't stay long," said the children. "It's later than usual for us to be out, but it's been so hot all day; we got leave to stay a little longer." "I will see you home. Don't be uneasy," said Mrs Caretaker. She led the way to the wall--almost without her seeming to touch it, the door opened, and they followed her along the little passage into the kitchen. The fire was pleasantly low; the curtains were drawn back, and through the open window the moonlight, much clearer and fuller than in the garden outside, fell on a little lake of water, where two or three snow-white swans were floating dreamily. Rafe and Alix almost screamed with surprise, but Mrs Caretaker only smiled. "You didn't know what a view I had out of my window," she said, as she seated herself in her rocking-chair, and drew forward two stools--one on each side for the children. "Yes, it is beautiful with the moon on it; and to-morrow night you will be looking at a still more beautiful sight--the great sea itself." "Do you love the sea?" they asked. "Sometimes," Mrs Caretaker replied. "You said it told you stories," said Alix. "Will you tell us one of them? Just for a treat, you know, as we are going away, and we can think of it when we are walking along the shore watching the waves coming in." Mrs Caretaker did not speak for a moment. Then she said--and her voice sounded rather sad--"I can't tell you one of the stories the sea tells me. They're not of the laughing kind, and it's best for you to hear them for yourselves when you are older. But I will tell you a little story, if you like, of some of the folk that live in the sea. Did you ever hear tell of mermaids?" "Oh yes!" cried the children, eagerly; "often. There are lovely stories about them in some of our fairy books; and when we are at the seaside we do _so_ wish we could see them." Mrs Caretaker smiled. "I can't promise you that you ever will," she said; "but you shall have my story. Yes; sit closer, both of you, and rest your heads on my knees." "You're not knitting to-night," said Alix. "The last time the needles made us hear the story better somehow; it was like as if you took us a long way off, and the story came so clear and distinct." "It will be all right, never fear," said the old woman. And as she spoke, she gently stroked the children's heads. Then the same strange feeling came over them; they felt as if they were far away; they forgot all about its being nearly bedtime and about going away to-morrow; they just lived in the story which Mrs Caretaker's clear voice began to tell. "It is called `The Magic Rose,'" said she; "but it is a story of those that live in the sea. Down, deep down below the waves, all is calm and still, and there is the country of the mermen. Strange things have happened before now down there among the sea-folk. Some who have been thought drowned have been cared for there, and lived their lives long after those who had known them up above were past and gone. For the mer-folk are long-lived; what men count age is to them but youth; their days follow each other in a calm that human beings could scarce imagine. They live now in these stirring times as their forbears lived when men and women had their homes in the forests, long before there were houses or towns, or roads, or any of the things which you now think the commonest necessities. "But the sea-folk have their troubles too, sometimes; and my story has to do with trouble. The Queen--the beautiful Queen of the sea-country-- was ill, and the King was in despair. Now I must tell you that the Queen was not quite one of the sea race--so at least it was believed. Her grandmother--or her great-grandmother, maybe--was a maiden of the land, who had fallen into the sea as a little baby, and had been brought back to life and cared for by the mer-folk; and when she grew up, a great lord among them loved her for her beauty and made her his bride. She had no memory of her native land, of course; but still there were strange things about her and her children, and their children again, which told whence they had come. "And now that the young Queen was so ill, one of these old feelings had awakened." "I shall die," she said. "I shall surely die unless I can smell the scent of a rose--a deep-red rose, such as the land maidens love. It has come to me in my dreams. Though I have never seen one, I know what it must be like, and I feel that life would return--life and strength that are fast fading away--if I could breathe its exquisite fragrance and bury my face among its soft petals." They were amazed to hear her speak thus. The great court physicians at first said she was wandering in her mind, and no attention should be paid to her. But she kept on ever the same entreaty; and the King, who loved her devotedly, at last could bear it no longer. "It all comes of her ancestor having been so foolish as to wed a human bride," said one of the doctors, feeling in a very bad temper, as they all were. The sea-doctors are not very wise, I fear, because they have so very little experience. It happens so rarely that any of the mer-folk fall ill. And so, as they had nothing to propose, the most sensible thing to do was to get angry. But the King was not to be so put off. "Whatever it comes from," he said, "I am determined that the Queen's wish shall be complied with if it is in any way possible. What is this thing she is longing for?--what is a rose?" The doctors did not know; but seeing that the King was so much in earnest they agreed that they would try to find out. And after a great deal of consultation together, and looking up in their learned books, they did find out something. The Queen, meanwhile, soothed by her husband's promise that all was being done to carry out her entreaty, grew a shade better; at least for some days she did not get any worse, which was always something. And on the fourth day the wise men asked for an audience of the King in order to tell him what they had discovered. The King awaited them eagerly. "Well," he said, "have you found out what the Queen means by a rose? And if so, how is one to be procured?" Yes; they were able to describe pretty well what a rose was; for of course, down below, they are not without gardens and flowers, though of very different kinds from ours. But a great difficulty remained. Even if any one was daring enough to swim up to the surface and venture on land in search of the flower, and even if it was procured, how could it be brought, alive and fragrant, to the Queen? "Why not?" asked the King. For he had never been up to the surface of the sea. It is one of the sea-people's laws that their royal folk must stay down below, so he knew nothing of the land or the things that grow there. The learned men explained to him that, without air, and exposed to the salt water of the ocean, a flower of the earth must quickly fade and die; and as the King listened, his face grew sadder and sadder. But after a few moments' silence, one of the doctors spoke again. They were never in a hurry, you see, and they felt that it added dignity to their words to dole them out sparingly. "It has occurred to us," he said, "that it might be well to consult the wise woman of the sea--the ancient mermaid who lives in the Anemone Cave. Not that as a rule, the advice of a member of her sex is of much use, but the ancient mermaid has lived long and--" "Of course! of course!" exclaimed the King, impatiently; "she is the very person. Why did I not think of her before? Why--the story goes that she nursed the Queen's human ancestress when, as a baby, she came among us." "I wish she had stayed away," muttered the wisest of the wise men, though he spoke too low for the King to hear. Then the King ordered his chariot and his swiftest steeds--they were dolphins--to be got ready at once, and off he set. It was rather a long swim to the Anemone Cave. I wish I could give you any idea of the wonderful things the King passed by on his way--the groves of coral and forests of great branching seaweeds of all shapes and colour, the strangely formed creatures whom he scarcely glanced at. For of course it was not wonderful to him, and to-day his mind was so full of his trouble that he would have found it difficult to notice or admire anything. The wise woman of the sea was at home. The King's heart beat faster than usual as he was ushered into her presence, not from cowardice, but because he was feeling so very anxious about his dearly-loved wife. And King though he was, he made as low an obeisance before the ancient mermaid as if he had been one of the humblest of his own subjects. She was very strange to behold. Mermaids, as your stories tell you, are often very beautiful, and possibly this aged lady may have been so in her day, but now she was so very old that she looked like the mummy of a mermaid; her hair was like a thin frosting of hoar on a winter morning; her eyes were so deep down in her head that you could scarcely see them; the scales on her tail had lost all their glitter. Still there was something dignified about her, and she received the King as if quite prepared for his visit. She was not the least surprised. Very wise people, whether on land or in the sea, never are, and she listened to the King's story as if she knew all about it. "Yes," she replied, in a thin croaking voice like a frog's, "you have done well to come to me. When the human baby, the great-grandmother of the Queen, was confided to my charge, I studied her fate and that of her descendants. The sea-serpent was an admirer of mine in those days, and he was very obliging. He noted the position of the stars when he went up above, and reported them to me. Between us we found out some of the future. I read that a descendant of the stranger should be seized with mortal illness while still young, and that her life should only be saved by the breath of an earth-flower that they call the rose, but that great difficulties would attend the procuring it for her, and that some conditions attach to the matter which I was unable to understand fully. All I know is this, the flower must be sought for by a beautiful and youthful mermaid, but the first efforts will not succeed. Now you know all I have to tell you. Farewell, you have no time to lose." And not another word would the wise mermaid say. The King had to take leave. His dolphins conducted him home again still more quickly than they had brought him, for the words rang in his ears, "You have no time to lose." Yet he knew not what to do. The conditions he had already been told were difficult enough, for it was not a very easy task to swim to the surface, as, calm though the ocean always is down below in the sea-folks' country, there is no telling how stormy and furious it may be up above. And for a young and beautiful mermaid to undertake such an adventure would call for great courage. It was quite against the usual customs of the sea-people. For the old stories and legends we hear about troops of lovely creatures seen floating on the water, combing their hair and singing strange melodies, were only true in the very-long-ago days. Now that mankind has spread and increased so that there are but few solitary places in the world, few shores where only the sea-gull and the wild mew dwell, the daughters of the ocean stay in their own domain, whence it comes that in these modern times many people do not believe in their existence at all. The King went straight to the Queen's bower, where she lay surrounded by her ladies. She was sleeping, and though so pale and thin, her face was very sweet and lovely, her golden hair sparkling on the soft cushions of sea moss on which she lay. Even as she was, she was more beautiful than any of the mermaids about her. Yet some of them were very beautiful. The King's glance fell especially on two who were noted as the most charming among the Queen's attendants. Their names were Ila and Orona. A sudden idea struck the King. "I will cause it to be announced that a great reward shall be given to any young and beautiful mermaid who will undertake the quest of the red rose on which depends the Queen's recovery," he thought, and the idea raised his hopes. And as he stooped over the sleeping Queen, she smiled and whispered something as if she were dreaming. "The gift of love," were the only words he could distinguish. But he took the smile as a good omen. The next morning there was great excitement amongst the fair young mermaids. For it was announced that whoever of them should succeed in bringing, blooming and fragrant, a red rose to the suffering Queen, should be rewarded by the gift of a pearl necklace, which was considered one of the most precious of the crown jewels, and that furthermore the fortunate mermaid should take the highest rank of all the sea-ladies next to the Queen herself. Ila and Orona were both beautiful and courageous, and before the day was many hours older they had offered themselves for the task. The King was delighted, and as Ila was the elder of the two it was decided that she must be the first to try. She received many compliments on her daring, and the King thanked her most warmly. She accepted all that was said to her, but to Orona, who was her chosen confidante, she owned that she would never have dreamt of making the attempt but for her intense wish to possess the necklace, which she had often admired on the young Queen's fair skin. "I would do anything to win it," she said. "There is nothing in the world I admire so much as pearls, but if I gain it, Orona, I promise to lend it to you sometimes." "Many thanks," Orona replied, "but I do not care for jewels as you do. If _I_ have the chance of seeking the rose--that is to say if you fail-- my motive will not be to gain the necklace, but to win the position of the highest rank next to the Queen. _That_ I should care far more for." Both mermaids, however, kept their ambitions secret from every one else, and calmly accepted the praises showered upon them. And the very next day Ila started on her upward journey. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE MAGIC ROSE--CONTINUED. Ila found it trying and toilsome, for she was not accustomed to swimming upwards so long together, and she did not like to lose time by resting on the way. But when at last she reached the surface, her surprise at all she saw there took away her fatigue. It was a lovely summer day, the sunshine was deliciously warm, and as the mermaid lay on some smooth rocks a little way from the shore she could see the green fields, and trees, and houses, and gardens bordering the coast, quite plainly. She could even perceive some people walking along, and she thought their way of moving most extremely awkward and ungraceful. "Thank goodness I am a mermaid and not a woman," she thought. "I cannot believe that anything to be found on land is as beautiful as our sea-treasures. How splendid the great pearls in the centre of the necklace would look in this brilliant light! When they are mine I must carry them up here some day for the sake of seeing them glisten on my neck in the sunshine." And her thoughts were so full of the jewels that she almost forgot what she had come for. Suddenly the sight of some red blossoms on a tree growing close to the water's edge reminded her of what she was there to do, and she looked about her wondering how best to set to work. The wise men had described roses to her; they had even found a picture of one in a book about the plants of the land, so she knew very fairly well what it should be like and that it must have a delicious scent. But that was all, and though she saw fields and gardens not far off, she knew not how to get to them. Suddenly glancing in another direction she caught sight of a barge, its white sails gleaming like the wings of a great bird, at anchor some little way from the shore. To and from this barge little boats were coming and going, laden with baskets and cases. Ila swam quietly towards it, taking care to keep almost entirely under water, so that she should not be seen. When she got quite close to the barge she saw that one of the little boats was approaching it, and this boat was filled with flowers and rowed by but one boy. The little vessel was in fact preparing for a pleasure trip, and the boats were employed in bringing all that could be wanted of decorations and provisions. The boy rowed quite close to the barge, and then throwing a rope on deck from his boat, he himself sprang on board to call some one to help him to unload his flowers. Now was the mermaid's chance--she swam up to the boat and stretching out her hand drew from a basket, filled with roses of all shades, the most beautiful red one she could see. She had no doubt of its being a rose, for the perfume had reached her even some little way off. The boy turned round at that moment and gave a cry of terror as he caught sight of a shining white arm and hand taking a flower from the basket of roses, and for long after, a story went about that the spirit of some one shipwrecked off that coast haunted that part of the bay. But Ila only laughed at the boy's fright, and swam off as fast as she could, delighted to have succeeded. She hid the rose carefully in the folds of the gauzy robe she wore, and after one breath of its fragrance prepared to hasten home as fast as she could go. "The pearls are mine," she thought with exultation, giving no thought to the poor Queen. "I can fancy already that I feel their smooth touch against my skin--so adorned I shall certainly be the most beautiful mermaid that has ever been seen." But alas for vain Ila's hopes! No sooner had she reached the bottom of the sea than she hastened to the palace, and sought at once for an audience of the King. Eager past words for her return, he hurried out to the hall where she stood. "I have got it," she exclaimed, and she slid her hand into the folds of her dress and drew out--a little crumpled rag--a few miserable leaves, sodden and colourless, with no scent or fragrance--the poor wretched ghost of what had once been a magnificent rose! The King's face fell. Ila gave a cry of despair. "I brought it so carefully," she said. "Your care was in vain," replied the King. "It is evident that some condition has not been complied with. How did you get the rose?" She told him all, and Orona, who had followed her, listened eagerly. "It may be," said the King, "that you took it without paying for it. I wish I had thought of that." But his hopes revived when he remembered that the "first effort was not to succeed." And too anxious to give much thought to Ila's disappointment, he turned to Orona. "Now," he said, "it is for you to try. But you must take with you payment." "Yes," said Orona calmly, "I have thought of that. I will select two or three of our most valuable shells, for I have been told that rare shells are greatly esteemed by the land-folk. I am not surprised that Ila has been punished for taking what was not hers without paying for it." She looked so calm and confident that the King felt as if she must succeed. It was too late to set off that day; but the next morning Orona started. She was far more business-like than Ila; when she reached the surface, instead of wasting time in dreaming about the pearl necklace, she swam round the bay as near the shore as she dared venture, peering about in all directions. And at last she came to a little creek, which worked its way into the land till it became a small stream, whose banks were bordered by trees. This the mermaid followed for some distance; till, tasting the water, she found it had almost lost its briny flavour altogether. This startled her, for no sea-folk could live many hours in fresh water, and she began to think she must turn back. But just then she saw that a few yards farther on the stream turned suddenly; and swimming still a little way, she discovered that here it entered a beautiful park, through which it wound its way till lost to view. And close to where Orona now was, stood a pretty cottage, whose garden at the back sloped down to the water, and here were growing in profusion flowers of many kinds; among them roses, red, white, and all shades between. For this was the cottage of the gardener of the great house, and he liked to have choice specimens of the flowers he tended near his own home. It was easy for the mermaid to choose and gather a beautiful rose, for no one was about, it being still what human beings call very early in the morning. Orona did so, selecting carefully a rose not too fully blown, and wrapping it in some large cool green leaves which she found growing on the bank. And there, just where she had plucked the flower, she laid down two magnificent shells, which she had brought, as payment. In her calm way, quite as triumphant as her sister mermaid had been, Orona swam back with all possible swiftness. She reached her own country without misadventure, and, smiling confidently, entered the great hall of the palace, where the King was awaiting her with intense eagerness. "Success!" she exclaimed, as she drew out her leafy parcel. The outside looked green and fresh enough, but, alas! inside there was only the same miserable little bundle of colourless rags as Ila had brought back the day before--nay, of the two, to-day's withered flower looked even less like a rose than the former one! Orona clenched her hands in rage; the King's face sank into utter despair, for the Queen's state was considered worse this morning. "Alas, alas!" he cried, as he turned away, "it is hopeless." But among those who overheard his words was one who was not satisfied with feeling very sorry for the poor King. This was a little mermaid named Chryssa. She was younger than Ila and Orona, and she was of far less exalted position; in fact, she was scarcely more than a little servant in the Queen's household. And probably no one would have spoken of her as beautiful if asked to describe her. But she _was_ beautiful, nevertheless, and wonderfully sweet and loving; and the living being she loved the most in the world was the Queen. Of course, like every one else, Chryssa had heard all about the quest of the rose which was to cure the Queen; and now the thought struck her, could _she_, unknown to any one, try in her turn to bring the earth-flower fresh and fragrant which alone would have magic power to save her royal mistress's life? There seemed something lucky in being the _third_ to try, "and, at least," thought Chryssa, "it would be, so far as I am concerned, `the gift of love,' as the poor Queen keeps murmuring." She determined to make the endeavour; and late that night, just for fear of being seen--though she was so insignificant a person that there was not much chance of her being missed--she set off. She was not by nature so strong or courageous as Ila and Orona; she knew very little, indeed, of anything but her own sea home, as she had been treated like a child, and had never heard the stories and descriptions of the world above, which were often related to entertain the Queen and her ladies. No wonder her poor little heart almost failed her through the long dark journey up to land. And at first when she reached the surface all was still as dark there as below. But as she lay there panting, almost doubting if she had done well to come, up above, over the land, there shone out a marvellous light, which at once filled her with hope and joy. It was the moon--slowly the silvery lamp glided out from behind the clouds, and the little mermaid almost cried aloud for joy. "Oh, beautiful light," she said, "thank you for coming. Show me what to do; I will follow your guidance," and a gleaming streak across the water shone out as if inviting her to follow it. Swiftly the mermaid swam in the direction of the land, full in the glow of the light; and a girl--an earth-maiden--standing at her window in the summer night thought that she saw a vision, and scarce knew if she were awake or dreaming. "It is late," she thought. "I must get to sleep or I shall be growing too fanciful." But before she lay down on her little bed she carefully unfastened a beautiful red rose which was pinned to her bodice and placed it in a glass of water, kissing it as she did so, for it was the first gift of her betrothed. Poor Chryssa reached the shore; but though the moonlight still shone pale and pure and clear, it gave her no help. For the radiance was now spread all over the land; and before her there stretched a steep and rocky coast, beyond which--far off it looked to the mermaid--she could dimly see trees and bushes and some darker, harder form among them. "It may be a house, such as the earth-folk live in," she thought. "And there perhaps these flowers they call roses are growing. But how am I to get there? and how should I find the flower if I were there?" Still she must try. Slowly and painfully she drew herself some little way up the shore, catching hold of the stones with her hands; then she stopped to rest, and set off again. It was really not very distant, but to poor Chryssa it seemed terrible: she could only go a few yards at a time without resting. The night was far gone, the dawn at hand, when the little mermaid, gasping and exhausted, her tender hands bruised and bleeding, sank for the last time, unable to drag herself any farther, on a grass plot just below the window whence the young girl had seen her in the moonlight like a vision, floating towards the shore. Hebe, for so the maiden was called, woke early, and after glancing at her rose, threw open the window and leant out to watch the sunrise. "How lovely it is," she thought, "and how happy I am!" for her betrothal had only taken place the day before. "Dear rose, I will keep you always--even when withered--always, till--" But a low sob or wail, just below the window, startled her. What could it be? Leaning farther out, she saw at first nothing but a long tangle of shining hair covering some unseen object, for Chryssa's hair was like a golden cloak. "What is it? Who is lying there?" A faint voice answered-- "Oh, lady, I think I am dying! I have lain here all night, torn and bleeding, and none of my race can live many hours on land." Half-terrified at the strange words, but still more pitiful, Hebe hastened out. The window opened on to a little balcony, and steps led down to the garden. She would almost have been too frightened to approach Chryssa--for though there were old legends of mer-folk about that coast, generations had passed since any had actually been seen--but for the sweet expression in the little mermaid's face and eyes, dying though she seemed. This gave Hebe courage to go near her, and with the ointment and linen she quickly fetched, to bind up her cuts and bruises. Then Chryssa told her story in gasping words. "If I could but live to take a rose to the Queen," she said, "I would not mind dying; though, for one of my race, life should last for full five hundred years, and life is very beautiful." "Alas!" said the earth-maiden, "there are no roses in our garden, the soil does not suit them; and before I could procure one for you, you would die, I fear. But,"--and she made a great effort--"I will do for you what I had thought I could never do but a few minutes ago. I will give you my own rose--the first gift of my best beloved." And with the words, she ran back to her chamber and returned, the red rose fresh and blooming in her hand. She kissed it as she gave it to Chryssa. "Carry healing in your fragrance," she murmured. And, strange to say, as a breath of its perfume reached the mermaid, she herself in some magical way began to revive. Her eyes sparkled as she blessed Hebe for her generous sacrifice. "I feel," she said, "that the conditions are all fulfilled. My Queen will be saved." But Hebe's eyes looked over the fields to where the waves were lapping the shore. "The tide is coming in," she said, "you will not now have so far to go. But I must help you. Clasp me firmly round the neck, and I will carry you to the nearest creek, where already you will find the ocean water, which is to you what this fresh, balmy air is to us." And little Chryssa did as she was told, and Hebe, lifting the light burden in her strong young arms, carried the daughter of the strange unknown race of the sea as tenderly as if she had been a fragile sister of her own. For, after all, there was the greatest of all bonds between them--love and self-sacrifice in their hearts. All went well. Chryssa reached the sea-king's palace feeling stronger and better than when she set out, and the rose, too, seemed to have gained fresh beauty and fragrance by its contact with the waves. No sooner did the almost dying Queen breathe its perfume than her strength began to return, and in a few hours she was cured. No reward would have been too great for the King and Queen to bestow upon the little mermaid; but she asked for none save to be her mistress's constant attendant. They say--so, at least, the waves, who told me the story, whispered-- that down in the ocean depths, somewhere in a wonderful palace, there blooms still a flower of earth--a red rose--endowed with a magic gift of health and healing. Mrs Caretaker's voice stopped. For a moment or two the children did not move. Then she laid her hand gently on their heads, and they lifted them. "It is a lovely story," said Alix, with a sigh of content. "Do you think, dear Mrs Caretaker, that _perhaps_ we may see Chryssa some day when we are bathing?" Mrs Caretaker shook her head. "At least we may _look_ for her; perhaps she comes up to the shore sometimes--we _might_ catch a peep of her face among the surf. You might send her a message by one of the fishes you know, Mrs Caretaker." The old woman smiled. But suddenly Rafe started. "I was forgetting," he said. "Haven't we been here a great while? What _will_ nurse say?" "Never mind," said their friend. "Remember, I promised to see you home," and again she stroked their heads. And that was all that happened, till-- "You must be getting up, my dear; to-day you are going to the sea, remember," sounded first by one little bedside and then by the other. "Were we very late of coming in last night?" asked the children at breakfast. "Not so very, I don't think," nurse replied. "But you see I can't tell exactly, as I found you both undressed and in bed fast asleep when I came up from my supper. You did give me a surprise." Rafe and Alix looked at each other and smiled. Nurse thought it was only that they were pleased at the trick they had played her. The seaside visit was delightful. But before it came to an end a very unexpected thing happened. The children's father, who was a very clever man, was chosen for an important post out of England. It all came about in a great hurry, and Rafe and Alix have never since returned to the country house where, for most of the years of their life, they had been so happy. And all this time their home has been a long way off. They often speak of Ladywood, and declare that when they come back to England they _must_ go there and try to find the old caretaker again. But I almost hope they will not do so; for, I am sorry to say, Ladywood has been bought and all changed. A new house has been built at last on the site of the old one, and the foundations all opened out. I feel sure Mrs Caretaker is no longer there. Still, there is no saying but that Rafe and Alix may come across her again _some_ day and _some_ where. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The End. 
37357	----	Annie o' the Banks o' Dee By Gordon Stables Illustrations by none Published by F.V. White & Co, 14 Bedford Street, Strand, London WC. This edition dated 1899. Annie o' the Banks o' Dee, by Gordon Stables. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ ANNIE O' THE BANKS O' DEE, BY GORDON STABLES. CHAPTER ONE. AT BILBERRY HALL. "It may not be, it cannot be That such a gem was meant for me; But oh! if it had been my lot, A palace, not a Highland cot, That bonnie, simple gem had thrown Bright lustre o'er a jewelled crown; For oh! the sweetest lass to me Is Annie--Annie o' the Banks o' Dee?" Old Song. Far up the romantic Dee, and almost hidden by the dark waving green of spruce trees and firs, stands the old mansion-house of Bilberry Hall. Better, perhaps, had it still been called a castle, as undoubtedly it had been in the brave days of old. The many-gabled, turreted building had formerly belonged to a family of Gordons, who had been deprived of house and lands in the far north of Culloden, after the brutal soldiery of the Bloody Duke had laid waste the wild and extensive country of Badenoch, burning every cottage and house, murdering every man, and more than murdering every woman and child, and "giving their flesh to the eagles," as the old song hath it. But quiet indeed was Bilberry Hall now, quiet even to solemnity, especially after sunset, when the moon sailed up from the woods of the west, when only the low moan of the wind through the forest trees could be heard, mingling with the eternal murmur of the broad winding river, or now and then the plaintive cry of a night bird, or the mournful hooting of the great brown owl. It was about this time that Laird McLeod would summon the servants one and all, from the supercilious butler down to Shufflin' Sandie himself. Then would he place "the big ha' Bible" before him on a small table, arrange his spectacles more comfortably astride his nose, clear his throat, and read a long chapter. One of the Psalms of David in metre would then be sung. There wasn't a deal of music in the Laird's voice, it must be confessed. It was a deep, hoarse bass, that reminded one of the groaning of an old grandfather's clock just before it begins to strike. But when the maids took up the tune and sweet Annie Lane chimed in, the psalm or hymn was well worth listening to. Then with one accord all fell on their knees by chairs, the Laird getting down somewhat stiffly. With open eyes and uplifted face he prayed long and earnestly. The "Amen" concluded the worship, and all retired save Annie, the Laird's niece and almost constant companion. After, McLeod would look towards her and smile. "I think, my dear," he would say, "it is time to bring in the tumblers." There was always a cheerful bit of fire in the old-fashioned grate, and over it from a sway hung a bright little copper kettle, singing away just as the cat that sat on the hearth, blinking at the fire, was doing. The duet was the pleasantest kind of music to the Laird McLeod in his easy-chair, the very image of white-haired contentment. Annie Lane--sixteen years of age she was, and beautiful as a rosebud-- would place the punch-bowl on the little table, with its toddy-ladle, and flank it with a glass shaped like a thistle. Into the bowl a modicum of the oldest whisky was poured, and sugar added; the good Squire, or Laird, with the jolly red face, smiled with glee as the water bubbled from the spout of the shining kettle. "Now your slippers, dear," Annie would say. Off came the "brogue shoes" and on went a pretty pair of soft and easy slippers; by their flowery ornamentation it was not difficult to tell who had made them. A long pipe looked rather strange between such wee rosy lips; nevertheless, Annie lit that pipe, and took two or three good draws to make sure it was going, before handing it to her uncle. Then she bent over the back of the chair and kissed him on the bald pate, before going out with her maid for a walk on the lawn. It might be in the sweet summer time, when those green grassy terraces were perfumed with roses of every hue, or scented with the sweet syringa; in spring, when every tree and bush were alive with bird song; in red-berried autumn, or in the clear frost of a winter's night, when the world was all robed in its white cocoon and every bush, brake, or tree had branches like the whitest of coral. Jeannie Lee, the maid, was a great favourite with Annie, and Jeannie dearly loved her young mistress, and had done so for ten long years, ever since she had arrived at Bilberry Hall a toddling wee thing of six, and, alas! an orphan. Both father and mother had died in one week. They had loved each other in life, and in death were not divided. Jeannie was just four years older than her mistress, but she did not hesitate to confide to her all her secrets, for Jeannie was a bonnie lassie. "She whiles had a sweetheart, And whiles she had two." Well, but strange as it may appear, Annie, young as she was, had two lovers. There was a dashing young farmer--Craig Nicol by name--he was well-to-do, and had dark, nay, raven hair, handsome face and manly figure, which might well have captivated the heart of any girl. At balls and parties, arrayed in tartan, he was indeed a splendid fellow. He flirted with a good many girls, it is true, but at the bottom of his heart there was but one image--that of Annie Lane. Annie was so young, however, that she did not know her own mind. And I really think that Craig Nicol was somewhat impetuous in his wooing. Sometimes he almost frightened her. Poor Craig was unsophisticated, and didn't know that you must woo a woman as you angle for a salmon. He was a very great favourite with the Laird at all events, and many were the quiet games of cards they played together on winter evenings, many the bowl of punch they quaffed, before the former mounted his good grey mare and went noisily cantering homewards. No matter what the weather was, Craig would be in it, wind or rain, hail or snow. Like Burns's Tam o' Shanter was Craig. "Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind and rain and fire, Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet." Yes, indeed. Craig Nicol was a dashing young blade, and at times Annie thought she almost loved him. But what of the girl's other lover? Well, he was one of a very different stamp. A laird he was too, and a somewhat wealthy one, but he was not a week under fifty. He, too, was a constant visitor at Bilberry Hall, and paid great attention to Annie, though he treated her in a kind and fatherly sort of manner, and Annie really liked the man, though little did she think he was in love with her. One lovely moonlight night in autumn, however, when Laird Fletcher--for that was his name--found himself seated beside Annie and her maid in an arbour that overlooked the dreamy, hazy forest, he suddenly said to Jeannie: "Jeannie, I'd be the happiest man on earth if I only had this darling child to be my bride." Annie never spoke. She simply smiled, thinking he was in fun. But after a pause the Laird took Annie's hand: "Ah! dear lassie, I'll give you plenty of time to think of it. I'd care for you as the apple of my eye; I'd love you with a love that younger men cannot even dream of, and not a lady in all the land should be dressed so braw as my own wee dove." Annie drew her hand from his; then--I can't tell why--perhaps she did not know herself, she put her little white hands to her face and burst into tears. With loving words and kind, he tried to soothe her, but like a startled deer she sprang away from him, dashed across the lawn, and sought shelter in her own boudoir. The Laird, honest fellow, was sad, and sorry, too, that he had proposed to Annie; but then he really was to be excused. What is it a man will not do whom love urges on? Laird Fletcher was easy-minded, however, and hopeful on the whole. "Ah! well," he said to himself; "she'll come round in time, and if that black-haired young farmer were only _out of the way_, I'd win the battle before six months were over. Gives himself a mighty deal too much side, he does. Young men are mostly fools--I'll go into the house and smoke a pipe with my aged friend, McLeod." Shufflin' Sandie seemed to spring from the earth right in front of him. A queer little creature was Sandie, soul and body, probably thirty years old, but looking older; twinkling ferrety eyes and red hair, a tuft of which always stuck up through a hole on the top of the broad Prince Charlie bonnet he wore; a very large nose always filled with snuff; and his smile was like the grin of a vixen. Sandie was the man-of-all-work at Bilberry. He cleaned knives and boots in-doors, ran errands, and did all kinds of odd jobs out of doors. But above all Sandie was a fisherman. Old as he was, Squire McLeod, or Laird, as he was most often called, went to the river, and Sandie was always with him. The old man soon tired; then Sandie took the rod, and no man on all Deeside could make a prettier cast than he. The salmon used to come at his call. "Hullo!" said Laird Fletcher, "where did _you_ come from?" "Just ran round, sir, to see if you wanted your horse." "No, no, Sandie, not for another hour or two." The truth is that Sandie had been behind the arbour, listening to every word that was said. Sandie slept in a loft above the stable. It was there he went now, and threw himself on his bed to think. "Folks shouldn't speak aloud to themselves," he thought, "as Laird Fletcher does. Wants Farmer Nicol got out of the way, does he? The old rascal! I've a good mind to tell the police. But I think I'd better tell Craig Nicol first that there is danger ahead, and that he mustn't wear his blinkers. Poor man! Indeed will I! Then I might see what the Laird had to say as well. That's it, Sandie, that's it. I'll have twa strings to my bow." And Sandie took an enormous pinch of snuff and lay back again to muse. I never myself had much faith to put in an ignorant, deformed, half-dwarfed creature, and Shufflin' Sandie was all that, both physically and morally. I don't think that Sandie was a thief, but I do believe he would have done almost anything to turn an honest penny. Indeed, as regards working hard there was nothing wrong with Sandie. Craig Nicol, the farmer, had given him many a half-crown, and now he saw his way, or thought he did, to earn another. Well, Sandie, at ten o'clock, brought round Laird Fletcher's horse, and before mounting, the Laird, who, with all his wealth, was a wee bit of a niggard, gave him twopence. "The stingy, close-fisted, old tottering brute. Tuppince, eh!" Shufflin' Sandy shook his fist after the Laird. "_You_ marry our bonnie Annie?" he said, half-aloud. "Man, I'd sooner see the dearie floating down the Dee like a dead hare than to see her wedded to an old fossil like you." Sandie went off now to his bed in the loft, and soon all was peace around Bilberry Hall, save when the bloodhounds in their kennels lifted up their bell-like voices, giving warning to any tramp, or poacher that might come near the Hall. Annie knelt reverently down and said her prayers before getting into bed. The tears were in her eyes when she got up. "Oh," she said to her maid, "I hope I haven't hurt poor Mr Fletcher's feelings! He really is a kind soul, and he was very sincere." "Well, never mind, darling," said Jeannie; "but, lor, if he had only asked _my_ price I would have jumped at the offer." CHAPTER TWO. "THERE IS DANGER IN THE SKY." "What!" said Annie Lane, "would you really marry an old man?" "Ay, that would I," said the maid. "He's got the money. Besides, he is not so very old. But let me sing a bit of a song to you--very quietly, you know." Jeannie Lee had a sweet voice, and when she sang low, and to Annie alone, it was softer and sweeter still, like a fiddle with a mute on the bridge. This is the little song she sang: "What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do with an old man? Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for silver and land. "He's always complaining from morning till eenin', He coughs and he hobbles the weary day long; He's stupid, and dozin', his blood it is frozen-- Oh! dreary's the night wi' a crazy old man! "He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers-- I never can please him, do all that I can; He's peevish and jealous of all the young fellows-- Oh! grief on the day I met wi' an old man! "My old Aunty Kitty upon me takes pity: I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan; I'll cross him and rack him until I heart-break him, And then his old brass will buy a new pan!" "But, oh, how cruel!" said Annie. "Oh, I wish you would marry that Laird Fletcher--then he would bother me no more. Will you, Jeannie, dear?" Jeannie Lee laughed. "It will be you he will marry in the long run," she said; "now, I don't set up for a prophet, but remember my words: Laird Fletcher will be your husband, and he will be just like a father to you, and your life will glide on like one long and happy dream." It will be observed that Jeannie could talk good English when she cared to. When speaking seriously--the Scots always do--the Doric is for the most part of the fireside dialect. "And now, darling," continued Annie's maid, "go to sleep like a baby; you're not much more, you know. There, I'll sing you a lullaby, an old, old one: "`Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed; Countless blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.'" The blue eyes tried to keep open, but the eyelids would droop, and soon Annie o' the Banks o' Dee was wafted away to the drowsy land. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Shufflin' Sandie was early astir next morning. First he fed and attended to his horses, for he loved them as if they had been brothers; then he went to the kennels to feed the hounds, and in their joy to see him they almost devoured him alive. This done, Sandie had a big drink of water from the pump, for Sandie had had a glass too much the night before. He was none the worse, however; so he hied him to the kitchen. There were lots of merry Scotch lassies here, and they delighted to torment and tease Sandie. "Sandie," said one, "I've a good mind to tie the dish-cloth round your head." "Tie it round your own," said Sandie. "Anything becomes a good-looking face, my bonnie Betsy." "Sandie," said another buxom girl, "you were drunk last night. I'm sure of it." "No, not so very full, Fanny. I hadn't enough to get happy and jolly on." "But wouldn't you like a hair of the doggie that bit you this morning?" "Indeed would I, Fanny. I never say no to a drop of good Scotch." "Well, ye'll have to go to the village. Ye'll get none here. Just make your brose, and be content." Sandie did as he was bidden. Into a huge wooden bowl, called a "caup," he put three large handfuls of fine oatmeal and a modicum of salt. The kettle was boiling wildly on the fire, so the water was poured on and stirred, and the "brose" was made. A huge piece of butter was placed in the centre, and the bowl was flanked by a quart of new milk. And this was Shufflin' Sandie's breakfast, and when he had finished all save the bit he always left for Collie and the cat, he gave a sigh of contentment, and lit his pipe. And now the lasses began their banter again. "That's the stuff to make a man of you," said Fanny. "Make a man of an ill-shapen dwarf like him," said Maggie Reid. "Well! well! well!" "Hush, Mag," cried Fanny, "hush! God could have made you just as misshapen as poor Sandie." But Sandie took no heed. He was thinking. Soon he arose, and before Fanny could help herself, he had kissed her. Fanny threw the dish-cloth after him, but the laugh was all against her. The Laird would be downstairs now, so Sandie went quietly to the breakfast-room door and tapped. "Come in, Sandie," cried the Laird. "I know it is you." The Laird had a good Scotch breakfast before him. Porridge, fresh herrings and mashed potatoes, with ducks' eggs to follow and marmalade to finish off with. "Will you have a thistle, Sandie?" "Indeed I will, sir, and glad to." "Well, there's the bottle, and yonder's the glass. Help yourself, lad." Sandie did that, right liberally, too. "Horses and hounds all well, Sandie?" "All beautiful, Laird. And I was just going to ask if I could have the bay mare, Jean, to ride o'er to Birnie-Boozle (Craig Nicol's farm possessed that euphonic name). I've news for the fairmer." "All right, Sandie. Take care you don't let her down, though." "I'll see to her, Laird." And away went Sandie exultant, and in ten minutes more was clattering along the Deeside road. It was early autumn, and the tints were just beginning to show red and yellow on the elms and sycamores, but Sandie looked at nothing save his horse's neck. "Was the farmer at home?" "Yes; and would Sandie step into the parlour for a minute. Mary would soon find him." "Why, Sandie, man, what brings you here at so early an hour?" Sandie took a lordly pinch of snuff, and handed the box to Craig Nicol. "I've something to tell ye, sir. But, hush! take a peep outside, for fear anybody should be listening." "Now," he continued, in a half-whisper, "ye'll never breathe a word of what I'm going to tell you?" "Why, Sandie, I never saw you look so serious before. Sit down, and I'll draw my chair close to yours." The arrangement completed, Sandie's face grew still longer, and he told him all he heard while listening behind the arbour. "I own to being a bit inquisitive like," he added; "but man, farmer, it is a good thing for you on this occasion that I was. I've put you on your guard." Craig laughed till the glasses on the sideboard jingled and rang. "Is that all my thanks?" said Sandie, in a disheartened tone. "No, no, my good fellow. But the idea of that old cockalorum--though he is my rival--doing a sturdy fellow like me to death is too amusing." "Well," said Sandie, "he's just pretty tough, though he is a trifle old. He can hold a pistol or a jock-the-leg knife easily enough; the dark nights will soon be here. He'd be a happy man if you were dead, so I advise you to beware." "Well, well, God bless you, Sandie; when I'm saying my prayers to-night I'll think upon you. Now have a dram, for I must be off to ride round the farm." Just before his exit, the farmer, who, by the way, was a favourite all over the countryside, slipped a new five-shilling piece into Sandie's hand, and off the little man marched with a beaming face. "I'll have a rare spree at Nancy Wilson's inn on Saturday," he said. "I'll treat the lads and lassies too." But Shufflin' Sandie's forenoon's work was not over yet. He set spurs to his mare, and soon was galloping along the road in the direction of Laird Fletcher's mansion. The Laird hadn't come down yet. He was feeling the effects of last evening's potations, for just as-- "The Highland hills are high, high, high, The Highland whisky's strong." Sandie was invited to take a chair in the hall, and in about half an hour Laird Fletcher came shuffling along in dressing-gown and slippers. "Want to speak to me, my man?" "Seems very like it, sir," replied Sandie. "Well, come into the library." The Laird led the way, and Sandie followed. "I've been thinkin' all night, Laird, about the threat I heard ye make use of--to kill the farmer of Birnie-Boozle." Gentlemen of fifty who patronise the wine of Scotland are apt to be quick-tempered. Fletcher started to his feet, purple-faced and shaking with rage. "If you dare utter such an expression to me again," he cried, banging his fist on the table, "I won't miss you a kick till you're on the Deeside road." "Well, well, Laird," said Sandie, rising to go, "I can take my leave without kicking, and so save your old shanks; but look here. I'm going to ride straight to Aberdeen and see the Fiscal." Sandie was at the door, when Laird Fletcher cooled down and called him back. "Come, come, my good fellow, don't be silly; sit down again. You must never say a word to anyone about this. You promise?" "I promise, if ye square me." "Well, will a pound do it?" "Look here, Laird, I'm saving up money to buy a house of my own, and keep dogs; a pound won't do it, but six might." "Six pounds!" "Deuce a dollar less, Laird." The Laird sighed, but he counted out the cash. It was like parting with his heart's blood. But to have such an accusation even pointed at him would have damned his reputation, and spoilt all his chances with Annie o' the Banks o' Dee. Shufflin' Sandie smiled as he stowed the golden bits away in an old sock. He then scratched his head and pointed to the decanter. The Laird nodded, and Sandie drank his health in one jorum, and his success with Miss Lane in another. Sly Sandie! But his eyes were sparkling now, and he rode away singing "Auld Lang Syne." He was thinking at the same time about the house and kennels he should build when he managed to raise two hundred pounds. "I'll save every sixpence," he said to himself. "When I've settled down I'll marry Fanny." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ That same forenoon Craig called at Bilberry Hall. He was dressed for the hill in a dark tweed kilt, with a piece of leather on his left shoulder. He had early luncheon with McLeod, Annie presiding. In her pretty white bodice she never looked more lovely. So thought Craig. "Annie, come to the hill with me. _Do_." "Annie, go," added her uncle. "Well, I'll go, and bring you some birds, uncle dear, and Sandie shall ghillie me." "_I_ have a ghillie," said Craig. "Never mind. Two are better than one." They had really a capital day of it, for the sun shone brightly and the birds laid close. Gordon setters are somewhat slow, and need a drink rather often, but they are wondrous sure, and Bolt, the retriever, was fleet of foot to run down a wounded bird. So just as the sun was sinking behind the forests of the west, and tingeing the pine trees with crimson, they wended their way homeward, happy--happy with the health that only the Highland hills can give. Shufflin' Sandie had had several drops from Craig's flask, but he had also had good oatcakes and cheese, so he was as steady as a judge of session. When near to Bilberry Hall, Nicol and Annie emptied their guns in the air, and thus apprised of their approach, white-haired old McLeod came out to bid them welcome. A good dinner! A musical evening! Prayers! The tumblers! Then, bidding Annie a fond adieu, away rode the jolly young farmer. Shufflin' Sandie's last words to him were these: "Mind what I told you. There's danger in the sky. Good-night, and God be with you, Farmer Craig." CHAPTER THREE. SANDIE TELLS THE OLD, OLD STORY. "I wonder," said Craig Nicol to himself that night, before going to bed, and just as he rose from his knees, "if there can be anything in Shufflin' Sandie's warning. I certainly don't like old Father Fletcher, close-fisted as he is, and stingy as any miser ever I met. I don't like him prowling round my darling Annie either. And _he_ hates _me_, though he lifts his hat and grimaces like a tom-cat watching a bird whenever we meet. I'll land him one, one of these days, if he can't behave himself." But for quite a long time there was no chance of "landing the Laird one," for Fletcher called on Annie at times when he knew Craig was engaged. And so the days and weeks went by. Laird Fletcher's wooing was carried on now on perfectly different lines. He brought Annie many a little knick-knack from Aberdeen. It might be a bracelet, a necklet of gold, or the last new novel; but never a ring. No; that would have been too suggestive. Annie accepted these presents with some reluctance, but Fletcher looked at her so sadly, so wistfully, that rather than hurt his feelings she did receive them. One day Annie, the old Laird and the younger started for Aberdeen, all on good horses--they despised the train--and when coming round the corner on his mare, whom should they meet face to face but Craig Nicol? And this is what happened. The old man raised his hat. The younger Laird smiled ironically but triumphantly. Annie nodded, blushed, and smiled. But the young farmer's face was blanched with rage. He was no longer handsome. There was blood in his eye. He was a devil for the present. He plunged the spurs into his horse's sides and went galloping furiously along the road. "Would to God," he said, "I did not love her! Shall I resign her? No, no! I cannot. Yet-- "`Tis woman that seduces all mankind; By her we first were taught the wheedling arts.'" Worse was to follow. Right good fellow though he was, jealousy could make a very devil of Craig. "For jealousy is the injured woman's hell." And man's also. One day, close by the Dee, while Craig was putting his rod together previous to making a cast, Laird Fletcher came out from a thicket, also rod in hand. "Ah, we cannot fish together, Nicol," said the Laird haughtily. "We are rivals." Then all the jealousy in Nicol's bosom was turned for a moment into fury. "You--_you_! You old stiff-kneed curmudgeon! You a rival of a young fellow like me! Bah! Go home and go to bed!" Fletcher was bold. "Here!" he cried, dashing his rod on the grass; "I don't stand language like that from anyone!" Off went his coat, and he struck Craig a well-aimed blow under the chin that quite staggered him. Ah! but even skill at fifty is badly matched by the strength and agility of a man in his twenties. In five minutes' time Fletcher was on the grass, his face cut and his nose dripping with blood. Craig stood over him triumphantly, but the devil still lurked in his eyes. "I'm done with you for the time," said Fletcher, "but mark me, I'll do for you yet!" "Is that threatening my life, you old reprobate? You did so before, too. Come," he continued fiercely, "I will help you to wash some of that blood off your ugly face." He seized him as he spoke, and threw him far into the river. The stream was not deep, so the Laird got out, and went slowly away to a neighbouring cottage to dry his clothes and send for his carriage. "Hang it!" said Craig aloud; "I can't fish to-day." He put up his rod, and was just leaving, when Shufflin' Sandie came upon the scene. He had heard and seen all. "Didn't I tell ye, sir? He'll kill ye yet if ye don't take care. Be warned!" "Well," said Craig, laughing, "he is a scientific boxer, and he hurt me a bit, but I think I've given him a drubbing he won't soon forget." "No," said Sandie significantly; "he--won't--forget. Take my word for that." "Well, Sandie, come up to the old inn, and we'll have a glass together." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ For a whole fortnight Laird Fletcher was confined to his rooms before he felt fit to be seen. "A touch of neuralgia," he made his housekeeper tell all callers. But he couldn't and dared not refuse to see Shufflin' Sandie when he sent up his card--an old envelope that had passed through the post-office. "Well," said the Laird, "to what am I indebted for the honour of _this_ visit?" "Come off that high horse, sir," said Sandie, "and speak plain English. I'll tell you," he added, "I'll tell you in a dozen words. I'm going to build a small house and kennels, and I'm going to marry Fanny--the bonniest lassie in all the world, sir. Ah! won't I be happy, just!" He smiled, and took a pinch, then offered the box to the Laird. The Laird dashed it aside. "What in thunder?" he roared, "has your house or marriage to do with me?" "Ye'll soon see that, my Laird. I want forty pounds, or by all the hares on Bilberry Hill I'll go hot-foot to the Fiscal, for I heard your threat to Craig Nicol by the riverside." Half-an-hour afterwards Shufflin' Sandie left the Laird to mourn, but Sandie had got forty pounds nearer to the object of his ambition, and was happy accordingly. As he rode away, the horse's hoofs making music that delighted his ear, Sandie laughed aloud to himself. "Now," he thought, "if I could only just get about fifty pounds more, I'd begin building. Maybe the old Laird'll help me a wee bit; but I must have it, and I must have Fanny. My goodness! how I do love the lassie! Her every look or glance sends a pang to my heart. I cannot bear it; I _shall_ marry Fanny, or into the deepest, darkest kelpie's pool in the Dee I'll fling myself. "`O love, love! Love is like a dizziness, That winna let a poor body go about his bus-i-ness.'" Shufflin' Sandie was going to prove no laggard in love. But his was a thoroughly Dutch peasant's courtship. He paid frequent visits by train to the Granite City, to make purchases for the good old Laird McLeod. And he never returned without a little present for Fanny. It might be a bonnie ribbon for her hair, a bottle of perfume, or even a bag of choice sweets. But he watched the chance when Fanny was alone in the kitchen to slip them into her hand half-shyly. Once he said after giving her a pretty bangle: "I'm not so very, _very_ ugly, am I, Fanny?" "'Deed no, Sandie!" "And I'm not so crooked and small as they would try to make me believe. Eh, dear?" "'Deed no, Sandie, and I ay take your part against them all. And that you know, Sandie." How sweet were those words to Sandie's soul only those who love, but are in doubt, may tell. "Tis sweet to love, but sweeter far To be beloved again; But, ah! how bitter is the pain To love, yet love in vain!" "Ye haven't a terrible lot of sweethearts, have you, Fanny?" "Well, Sandie, I always like to tell the truth; there's plenty would make love to me, but I can't bear them. There's ploughman Sock, and Geordie McKay. Ach! and plenty more." She rubbed away viciously at the plate she was cleaning. "And I suppose," said Sandie, "the devil a one of them has one sixpence to rub against another?" "Mebbe not," said Fanny. "But, Fanny--" "Well, Sandie?" "I--I really don't know what I was going to say, but I'll sing it." Sandie had a splendid voice and a well-modulated one. "My love is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June; My love is like a melody, That's sweetly played in tune. "As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I; And I will love you still, my dear, Till a' the seas go dry. "Till a' the seas go dry, my lass, And the rocks melt with the sun; Yes, I will love you still, my dear, Till sands of life are run." The tears were coursing down the bonnie lassie's cheeks, so plaintive and sweet was the melody. "What! ye're surely not crying, are ye?" said Sandie, approaching and stretching one arm gently round her waist. "Oh, no, Sandie; not me!" But Sandie took the advantage, and kissed her on the tear-bedewed cheeks. She didn't resist. "I say, Fanny--" "Yes, Sandie." "It'll be a bonnie night to-night, the moon as bright as day. Will you steal out at eight o'clock and take a wee bit walk with me? Just meet me on the hill near Tammie Gibb's ruined cottage. I've something to tell you." "I'll--I'll try," said Fanny, blushing a little, as all innocent Scotch girls do. Sandie went off now to his work as happy as the angels. And Fanny did steal out that night. Only for one short hour and a half. Oh, how short the time did seem to Sandie! It is not difficult to guess what Sandie had to tell her. The old, old story, which, told in a thousand different ways, is ever the same, ever, ever new. And he told her of his prospects, of the house--a but and a ben, or two rooms--he was soon to build, and his intended kennels, though he would still work for the Laird. "Will ye be my wife? Oh, will you, Fanny?" "Yes." It was but a whispered word, but it thrilled Sandie's heart with joy. "My ain dear dove!" he cried, folding her in his arms. They were sitting on a mossy bank close by the forest's edge. Their lips met in one long, sweet kiss. Yes, peasant love I grant you, but I think it was leal and true. "They might be poor--Sandie and she; Light is the burden love lays on; Content and love bring peace and joy. What more have queens upon a throne?" Homeward through the moonlight, hand-in-hand, went the rustic lovers, and parted at the gate as lovers do. Sandie was kind of dazed with happiness. He lay awake nearly all the livelong night, till the cocks began to crow, wondering how on earth he was to raise the other fifty pounds and more that should complete his happiness. Then he dozed off into dreamland. He was astir, all the same, at six in the morning. And back came the joy to his heart like a great warm sea wave. He attended to his horses and to the kennel, singing all the time; then went quietly in to make his brose. Some quiet, sly glances and smiles passed between the betrothed--Scotch fashion again--but that was all. Sandie ate his brose in silence, then took his departure. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One morning a letter arrived from Edinburgh from a friend of Craig Nicol. Craig was sitting at the table having breakfast when the servant brought it in and laid it before him. His face clouded as he read it. The friend's name was Reginald Grahame, and he was a medical student in his fourth year. He had been very kind to Craig in Edinburgh, taking him about and showing him all the sights in this, the most romantic city on earth-- "Edina, Scotia's darling seat." Nevertheless, Craig's appetite failed, and he said "Bother!" only more so, as he pitched the letter down on the table. CHAPTER FOUR. "THIS QUARREL, I FEAR, MUST END IN BLOOD." Reginald Grahame was just as handsome a young fellow as ever entered the quad of Edinburgh University. Not the same stamp or style as Craig; equally as good-looking, but far more refined. "My dear boy," ran the letter,--"next week look out for me at Birnie-Boozle. I'm dead tired of study. I'm run down somewhat, and will be precious glad to get a breath of your Highland air and a bit of fishing. I'm only twenty-one yet, you know, and too young for my M.D. So I'm going soon to try to make a bit of money by taking out a patient and her daughter to San Francisco, then overland to New York, and back home. Why, you won't know your old friend when he comes back," etc, etc. "Hang my luck!" said Craig, half-aloud. "This is worse than a dozen Laird Fletchers. Annie has never said yet that she loved me, and I feel a presentiment that I shall be cut out now in earnest. Och hey! But I'll do my best to prevent their meeting. It may be mean, but I can't help it. Indeed, I've half a mind to pick a quarrel with him and let him go home." Next week Reginald did arrive, looking somewhat pale, for his face was "Sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," but very good-looking for all that. Probably his paleness added to the charm of his looks and manner, and there was the gentleman in every movement, grace in every turn. They shook hands fervently at the station, and soon in Craig's dogcart were rattling along towards Birnie-Boozle. Reginald's reception was everything that could be desired, and the hospitality truly Highland. Says Burns the immortal: "In Heaven itself I'll seek nae mair Than just a Highland welcome!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ For over a week--for well-nigh a fortnight, indeed--they fished by the river, and caught many a trout, as well as lordly salmon, without seeing anyone belonging to Bilberry Hall, except Shufflin' Sandie, for whom the grand old river had irresistible attractions. Sandie smelt a rat, though, and imagined he knew well enough why Craig Nicol did not bring his friend to the Hall. Before falling asleep one night, Craig had an inspiration, and he slept more soundly after it. He would take his friend on a grand Highland tour, which should occupy all his vacation. Yes. But man can only propose. God has the disposal of our actions. And something happened next that Craig could not have calculated on. They had been to the hill, which was still red and crimson with the bonnie blooming heather, and were coming down through the forest, not far from Bilberry Hall, when suddenly they heard a shot fired, then the sounds of a fearful struggle. Both young men grasped their sturdy cudgels and rushed on. They found two of McLeod's gamekeepers engaged in a terrible encounter with four sturdy poachers. But when Craig and his friend came down they were man to man, and the poachers fled. Not, however, before poor Reginald was stabbed in the right chest with a _skean dhu_, the little dagger that kilted Highlanders wear in their right stocking. The young doctor had fallen. The keepers thought he was dead, the blood was so abundant. But he had merely fainted. They bound his wound with scarves, made a litter of spruce branches, and bore him away to the nearest house, and that was the Hall. Craig entered first, lest Annie should be frightened, and while Shufflin' Sandie rode post-haste for the doctor poor Reginald was put to bed downstairs in a beautiful room that overlooked both forest and river. So serious did the doctor consider the case that he stayed with him all night. A rough-looking stick was this country surgeon, in rough tweed jacket and knickerbockers, but tender-hearted to a degree. Craig had gone home about ten, somewhat sad-hearted and hopeless. Not, it must be confessed, for his friend's accident, but Reginald would now be always with Annie, for she had volunteered to nurse him. But Craig rode over every day to see the wounded man for all that. "He has a tough and wondrous constitution," said Dr McRae. "He'll pull through under my care and Annie's gentle nursing." Craig Nicol winced, but said nothing. Reginald had brought a dog with him, a splendid black Newfoundland, and that dog was near him almost constantly. Sometimes he would put his paws on the coverlet, and lean his cheek against his master in a most affectionate way. Indeed, this action sometimes brought the tears to Annie's eyes. No more gentle or kind nurse could Reginald have had than Annie. To the guileless simplicity of a child was added all the wisdom of a woman. And she obeyed to the very letter all the instructions the doctor gave her. She was indefatigable. Though Fanny relieved her for hours during the day, Annie did most of the night work. At first the poor fellow was delirious, raving much about his mother and sisters. With cooling lotions she allayed the fever in his head. Ay, she did more: she prayed for him. Ah! Scots folk are strange in English eyes, but perhaps some of them are saints in God's. Reginald, however, seemed to recover semiconsciousness all at once. The room in which he lay was most artistically adorned, the pictures beautifully draped, coloured candles, mirrors, and brackets everywhere. He looked around him half-dazed; then his eyes were fixed on Annie. "Where am I?" he asked. "Is this Heaven? Are you an--an--angel?" He half-lifted himself in the bed, but she gently laid him back on the snow-white pillows again. "You must be good, dear," she said, as if he had been a baby. "Be good and try to sleep." And the eyes were closed once more, and the slumber now was sweet and refreshing. When he awoke again, after some hours, his memory had returned, and he knew all. His voice was very feeble, but he asked for his friend, Craig Nicol. But business had taken Craig away south to London, and it would be a fortnight before he could return. Ah! what a happy time convalescence is, and happier still was it for Reginald with a beautiful nurse like Annie--Annie o' the Banks o' Dee. In a week's time he was able to sit in an easy-chair in the drawing-room. Annie sang soft, low songs to him, and played just as softly. She read to him, too, both verse and prose. Soon he was able to go for little drives, and now got rapidly well. Is it any wonder that, thrown together in so romantic a way, these two young people fell in love, or that when he plighted his troth Annie shyly breathed the wee word Yes? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Craig Nicol came back at last, and he saw Reginald alone. Reginald--impulsive he ever was--held out his hand and asked for congratulations on his engagement to Annie. Craig almost struck that hand away. His face grew dark and lowering. "Curse you!" he cried. "You were my friend once, or pretended to be. Now I hate you; you have robbed me of my own wee lamb, my sweetheart, and now have the impudence--the confounded impertinence--to ask me to congratulate you! You are as false as the devil in hell!" "Craig Nicol," said Reginald, and his cheeks flushed red, "I am too weak to fight you now, but when I am well you shall rue these words! _Au revoir_. We meet again." This stormy encounter took place while the young doctor sat on a rocking-chair on the gravelled terrace. Shufflin Sandie was close at hand. "Gentlemen," said Sandie, "for the Lord's sake, don't quarrel!" But Craig said haughtily, "Go and mind your own business, you blessed Paul Pry." Then he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, and soon after his horse's hoofs might have been heard clattering on the road as he dashed briskly on towards his farm of Birnie-Boozle. Annie Lane came round from the flower-garden at the west wing of Bilberry Hall. She carried in her hand a bouquet of autumnal roses and choice dahlias--yellow, crimson, and white; piped or quilled cactus and single. She was singing low to herself the refrain of that bonnie old song: "When Jackie's far awa' at sea, When Jackie's far awa' at sea, What's a' the pleasure life can gie, When Jackie's far awa'?" Perhaps she never looked more innocently happy or more beautiful than she did at that moment. "Like dew on the gowans lying Was the fa' o' her fairy feet; And like winds in summer sighing, Her voice was low and sweet." But when she noticed the pallor on her lovers cheek she ceased singing, and advanced more quickly towards him. "Oh, my darling," she cried, "how pale you are! You are ill! You must come in. Mind, I am still your nursie." "No, no; I am better here. I have the fresh air. But I am only a little upset, you know." "And what upset you, dear Reginald?" She had seated herself by his side. She had taken his hand, and had placed two white wee fingers on his pulse. "I'll tell you, Annie mine--" "Yes, I'm yours, and yours only, and ever shall be." "Craig Nicol has been here, and we have quarrelled. He has cursed and abused me. He says I have stolen your heart from him, and now he must for ever hate me." "But, oh, Reginald, he never had my heart!" "I never knew he had sought it, dearest." "Yet he did. I should have told you before, but he persecuted me with his protestations of love. Often and often have I remained in my room all the evening long when I knew he was below." "Well, he cursed me from the bottom of his heart and departed. Not before I told him that our quarrel could not end thus, that I was too proud to stand abuse, that when well I should fight him." "Oh, no--no--no! For my sake you must not fight." "Annie, my ain little dove, do you remember these two wee lines: "`I could not love thee half so much, Loved I not honour more.' "There is no hatred so deep and bitter as that between two men who have once been friends. No; both Craig and I will be better pleased after we fight; but this quarrel I fear must end in blood." Poor Annie shuddered. Just at that moment Shufflin' Sandie appeared on the scene. He was never far away. "Can I get ye a plaid, Mr Grahame, to throw o'er your legs? It's gettin' cold now, I fear." "No, no, my good fellow; we don't want attendance at present. Thank you all the same, however." Oscar, Reginald's great Newfoundland, came bounding round now to his master's side. He had been hunting rats and rabbits. The embrace he gave his master was rough, but none the less sincere. Then he lay down by his feet, on guard, as it were; for a dog is ever suspicious. Annie was very silent and very sad. Reginald drew her towards him, and she rested her head on his shoulder. But tears bedimmed her blue eyes, and a word of sympathy would have caused her to burst into a fit of weeping that would probably have been hysterical in its nature. So Reginald tried to appear unconcerned. They sat in silence thus for some time. The silence of lovers is certainly golden. Presently, bright, neatly-dressed Fanny came tripping round, holding in advance of her a silver salver. "A letter, sir," she said, smiling. Reginald took it slowly from the salver, and his hand shook visibly. "Annie," he said, somewhat sadly, "I believe this contains my sailing orders." CHAPTER FIVE. A DISCOVERY THAT APPALLED AND SHOCKED EVERYONE. Reginald had guessed aright. The good barque _Wolverine_ would sail from Glasgow that day month, wind and weather permitting, for the South Atlantic, and round the Horn to the South Pacific Islands and San Francisco. This was from the captain; but a note was enclosed from Mrs Hall, Reginald's pet aunt, hoping he was quite restored to health and strength, and would join them some hours before sailing. She felt certain, she said, that the long voyage would quite restore her, and her daughter Ilda and wee niece Matty were wild with delight at the prospect of being-- "All alone on the wide, wide sea." "Oh, my darling!" cried Annie, "I believe my heart will break to lose you." "But it will not be for long, my love--a year at most; and, oh, our reunion will be sweet! You know, Annie, I am _very_ poor, with scarce money enough to procure me an outfit. It is better our engagement should not be known just yet to the old Laird, your uncle. He would think it most presumptuous in me to aspire to the hand of his heiress. But I shall be well and strong long before a month; and think, dearest, I am to have five hundred pounds for acting as private doctor and nurse to Mrs Hall! When I return I shall complete my studies, set up in practice, and then, oh, then, Annie, you and I shall be married! "`Two souls with but a single thought, Two hearts that beat as one.'" But the tears were now silently chasing each other down her cheeks. "Cheer up, my own," said Reginald, drawing her closer to him. Presently she did, and then the woman, not the child, came uppermost. "Reginald," she said, "tell me, is Miss Hall very beautiful?" "I hardly know how to answer you, Annie. I sometimes think she is. Fragile, rather, with masses of glittering brown hair, and hazel eyes that are sometimes very large, as she looks at you while you talk. But," he added, "there can be no true love unless there is a little jealousy. Ah, Annie," he continued, smiling, "I see it in your eye, just a tiny wee bit of it. But it mustn't increase. I have plighted my troth to you, and will ever love you as I do now, as long as the sun rises over yonder woods and forests." "I know, I know you will," said Annie, and once more the head was laid softly on his shoulder. "There is one young lady, however, of whom you have some cause to be jealous." "And she?" "I confess, Annie, that I loved her a good deal. Ah, don't look sad; it is only Matty, and she is just come five." Poor Annie laughed in a relieved sort of way. The lovers said little more for a time, but presently went for a walk in the flower-gardens, and among the black and crimson buds of autumn. Reginald could walk but slowly yet, and was glad enough of the slight support of Annie's arm. "Ah, Annie," he said, "it won't be long before you shall be leaning on my arm instead of me on yours." "I pray for that," said the child-woman. The gardens were still gay with autumnal flowers, and I always think that lovers are a happy adjunct to a flower-garden. But it seemed to be the autumn buds that were the chief attraction for Reginald at present. They were everywhere trailing in vines over the hedgerows, supported on their own sturdy stems or climbing high over the gables and wings of the grand old hall. The deadly nightshade, that in summer was covered with bunches of sweetest blue, now grew high over the many hedges, hung with fruitlike scarlet bunches of the tiniest grapes. The _Bryonia Alba_, sometimes called the devil's parsnip, that in June snows the country hedges over with its wealth of white wee flowers, was now splashed over with crimson budlets. The holly berries were already turning. The black-berried ivy crept high up the shafts of the lordly Lombardy poplars. Another tiny berry, though still green, grew in great profusion--it would soon be black--the fruit of the privet. The pyrocanthus that climbs yonder wall is one lovely mass of vermilion berries in clusters. These rival in colour and appearance the wealth of red fruit on the rowan trees or mountain ashes. "How beautiful, Annie," said Reginald, gazing up at the nodding berries. "Do you mind the old song, dear?-- "`Oh, rowan tree, oh, rowan tree, Thou'lt ay be dear to me; Begirt thou art with many thoughts Of home and infancy. "`Thy leaves were ay the first in spring Thy flowers the summer's pride; There wasn't such a bonnie tree In a' the countryside, Oh, rowan tree!'" "It is very beautiful," said Annie, "and the music is just as beautiful, though plaintive, and even sad. I shall play it to you to-night." But here is an arbour composed entirely of a gigantic briar, laden with rosy fruit. Yet the king-tree of the garden is the barberry, and I never yet knew a botanist who could describe the lavish loveliness of those garlands of rosy coral. With buds of a somewhat deeper shade the dark yews were sprinkled, and in this fairy-like garden or arboretum grew trees and shrubs of every kind. Over all the sun shone with a brilliancy of a delightful September day. The robins followed the couple everywhere, sometimes even hopping on to Reginald's shoulder or Annie's hat, for these birds seem to know by instinct where kindness of heart doth dwell. "Annie," said Reginald, after a pause, "I am very, very happy." "And I, dear," was the reply, "am very hopeful." How quickly that month sped away. Reginald was as strong as ever again, and able to play cards of an evening with Laird McLeod or Laird Fletcher, for the latter, knowing that the farmer of Birnie-Boozle came here no longer, renewed his visits. I shall not say much about the parting. They parted in tears and in sorrow, that is all; with many a fond vow, with many a fond embrace. It has often grieved me to think how very little Englishmen know about our most beautiful Scottish songs. Though but a little simple thing, "The Pairtin'" (parting) is assuredly one of the most plaintively melodious I know of in any language. It is very _apropos_ to the parting of Reginald and Annie o' the Banks o' Dee. "Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee, Home and friends, and country dear, Oh, ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee, Happier days may soon be here. "See, yon bark so proudly bounding, Soon shall bear me o'er the sea; Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding, Calls me far from love and thee. "Summer flowers shall cease to blossom, Streams run backward from the sea; Cold in death must be this bosom Ere it cease to throb for thee. "Fare thee well--may every blessing Shed by Heaven around thee fa'; One last time thy lov'd form pressing-- Think on me when far awa'." "If you would keep song in your hearts," says a writer of genius, "learn to sing. There is more merit in melody than most people are aware of. Even the cobbler who smoothes his wax-ends with a song will do as much work in a day as one given to ill-nature would do in a week. Songs are like sunshine, they run to cheerfulness, and fill the bosom with such buoyancy, that for the time being you feel filled with June air or like a meadow of clover in blossom." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ How lonely the gardens and the Hall itself seemed to Annie now that her lover had gone, and how sad at heart was she! Well, and how reluctant am I myself to leave all these pleasant scenes, and bring before the mind's eye an event so terrible and a deed so dark that I almost shudder as I describe it; but as the evolution of this ower-true tale depends upon it, I am obliged to. First, I must tell you that just two days before joining his ship, Reginald had to go to Aberdeen to see friends and bid them adieu. But it happened that Craig Nicol had made a visit on foot to Aberdeen about the same time. Thirty, or even forty, miles was not too much for a sturdy young fellow like him. He had told his housekeeper a week before that he was to draw money from the bank--a considerable sum, too. This was foolish of him, for the garrulous old woman not only boasted to the neighbouring servants of the wealth of her master, but even told them the day he would leave for the town. Poor Craig set off as merrily as any half-broken hearted lover could be expected to do. But, alas! after leaving Aberdeen on his homeward journey, he had never been seen alive again by anyone who knew him. As he often, however, made a longer stay in town than he had first intended, the housekeeper and servants of Birnie-Boozle were not for a time alarmed; but soon the assistance of the police was called in, with the hopes of solving the mystery. All they did find out, however, was that he had left the Granite City well and whole, and that he had called at an inn called the Five Mile House on the afternoon to partake of some refreshment. After that all was a dread and awful blank. There was not a pond, however, or copse along from this inn that was not searched. Then the river was dragged by men used to work of this sort. But all in vain. The mystery remained still unrevealed. Only the police, as usual, vaunted about having a clue, and being pressed to explain, a sergeant said: "Why, only this: you see he drew a lot of cash from the bank in notes and gold, and as we hear that he is in grief, there is little doubt in our minds that he has gone, for a quiet holiday to the Continent, or even to the States." Certain in their own minds that this was the case, the worthy police force troubled themselves but little more about the matter. They thought they had searched everywhere; but one place they had forgotten and missed. From the high road, not many miles from Birnie-Boozle, a road led. It was really little more than a bridle-path, but it shortened the journey by at least a mile, and when returning from town Craig Nicol always took advantage of this. Strange, indeed, it was, that no one, not even the housekeeper, had thought of giving information about this to the police. But the housekeeper was to be excused. She was plunged deeply in grief. She and she only would take no heed of the supposed clue to the mystery that the sergeant made sure he had found. "Oh, oh," she would cry, "my master is dead! I know, I know he is. In a dream he appeared to me. How wan and weird he looked, and his garments were drenched in blood and gore. Oh, master, dear, kind, good master, I shall never, never see you more!" And the old lady wrung her hands and wept and sobbed as if her very heart would break. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Reginald's ship had been about two days at sea. The wind was fair and strong, so that she had made a good offing, and was now steering south by west, bearing up for the distant shores of South America. And it was now that a discovery was made that appalled and shocked everyone in all the countryside. CHAPTER SIX. A VERDICT OF MURDER. About half-way up the short cut, or bridle-path, was a dark, dingy spruce-fir copse. It was separated from the roads by a high whitethorn hedge, trailed over with brambles, the black, shining, rasp-like fruit of which were now ripe and juicy. They were a great attraction to the wandering schoolboy. Two lads, aged about eight or ten--great favourites with Craig's housekeeper--were given a basket each in the forenoon and sent off to pick the berries and to return to tea about four o'clock. There was a gate that entered from the path, but it was seldom, if ever, opened, save probably by the wood-cutters. Well, those two poor little fellows returned hours and hours before tea-time. They were pale and scared-looking. In their terror they had even dropped their baskets. "Oh, the man! the man!" they cried, as soon as they entered. "The poor, dead man!" Although some presentiment told the aged housekeeper that this must indeed be the dead body of her unhappy master, she summoned courage to run herself to the police-station. An officer was soon on the fatal spot, guided by the braver of the two little lads. With his big knife the policeman hacked away some of the lower branches of the spruce-fir, and thus let in the light. It was indeed Craig, and there was little doubt that he had been foully murdered. But while one officer took charge of the corpse, he did not touch it, but dispatched another to telegraph to Aberdeen at once for a detective. He arrived by the very next train, accompanied by men with a letter. The news had spread like wildfire, and quite a crowd had by this time gathered in the lane, but they were kept far back from the gate lest their footsteps should deface any traces of the murder. Even the imprint of a shoe might be invaluable in clearing up an awful mystery like this. Mr C., the detective, and the surgeon immediately started their investigations. It was only too evident that Craig Nicol had been stabbed to the heart. His clothes were one mass of gore, and hard with blood. On turning the body over, a discovery was made that caused the detective's heart to palpitate with joy. Here, underneath it, was found a Highlander's _skean dhu_ (stocking dirk). The little sheath itself was found at a distance of a few yards, and it must evidently have been dropped by the murderer, in his haste to conceal the body. "Ha! this is indeed a clue," said the detective. "This knife did the deed, George. See, it is encrusted with blood." "I think so, sir." "And look, on the silver back of the little sheath are the letters R.G." He took the dagger in his hand, and went back to the little crowd. "Can anyone identify this knife?" he asked, showing it to them. No one could. "Can you?" said the detective, going to the rear and addressing Shufflin' Sandie. Sandie appeared to be in deep grief. "Must I tell?" "You needn't now, unless you like, but you must at the inquest." "Then, sir, I may as well say it now. The knife belongs to Mr Grahame." A thrill of horror went through the little crowd, and Sandy burst into tears. "Where does he live, this Mr Grahame?" "He did live at Bilberry Hall, sir," blubbered Sandie; "but a few days ago he sailed away for the Southern Seas." "Was he poor or rich, Sandie?" "As poor as a church mouse, sir. I've heard him tell Miss Annie Lane so. For I was always dandlin' after them." "Thank you; that will do in the meantime." Craig had evidently been robbed, for the pockets were turned inside out, and another discovery made was this: the back of the coat was covered with dust or dried mud, so that, in all human probability, he must have been murdered on the road, then dragged and hidden here. There was a terrible bruise on one side of the head, so it was evident enough to the surgeon, as well as to the detective, that the unfortunate man must first have been stunned and afterwards stabbed. There was evidence, too, that the killing had been done on the road; there were marks of the gravel having been scraped away, and this same gravel, blackened with blood, was found in the ditch. The detective took his notes of the case, then calling his man, proceeded to have the man laid on the litter. The body was not taken home, but to the barn of an adjoining cottage. Here when the coroner was summoned and arrived from Aberdeen, part of the inquest was held. After viewing the body, the coroner and jury went to Birnie-Boozle, and here more business was gone through. The housekeeper was the first to be examined. She was convulsed with grief, and could only testify as to the departure and date of departure of her master for the distant city, with the avowed intention of drawing money. "That will do, my good woman; you can retire." The next witness to be examined was Shufflin' Sandie. He was exceedingly cool, and took a large pinch of snuff before answering a question. "Were not Craig Nicol and Reginald Grahame particular friends?" "Once upon a time, sir; but he was awfully jealous was Craig, and never brought Grahame to the Hall; but after the fight with thae devils of poachers, Grahame was carried, wounded, to Bilberry Hall, and nursed by Miss Annie. Not much wonder, sir, that they fell in love. I would have done the same myself. I--" "Now, don't be garrulous." "Oh, devil a garrylus; I'll not say another word if ye like." "Well, go on." "Well, sir, they were engaged. Then one day Craig comes to the Hall, and there was terrible angry words. Craig cursed Grahame and called him all the ill names he could lay his tongue to." "And did Grahame retaliate?" "Indeed did he, sir; he didn't swear, but he said that as soon as he was well, the _quarrel should end in blood_." (Sensation in court.) "Had Craig any other enemy?" "That he had--old Laird Fletcher. They met at the riverside one day, and had a row, and fought. I saw and heard everything. Craig Nicol told the old Laird that he would have nobody snuffling round his lady love. Then they off-coat and fought. Man! it was fine! The Laird put in some good ones, but the young 'un had it at last. Then he flung the Laird into the river, and when he got out he threatened to do for poor Craig Nicol." (Sensation.) Sandie paused to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, and took snuff before he could proceed. "You think," said the coroner, "that Laird Fletcher meant to carry out his threat?" "I don't know. I only know this--he was in doonright devilish earnest when he made it." "I am here," said Laird Fletcher, "and here, too, are five witnesses to prove that I have not been twice outside my own gate since Craig Nicol started for Aberdeen. Once I was at the Hall, and my groom here drove me there and back; I was too ill to walk." The witnesses were examined on oath, and no alibi was ever more clearly proven. Laird Fletcher was allowed to leave the court without a stain on his character. "I am sorry to say, gentlemen," addressing the jury, "that there appears no way out of the difficulty, and that his poverty would alone have led Grahame to commit the terrible deed, to say nothing of his threat that the quarrel would end in blood. Poor Craig Nicol has been robbed, and foully, brutally murdered, and Reginald Grahame sails almost immediately after for the South Seas. I leave the verdict with you." Without leaving the box, and after a few minutes of muttered conversation, the foreman stood up. "Have you agreed as to your verdict?" "Unanimously, sir." "And it is?" "Wilful murder, sir, committed by the hands of Reginald Grahame." "Thank you. And now you may retire." Ill news travels apace, and despite all that Fanny and Annie's maid could do, the terrible accusation against her lover soon reached our poor heroine's ears. At first she wept most bitterly, but it was not because she believed in Reginald's guilt. No, by no means. It was because she felt sorrow for him. He was not here to defend himself, as she was sure he could. Perhaps love is blind, and lovers cannot see. But true love is trusting. Annie had the utmost faith in Reginald Grahame--a faith that all the accusations the world could make against him could not shake, nor coroners' verdicts either. "No, no, no," she exclaimed to her maid passionately, through her tears, "my darling is innocent, though things look black against him. Ah! how unfortunate that he should have gone to the city during those three terrible days!" She was silent for a couple of minutes. "Depend upon it, Jeannie," she added, "someone else was the murderer. And for all his alibi, which I believe to be got up, I blame that Laird Fletcher." "Oh, don't, dearest Annie," cried the maid, "believe me when I say I could swear before my Maker that he is not guilty." "I am hasty, because in sorrow," said Annie. "I may alter my mind soon. Anyhow, he does not look the man to be guilty of so terrible a crime, and he has been always kind and fatherly to me, since the day I ran away from the arbour. Knowing that I am engaged, he will not be less so now. But, oh, my love, my love! Reginald, when shall I ever see thee again? I would die for thee, with thee; as innocent thou as the babe unborn. Oh Reginald my love, my love!" Her perfect confidence in her lover soon banished Annie's grief. He would return. He might be tried, she told herself, but he would leave the court in robes of white, so to speak, able to look any man in the face, without spot or stain on his character. Then they would be wedded. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ A whole month flew by, during which--so terrible is justice--an expedition was sent to San Francisco overland, with policemen, to meet the _Wolverine_ there, and at once to capture their man. They waited and waited a weary time. Six months flew by, nine months, a year; still she came not, and at last she was classed among the ships that ne'er return. Reginald Grahame will never be seen again--so thought the 'tecs--"Till the sea gives up the dead." CHAPTER SEVEN. BUYING THE BONNIE THINGS. To say that Annie was not now in grief would be wrong. Still hope told a flattering tale. And that tale sufficed to keep her heart up. He must have been wrecked somewhere, but had she not prayed night and day for him? Yes, he was safe--must be. Heaven would protect him. Prayers are heard, and he _would_ return safe and sound, to defy his enemies and his slanderers as well. Fletcher had been received back into favour. Somewhat penurious he was known to be, but so kind and gentle a man as he could never kill. Had she not seen him remove a worm from the garden path lest it might be trodden upon by some incautious foot? He kept her hopes up, too, and assured her that he believed as she did, that all would come right in the end. If everybody else believed that the _Wolverine_ was a doomed ship, poor Annie didn't. There came many visitors to the Hall, young and middle-aged, and more than one made love to Annie. She turned a deaf ear to all. But now an event occurred that for a time banished some of the gloom that hung around Bilberry Hall. About two months before this, one morning, after old Laird McLeod had had breakfast, Shufflin' Sandie begged for an audience. "Most certainly," said McLeod. "Show the honest fellow in." So in marched Sandie, bonnet in hand, and determined on this occasion to speak the very best English he could muster. "Well, Sandie?" "Well, Laird. I think if a man has to break the ice, he'd better do it at once and have done with it. Eh? What think _you_?" "That's right, Sandie." "Well, would you believe that a creature like me could possibly fall in love over the ears, and have a longing to get married?" "Why not, Sandie? I don't think you so bad-looking as some other folks call you." Sandie smiled and took a pinch. "Not to beat about the bush, then, Laird, I'm just awfully gone on Fanny." "And does she return your affection?" "That she does, sir; and sitting on a green bank near the forest one bonnie moonlit night, she promised to be my wife. You wouldn't turn me away, would you, sir, if I got married?" "No, no; you have been a faithful servant for many a day." "Well, now, Laird, here comes the bit. I want to build a bit housie on the knoll, close by the forest, just a but and a ben and a kennel. Then I would breed terriers, and make a bit out of that. Fanny would see to them while I did your work. But man, Laird, I've scraped and scraped, and saved and saved, and I've hardly got enough yet to begin life with." "How much do you need?" "Oh, Laird, thirty pounds would make Fanny and me as happy as a duke and duchess." "Sandie, I'll lend it to you. I'll take no interest. And if you're able some time to pay it back, just do it. That will show you are as honest as I believe you are." The tears sprang, or seemed to spring, to Sandie's eyes, and he had to take another big noseful of snuff to hide his emotions. "May the Lord bless ye, Laird! I'll just run over now and tell Fanny." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It does not take so long to build a Highland cot as it would to erect a Crystal Palace, and in three weeks' time Shufflin' Sandie's house was complete and furnished. He had even laid out a garden or kail-yard, and planted a few suitable trees. Then, when another month had passed away, Sandie once more sought audience of the good Laird, and formally begged for Fanny's hand. Next the wedding-day was settled, and the minister's services requisitioned. And one day Shufflin' Sandie set off for Aberdeen by train to buy the "bonnie things," as they are termed. Perhaps there are no more beautiful streets in Great Britain than Union Street and King Street, especially as seen by moonlight. They then look as if built of the whitest and purest of marble. While the beautiful villas of Rubislaw, with their charming flower-gardens, are of all sorts of architecture, and almost rival the snow in their sheen. Fanny was charmed. Strange to say this simple servant lassie had never been to the city before. It was all a kind of fairyland to her, and, look wherever she might, things of beauty met her eyes. And the windows--ah, the windows! She must pull Sandie by the sleeve every other minute, for she really could not pass a draper's shop nor a jeweller's without stopping to glance in and admire. "Oh!" she would cry, "look, look, Sandie, dear, at the chains and the watches, and the bracelets and diamonds and pearls. Surely all the gold in Ophir is there!" One particularly well-dressed window--it was a ladies' drapery shop-- almost startled her. She drew back and blushed a little as her eyes fell on a full-length figure of a lady in fashionable array. "Oh, Sandie, is she living?" "De'il a living?" said Sandie. "Her body's timber, and her face and hands are made out of cobbler's wax. That's how living she is." "But what a splendid dress! And yonder is another. Surely Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!" "Well, Fanny, lassie, beautiful though this shop be, it is a pretty cheap one, so we'll buy your marriage dress here." The shop-walker was very obsequious. "Marriage dress, sir. Certainly, sir. Third counter down, my lady." Fanny had never been so addressed before, and she rose several inches in her own estimation. "I--that is, she--is needing a marriage dress, missie." "Ready-made?" "Ay, that'll do, if it isn't over dear. Grand though we may look in our Sunday clothes, we're not o'er-burdened with cash; but we're going to be married for all that." Sandie chuckled and took snuff, and Fanny blushed, as usual. "I'm sure I wish you joy," said the girl in black. "I'm certain ye do. You're a bit bonnie lassie yerself, and some day ye'll get a man. Ye mind what the song says: "`Oh, bide ye yet, and bide ye yet, Ye little know what may betide ye yet; Some bonnie wee mannie may fa' to your lot, So ay be canty and thinkin' o't.'" The girl in black certainly took pleasure in fitting Fanny, and, when dressed, she took a peep in the tall mirror--well, she didn't know herself! She was as beautiful as one of the wax figures in the window. Sandy was dazed. He took snuff, and, scarce knowing what he was doing, handed the box to the lassie in black who was serving them. Well, in an hour's time all the bonnie things that could be purchased in this shop were packed in large pasteboard boxes, and dispatched to the station waiting-room. But before sallying forth Sandie and Fanny thought it must be the correct thing to shake hands with the girl in black, much to her amusement. "Good-bye, my lady; good-bye, sir. I hope you were properly served." This from the shop-walker. "That we were," said Sandie. "And, man, we'll be married--Fanny and me--next week. Well, we're to be cried three times in one day from the pulpit. To save time, ye see. Well, I'll shake hands now, and say good-day, sir, and may the Lord be ay around you. Good-bye." "The same to you," said the shop-walker, trying hard to keep from laughing. "The same to you, sir, and many of them." There were still a deal of trinkets to be bought, and many gee-gaws, but above all the marriage ring. Sandie did feel very important as he put down that ten shillings and sixpence on the counter, and received the ring in what he called a bonnie wee boxie. "Me and Fanny here are going to be married," he couldn't help saying. "I'm sure I wish ye joy, sir, and"--here the shopman glanced at Fanny--"I envy you, indeed I do." Sandie must now have a drop of Scotch. Then they had dinner. Sandie couldn't help calling the waiter "sir," nor Fanny either. "Hold down your ear, sir," Sandie said, as the waiter was helping him to Gorgonzola. "We're going to be married, Fanny and I. Cried three times in one Sunday. What think ye of that?" Of course, the waiter wished him joy, and Sandie gave him a shilling. "I hope you'll not be offended, sir, but just drink my health, you know." The joys of the day ended up with a visit to the theatre. Fanny was astonished and delighted. Oh, what a day that was! Fanny never forgot it. They left by a midnight train for home, and all the way, whenever Fanny shut her eyes, everything rose up before her again as natural as life--the charming streets, the gay windows, and the scenes she had witnessed in the theatre, and the gay crowds in every street. And so it was in her dreams, when at last she fell asleep. But both Fanny and Sandie went about their work next day in their week-day clothes as quietly as if nothing very extraordinary had happened, or was going to happen in a few days' time. Of course, after he had eaten his brose, Sandie must "nip up," as he phrased it, to have a look at the cottage. Old Grannie Stewart--she was only ninety-three--was stopping here for the present, airing it, burning fires in both rooms, for fear the young folks might catch a chill. "Ah, grannie!" cried Sandie, "I'm right glad to see you. And look, I've brought a wee drappie in a flat bottle. Ye must just taste. It'll warm your dear old heart." The old lady's eyes glittered. "Well," she said, "it's not much of that comes my way, laddie. My blood is not so thick as it used to be. For--would you believe it!--I think I'm beginnin' to grow auld." "Nonsense," said Sandie. Old or young the old dame managed to whip off her drop of Scotch, though it brought the water to her eyes. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ And now all preparations were being made for the coming marriage. For several days Sandie had to endure much chaff and wordy persecution from the lads and lasses about his diminutive stature and his uncouth figure. Sandie didn't mind. Sandie was happy. Sandie took snuff. CHAPTER EIGHT. A SCOTTISH PEASANT'S WEDDING AND A BALL. Old Laird McLeod had a right good heart of his own, and willingly permitted the marriage to take place in his drawing-room. There were very few guests, however. The grey-haired old minister was there in time to taste the wine of Scotland before the ceremony began, which, after all, though short, was very solemn. No reading of prayers. The prayer that was said was from the heart, not from a book; that sort of prayer which opens Heaven. A long exhortation followed, hands were joined, the minister laid his above, and Sandie and Fanny were man and wife. Then the blessing. I don't know why it was, but Fanny was in tears most of the time. The marriage took place in the afternoon; and dinner was to follow. Annie good-naturedly took Fanny to her own room and washed away her tears. In due time both sailed down to dinner. And a right jolly dinner it was, too. Fanny had never seen anything like it before. Of course that lovely haunch of tender venison was the _piece de resistance_, while an immense plum-pudding brought up the rear. Dessert was spread, with some rare wines--including whisky--but Sandie could scarce be prevailed upon to touch anything. He was almost awed by the presence of the reverend and aged minister, who tried, whenever he could, to slip in a word or two about the brevity of life, the eternity that was before them all, the Judgment Day, and so on, and so forth. But the minister, for all that, patronised the Highland whisky. "No, no," he said, waving the port wine away. "`Look not thou upon the wine when it is red; when it giveth his colour to the cup... at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.'" It was observed, however, that as he spoke he filled his glass with Glenlivet. Well, I suppose no man need care to look upon the wine when it is red, if his tumbler be flanked by a bottle of Scotch. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The dinner ended, there was the march homeward to Sandie's wee house on the knoll, pipers first, playing right merrily; Sandie and his bride arm-in-arm next; then, four deep, lads and lasses gay, to the number of fifty at least. And what cheering and laughing as they reached the door. But finally all departed to prepare for the ball that was to take place later on in the great barn of Bilberry Hall. And it was a barn, too!--or, rather, a loft, for it was built partly on a brae, so that after climbing some steps you found yourself on level ground, and entered a great door. Early in the evening, long ere lad and lass came linking to the door, the band had taken their places on an elevated platform at one side of, but in the middle of, the hall. The floor was swept and chalked, the walls all around densely decorated with evergreens, Scotch pine and spruce and heather galore, with here and there hanging lamps. Boys and girls, however, hovered around the doorway and peeped in now and then, amazed and curious. To them, too, the tuning of the musicians' fiddles sent a thrill of joy expectant to their little souls. How they did long, to be sure, for the opening time. As the vultures scent a battle from afar, so do the Aberdeen "sweetie" wives scent a peasant's ball. And these had already assembled to the number of ten in all, with baskets filled to overflowing with packets of sweets. These would be all sold before morning. These sweetie wives were not young by any means--save one or two-- "But withered beldames, auld and droll, Rig-woodie hags would spean a foal." They really looked like witches in their tall-crowned white cotton caps with flapping borders. A half-hour goes slowly past. The band is getting impatient. A sweet wee band it is--three small fiddles, a 'cello, a double bass, and clarionet. The master of ceremonies treats them all to a thistle of the wine of the country. Then the leader gives a signal, and they strike into some mournfully plaintive old melodies, such as "Auld Robin Grey," "The Flowers o' the Forest," "Donald," etc, enough to draw tears from anyone's eyes. But now, hurrah! in sails Fanny with Shufflin' Sandie on her arm, looking as bright as a new brass button. There is a special seat for them, and for the Laird, Annie, and the quality generally, at the far end of the hall--a kind of arbour, sweetly bedecked with heather, and draped with McLeod tartan. Here they take their seats. There is a row of seats all round the hall and close to the walls. And now crowd in the Highland lads and lasses gay, the latter mostly in white, with ribbons in their hair, and tartan sashes across their breasts and shoulders. Very beautiful many look, with complexions such as duchesses might envy, and their white teeth flashing like pearls as they whisper to each other and smile. As each couple file in at the door, the gentleman takes his partner to a seat, bows and retires to his own side, for the ladies and gentlemen are seated separately, modestly looking at each other now and then, the lads really infinitely more shy than the lasses. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Now Laird McLeod slowly rises. There is a hush now, and all eyes are turned towards the snowy-haired grand old man. "Ladies and gentlemen all," he says, "I trust you will enjoy a really happy evening, and I am sure it will be an innocent one. `Youth's the season made for joy.' I have only to add that the bridegroom himself will open the ball with a hornpipe." A deafening cheer rang out, the musicians struck up that inimitable College Hornpipe, and next moment, arrayed in his best clothes, Shufflin' Sandie was in the middle of the floor. He waited, bowing to the McLeod and the ballroom generally, till the first measure was played. Then surely never did man-o'-war sailor dance as Sandie danced! His legs seemed in two or three places at one time, and so quickly did he move that scarce could they be seen. He seemed, indeed, to have as many limbs as a daddy-long-legs. He shuffled, he tripled and double-tripled, while the cracking of his thumbs sounded for all the world like a nigger's performance with the bones. Then every wild, merry "Hooch!" brought down the house. Such laughing and clapping of hands few have ever heard before. Sandie's uncouth little figure and droll face added to the merriment, and when he had finished there was a general cry of "Encore!" Sandie danced another step or two, then bowed, took a huge pinch of snuff, and retired. But the ball was not quite opened yet. A foursome reel was next danced by the bride and Annie herself, with as partners Shufflin' Sandie and McLeod's nephew, a handsome young fellow from Aberdeen. It was the Reel of Tulloch, and, danced in character, there is not much to beat it. Then came a cry of "Fill the floor!" and every lad rushed across the hall for his partner. The ball was now indeed begun. And so, with dance after dance, it went on for hours: "Lads and lassies in a dance; Nae cotillion brent new frae France; But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels Put life and mettle in their heels." Sandie hardly missed a dance. He was indeed the life and soul of the ballroom. The sweetie wives were almost sold out already, for every Jock must treat his own Jeannie, or the other fellow's Jeannie, to bags and handfuls of sweets. And the prettier the girl was the more she received, till she was fain to hand them over to her less good-looking sisters. But at midnight there came a lull--a lull for refreshments. White-aproned servants staggered in with bread, butter, and cheese, and bucketfuls of strong whisky punch. There was less reserve now. The lads had their lasses at either side of the hall, and for the most part on their knees. Even the girls must taste the punch, and the lads drank heartily--not one mugful each, but three! Nevertheless, they felt like giants refreshed. "And now the fun grew fast and furious"--and still more so when, arrayed in all the tartan glory of the Highland dress, two stalwart pipers stalked in to relieve the band, grand men and athletes! "They screwed their pipes and made them skirl, Till roofs and rafters all did dirl. The pipers loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew." But at two o'clock again came a lull; more biscuits, more bread-and-cheese, and many more buckets of toddy or punch. And during this lull, accompanied by the violins, Sandie sang the grand old love-song called "The Rose of Allandale." It was duly appreciated, and Sandie was applauded to the "ring of the bonnet," as he himself phrased it. Then Annie herself was led to the front by her uncle. Everyone was silent and seemingly dazzled by her rare but childlike beauty. Her song was "Ever of thee I'm fondly dreaming." Perhaps few were near enough to see, but the tears were in the girl's eyes, and almost streaming over more than once before she had finished. And now McLeod and his party took their leave, Sandie and his bride following close behind. The ball continued after this, however, till nearly daylight in the morning. Then "Bob at the Booster"--a kind of kiss-in-the-ring dance-- brought matters to a close, and, wrapped in plaids and shawls, the couples filed away to their homes, over the fields and through the heather. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Next day Shufflin' Sandie was working away among his horses as quietly and contentedly as if he had not been married at all yesterday, or spent the evening in a ballroom. Before, however, leaving his little cottage by the wood, he had dutifully made his wife a cup of tea, and commanded her to rest for hours before turning out to cook their humble dinner. And dutifully she obeyed. The Laird and Sandie came to an arrangement that same forenoon as to how much work he was to do for him and how much for himself. "Indeed, sir," he told McLeod, "I'll just get on the same as I did before I got the wife. My kail-yard's but small as yet, and it'll be little trouble to dig and rake in the evening." "Very well, Sandie. Help yourself to a glass there." Sandie needed no second bidding. He was somewhat of an enthusiast as far as good whisky was concerned; perfectly national, in fact, as regarded the wine of "poor auld Scotland." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Nearly three years passed away. The ship had not returned. She never would, nor could. CHAPTER NINE. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE. Nearly three years! What a long, lonesome time it had been for Annie! Yet she still had somewhat of hope--at times, that is. Her cousin, Mr Beale, from the city, had spent his holiday very delightfully at Bilberry Hall; he had gone shooting, and fishing also, with Annie; yet, much though he admired her, and could have loved her, he treated her with the greatest respect, condoled with her in her sorrow, and behaved just like a brother to her. Her somewhat elderly lover was different. Lover he was yet, though now fifty and three years of age, but fatherly and kind to a degree. "We all have griefs to bear in this world, Annie dear," he said once. "They are burdens God sends us to try our patience. But your sorrow must soon be over. Do you know, dear, that it is almost sinful to grieve so long for the dead?" "Dead!" cried Annie. "Who knows, or can tell?" "Oh, darling, I can no longer conceal it from you. Perhaps I should have told you a year ago. Here is the newspaper. Here is the very paragraph. The figurehead of the unfortunate _Wolverine_ and one of her boats have been picked up in the midst of the Pacific Ocean, and there can remain no doubt in the mind of anyone that she foundered with all hands. The insurance has been paid." Annie sat dumb for a time--dumb and dry-eyed. She could not weep much, though tears would have relieved her. She found voice at last. "The Lord's will be done," she said, simply but earnestly. Laird Fletcher said no more _then_. But he certainly was very far from giving up hope of eventually leading Annie to the altar. And now the poor sorrowing lassie had given up all hope. She was, like most Scotch girls of her standing in society, pious. She had learnt to pray at her mother's knee, and, when mother and father were taken away, at her uncle's. And now she consoled herself thus. "Dear uncle," she said, "poor Reginald is dead; but I shall meet him in a better world than this." "I trust so, darling." "And do you know, uncle, that now, as it is all over, I am almost relieved. A terrible charge hung over him, and oh! although my very soul cries out aloud that he was not guilty, the evidence might have led him to a death of shame. And I too should have died." "You must keep up your heart. Come, I am going to Paris for a few weeks with friend Fletcher, and you too must come. Needn't take more than your travelling and evening dresses," he added. "We'll see plenty of pretty things in the gay city." So it was arranged. So it was carried out. They went by steamer, this mode of travelling being easier for the old Highlander. Fletcher and McLeod combined their forces in order to give poor Annie "a real good time," as brother Jonathan would say. And it must be confessed at the end of the time, when they had seen everything and gone everywhere, Annie was calmer and happier than she ever remembered being for years and years, and on their return from Paris she settled down once more to her old work and her old ways. But the doctor advised more company, so she either visited some friends, or had friends to visit her, almost every night. Old Laird McLeod delighted in music, and if he did sit in his easy-chair with eyes shut and hands clasped in front of him, he was not asleep, but listening. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ How little do we know when evil is about to befall us! It was one lovely day in spring. Annie had kissed her uncle on his bald, shining head, and gone off to gather wildflowers, chaperoned by Jeannie, her maid, and accompanied by Laird Fletcher. This man was a naturalist--not a mere classifier. He did not fill cases with beetles or moths, give them Latin names, and imagine that was all. He knew the life story and habits of almost every flower and tree, and every creature that crept, crawled, or flew. So he made just the kind of companion for Annie that she delighted in. When he found himself thus giving her pleasure he felt hopeful--nay, sure--that in the end his suit would be successful. It was indeed a beautiful morning. Soft and balmy winds sighing through the dark pine tree tops, a sky of moving clouds, with many a rift of darkest blue between, birds singing on the bonnie silver birches, their wild, glad notes sounding from every copse, the linnet on the yellow patches of whins or gorse that hugged the ground and perfumed the air for many a yard around, and the wild pigeon murmuring his notes of love in every thicket of spruce. Rare and beautiful wildflowers everywhere, such as never grow in England, for every country has its own sweet flora. The little party returned a few minutes before one o'clock, not only happy, but hungry too. To her great alarm Annie found her uncle still sitting on his chair, but seemingly in a stupor of grief. Near his chair lay a foolscap letter. "Oh, uncle dear, are you ill?" "No, no, child. Don't be alarmed; it has pleased God to change our fortunes, that is all, and I have been praying and trying hard to say `Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven,'--I cannot yet. I may ere long." But Annie was truly alarmed. She picked up the lawyer's letter and read it twice over ere she spoke. And her bonnie face grew ghastly pale now. "Oh, uncle dear," she said at last, "what does this mean? Tell me, tell me." "It means, my child, that we are paupers in comparison to the state in which we have lived for many years. That this mansion and grounds are no longer our own, that I must sell horses and hounds and retire to some small cottage on the outskirts of the city--that is all." "Cheer up, uncle," said Annie, sitting down on his knee with an arm round his neck, as she used to do when a child. "You still have me, and I have you. If we can but keep Jeannie we may be happy yet, despite all that fate can do." "God bless you, my child! You have indeed been a comfort to me. But for you, I'd care nothing for poverty. I may live for ten years and more yet, to the age of my people and clansmen, but as contentedly in a cottage as in a castle. God has seen fit to afflict us, but in His mercy He will temper the wind to the shorn lamb." Luncheon was brought in, but neither McLeod nor his niece did much justice to it. The weather, however, remained bright and clear, and as the two went out to the beautiful arbour and seated themselves, they could hear the birds--mavis, chaffinch, and blackie--singing their wild, ringing lilts, as if there was no such thing as sorrow in all this wide and beautiful world. "Uncle," said Annie at last, "tell me the sad story. I can bear it now." "Then, dear, I shall, but must be very brief. I love not to linger over sorrow and tribulation. The young fellow Francis Robertson, then, who now lays claim to the estate, is, to tell the honest truth, a _roue_ and a blackguard from the Australian diggings. He is but twenty-two. Even when a boy he was rough and wild, and at fifteen he was sentenced to six years' imprisonment for shooting a man at the gold diggings. He has but recently come out of gaol and found solicitors in Australia and here to take up the cudgels for him. His father disappeared long, long ago, and I, not knowing that, before his death, he had married, and had one son, succeeded to this estate. But, ah me! the crash has come." "But may this young fellow not be an impostor?" "Nay, child, nay. You see what the letter says: that if I go to law I can only lose; but that if I trouble and tire Robertson with a lawsuit he will insist upon back rents being paid up. No," he added, after a pause, "he is fair enough. He may be good enough, too, though passionate. Many a wild and bloody scene is enacted at the diggings, but in this case the police seem to have been wonderfully sharp. Ah, well; he will be here to-morrow, and we will see." That was an anxious and sleepless night for poor Annie. In vain did her maid try to sing her off into dreamland. She tossed and dozed all night long. Then came the eventful day. And at twelve o'clock came young Francis Robertson, with a party of witnesses from Australia. McLeod could tell him at once to be the heir. He was the express image of his dead father. The Laird and his solicitor, hastily summoned from Aberdeen, saw them alone in the drawing-room, only Annie being there. Robertson was tall, handsome, and even gentlemanly. The witnesses were examined. Their testimony under oath was calm, clear, and to the point. Not a question they did not answer correctly. The certificate of birth, too, was clear, and succinct. There were no longer any doubts about anything. Then Laird McLeod--laird now, alas! only by courtesy--retired with his advocate to another room to consult. Said the advocate: "My dear Laird, this is a sad affair; but are you convinced that this young fellow is the rightful owner?" "He is, as sure as yonder sun is shining." "And so am I convinced," said the advocate. "Then there must be no lawsuit?" "No, none." "That is right. At your age a long and troublesome lawsuit would kill you." "Then, my dear Duncan," said Laird McLeod, "look out for a pretty cottage for me at once." "I will do everything for you, and I know of the very place you want--a charming small villa on the beautiful Rubislaw Road. Choose the things you want. Have a sale and get rid of the others. Keep up your heart, and all will yet be well. But we must act expeditiously." And so they did. And in a fortnight's time all was settled, and the little villa furnished. Till the day of the sale Francis Robertson was a guest at the Hall. Now I must state a somewhat curious, but not altogether rare, occurrence. The young man, who really might be rash, but was not bad-hearted, sought audience of the Laird on the very day before the sale. "My dear uncle," he said, "I would rather you did not leave. Be as you were before. I will occupy but a small portion of the house. Stay with me." "Francis Robertson," replied McLeod, "we _go_. I'll be no man's guest in a house that once was mine." "Be it so, sir. But I have something further to add." "Speak on." "From the first moment I saw her I fell in love with Miss Annie Lane. Will you give me her hand?" "Have you spoken to herself?" "I have not dared to." McLeod at once rang the bell and summoned Annie, his niece. "Annie, dear, this gentleman, your relation, says he loves you, and asks for your hand. Think you that you could love him?" Annie drew herself haughtily up. She said but one word, a decisive and emphatic one: "_No_." "You have had your answer," said McLeod. Francis bowed and went somewhat mournfully away. CHAPTER TEN. "WHAT MUST BE MUST--'TIS FATE." The old Laird McLeod possessed that true Christian feeling which we so rarely see displayed in this age, and as he left the door of the old mansion where he had lived so long and so happily he held out his hand to Francis. "God bless you, lad, anyhow. Be good, and you'll prosper." "The wicked prosper," said Francis. "All artificial, lad, and only for a time. Never can they be said to be truly happy." "Good-bye--or rather, _au revoir_." "_Au revoir_." Then the old man clambered slowly into the carriage. Poor Annie was already there. She cast just one longing, lingering look behind, then burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. But the day was beautiful, the trees arrayed in the tender tints of spring, while high above, against a fleecy cloud, she could see a laverock (lark), though she could not hear it. But his body was quivering, and eke his wings, with the joy that he could not control. Woods on every side, and to the right the bonnie winding Dee, its wavelets sparkling in the sunshine. Everything was happy; why should not she be? So she dried her tears, and while her uncle dozed she took her favourite author from her satchel, and was soon absorbed in his poems. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ After they had settled down in McLeod Cottage, as the snow-white pretty villa had now been called, I do believe that they were happier than when in the grand old mansion, with all its worries and work and trouble. They were not very well off financially, that was all. But it was a new pleasure for Annie and her maid to do shopping along Union Street the beautiful, and even round the quaint old New Market. She used to return happy and exultant, to show her uncle the bargains she had made. One night Annie had an inspiration. She was a good musician on piano and zither. Why not give lessons? She would. Nor was she very long in finding a pupil or two. This added considerably to the fund for household expenditure. But nevertheless the proud old Highlander McLeod thought it was somewhat _infra dignitate_. But he bore with this because it seemed to give happiness to the child, as he still continued to call her. So things went on. And so much rest did the Laird now have that for a time, at least, his life seemed all one happy dream. They soon made friends, too, with their neighbours, and along the street wherever Annie went she was known, for she was always followed by a grand and noble dog, a Great Dane, as faithful and as true as any animal could well be. One evening she and Jeannie, her maid, were walking along a lovely tree-shaded lane, just as the beams of the setting sun were glimmering crimson through the leafy grandeur of the great elms. For some purpose of his own the dog was in an adjoining field, when suddenly, at the bend of the road, they were accosted by a gigantic and ragged tramp, who demanded money on the pain of death. Both girls shrieked, and suddenly, like a shell from a great gun, darted the dog from the hedge, and next moment that tramp was on his back, his ragged neckerchief and still more ragged waistcoat were torn from his body, and but for Annie his throat would have been pulled open. But while Jeannie trembled, Annie showed herself a true McLeod, though her name was Lane. She called the dog away; then she quickly possessed herself of the tramp's cudgel. Annie was not tall, but she was strong and determined. "Get up at once," she cried, "and march back with us. If you make the least attempt to escape, that noble dog shall tear your windpipe out!" Very sulkily the tramp obeyed. "I'm clean copped. Confound your beast of a dog!" Within a few yards of her own door they met a policeman, who on hearing of the assault speedily marched the prisoner off to gaol. When she related the adventure to her uncle he was delighted beyond measure, and must needs bless her and kiss her. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ They had parted with the carriage. Needs must where poverty and the devil drives! But they still had a little phaeton, and in this the old man and his niece enjoyed many a delightful drive. He would take her to concerts, too, and to the theatre also, so that, on the whole, life was by no means a galling load to anyone. But a very frequent visitor at McLeod Cottage was Laird Fletcher. Not only so, but he took the old man and Annie frequently out by train. His carriage would be waiting at the station, and in this they drove away to his beautiful home. The house itself was modern, but the grounds, under the sweet joy of June, looked beautiful indeed. It was at some considerable distance from the main road, and so in the gardens all was delightfully still, save for the music of happy song-birds or the purr of the turtle-dove, sounding low from the spreading cedars. "A pleasing land of drowsyhead it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, For ever flushing round a summer sky. There eke the soft delights, that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh; But whate'er smacked of 'noyance or unrest Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest." Through these lovely rose-gardens and tree-shaded lawns frequently now wandered Annie, alone with Fletcher. He was so gentle, winning, and true that she had come to like him. Mind, I say nothing of love. And she innocently and frankly told him so as they sat together in a natural bower beneath a spreading deodar cedar. He was happy, but he would not risk his chance by being too precipitate. Another day in the same arbour, after a moment or two of silence, she said: "Oh, I wish you were my uncle!" Fletcher winced a little, but summoned up courage to say: "Ah, Annie, could we not be united by a dearer tie than that? Believe me, I love you more than life itself. Whether that life be long or short depends upon you, Annie." But she only bent her head and cried, childlike. "Ah, Mr Fletcher," she said at last, "I have no heart to give away. It lies at the bottom of the sea." "But love would come." "We will go to the house now, I think," and she rose. Fletcher, poor fellow, silently, almost broken-heartedly, followed, and, of course, the Great Dane was there. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ That night she told her uncle all. He said not a word. She told her maid in the bedroom. "Oh, Miss Annie," said Jeanie, "I think you are very, very foolish. You refuse to marry this honest and faithful man, but your mourning will not, cannot restore the dead. Reginald Grahame is happier, a thousand, million times more happy, than anyone can ever be on this earth. Besides, dear, there is another way of looking at the matter. Your poor Uncle McLeod is miles and miles from the pines, from the heath and the heather. He may not complain, but the artificial life of a city is telling on him. What a quiet and delightful life he would have at Laird Fletcher's!" Annie was dumb. She was thinking. Should she sacrifice her young life for the sake of her dear uncle? Ah, well, what did life signify to her now? _He_ was dead and gone. Thus she spoke: "You do not think my uncle is ill, Jeannie?" "I do not say he is _ill_, but I do say that he feels his present life irksome at times, and you may not have him long, Miss Annie. Now go to sleep like a baby and dream of it." And I think Annie cried herself asleep that night. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "It becomes not a maiden descended from the noble clan McLeod to be otherwise than brave," she told herself next morning. "Oh, for dear uncle's sake I feel I could--" But she said no more to herself just then. Fletcher called that very day, and took them away again to his bonnie Highland home. It was a day that angels would have delighted in. And just on that same seat beneath the same green-branched cedar Fletcher renewed his wooing. But he, this time, alluded to the artificial city life that the old Laird had to lead, he who never before during his old age had been out of sight of the waving pines and the bonnie blooming heather. Fletcher was very eloquent to-day. Love makes one so. Yet his wooing was strangely like that of Auld Robin Grey, especially when he finished plaintively, appealingly, with the words: "Oh, Annie, for his sake will you not marry me?" Annie o' the Banks o' Dee wept just a little, then she wiped her tears away. He took her hand, and she half-whispered: "What must be _must_--'tis fate." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE "WOLVERINE" PUTS OUT TO SEA. With the exception of the _Sunbeam_, probably no more handsome steam yacht ever left Southampton Harbour than the _Wolverine_. She was all that a sailor's fancy could paint. Quite a crowd of people were on the quay to witness her departure on her very long and venturesome cruise. Venturesome for this reason, that, though rigged as a steam barque, she was but little over four hundred tons register. Seamen on shore, as they glanced at her from stem to stem, alow and aloft, criticised her freely. But Jack's opinion was on the whole well embodied in a sentence spoken by a man-o'-wars-man, as he hitched up his nether garments and turned his quid in his mouth: "My eyes, Bill and Elizabeth Martin, she is a natty little craft! I've been trying to find a flaw in her, or a hole, so to speak, but there's ne'er a one, Bill--above water, anyhow. Without the steam she reminds me of the old Aberdeen clippers. Look at her bilge, her lines, her bows, her jibboom, with its smart and business-like curve. Ah, Bill, how different to sail in a yacht like that from living cooped up in a blooming iron tank, as we are in our newest-fashioned man-o'-war teakettles! Heigho! Blowed if I wouldn't like to go on board of her! Why, here is the doctor--splendid young fellow!--coming along the pier now. I'll overhaul him and hail him. Come on, Bill!" Reginald Grahame was coming somewhat slowly towards them. It was just a day or two before the discovery of Craig Nicol's murder and the finding of his body in the wood. Reginald was thinking of Bilberry Hall and Annie o' the Banks o' Dee. Sorrow was depicted in every lineament of his handsome but mobile and somewhat nervous countenance. Was he thinking also of the cold, stiff body of his quondam friend Craig, hidden there under the dark spruce trees, the tell-tale knife beside him? Who can say what the innermost workings of his mind were? Some of the most bloodthirsty pirates of old were the handsomest men that ever trod the deck of a ship. We can judge no man's heart from his countenance. And no woman's either. There be she-devils who bear the sweet and winning features of saints. Our Scottish Queen Mary was beautiful, and as graceful as beautiful. "If to her share some human errors fall, Look in her face, and you'll forget them all." "Beggin' yer pardon, sir," said Jack, touching his hat and scraping a bit, like a horse with a loose shoe, "we're only just two blooming bluejackets, but we've been a-admiring of your craft--outside like. D'ye think, sir, they'd let us on board for a squint?" "Come with me, my lads. I'll take you on board." Next minute, in company with Reginald--who was now called _Dr._-- Grahame, they were walking the ivory-white decks. Those two honest man-o'-war sailors were delighted beyond measure with all they saw. "Why," said Jack--he was chief spokesman, for Bill was mute--"why, doctor, you have _sailors_ on board!--and mind you, sir, you don't find real sailors nowadays anywhere else except in the merchant service. We bluejackets are just like our ships--fighting machines. We ain't hearts of oak any longer, sir." "No," said the doctor, "but you are hearts of iron. Ha! here comes the postman, with a letter for me, too. Thank you, postie." He gave him sixpence, and tore the letter open, his hand shaking somewhat. Yes, it was from Annie. He simply hurriedly scanned it at present, but he heaved a sigh of relief as he placed it in his bosom. Then he rejoined the bluejackets. "Well, sir, we won't hinder you. I see you've got the Blue Peter up. But never did I see cleaner white decks; every rope's end coiled, too. The capstan itself is a thing o' beauty; all the brasswork looks like gold, all the polished woodwork like ebony; and, blow me, Bill, just look at that binnacle! Blest if it wouldn't be a beautiful ornament for a young lady's boodwar (boudoir)! Well, sir, we wishes you a pleasant, happy voyage and a safe return. God bless you, says Jack, and good-bye." "Good-bye to you, lads; and when you go to war, may you send the foe to the bottom of the ocean. There,"--he handed Jack a coin as he spoke--"drink _bon voyage_ to us." "Ah, that will we!" The sailors once more scraped and bowed, and Reginald hurried below to read Annie's letter. It was just a lover's letter--just such a letter as many of my readers have had in their day--so I need not describe it. Reginald sat in his little cabin--it was only six feet square--with his elbow leaning on his bunk, his hand under his chin, thinking, thinking, thinking. Then an idea struck him. The skipper of the yacht--called "captain" by courtesy--and Reginald were already the best of friends. Indeed, Dickson--for that was his name--was but six or seven years older than Reginald. "Rat-tat-tat!" at the captain's door. His cabin was pretty large, and right astern, on what in a frigate would be called "the fighting deck." This cabin was of course right abaft the main saloon, and had a private staircase, or companion, that led to the upper deck. "Hullo, doctor, my boy!" "Well, just call me Grahame, _mon ami_." "If you'll call me Dickson, that'll square it." "Well, then, Dickson, I'm terribly anxious to get out and away to sea. If not soon, I feel I may run off--back to my lady love. When do we sail for sure?" The captain got up and tapped the glass. "Our passengers come on board this afternoon, bag and baggage, and to-morrow morning early we loose off, and steam out to sea--if it be a day on which gulls can fly." "Thanks, a thousand times. And now I won't hinder you." "Have a drop of rum before you go, and take a cigar with you." Reginald's heart needed keeping up, so he did both. "When I am on the sea," he said, "I shall feel more happy. Ay, but Annie, I never can forget you." More cheerily now, he walked briskly off to the hotel to meet his patients. There were two, Mr and Mrs Hall, wealthy Americans; besides, there were, as before mentioned, Miss Hall and the child Matty. They were all very glad to see Reginald. "You are very young," said Mr Hall, offering him a cigar. "I think," he answered, "I am very fit and fresh, and you will find me very attentive." "I'm sure of it," said Mrs Hall. Little Matty took his hand shyly between her own two tiny ones. "And Matty's su'e too," she said, looking up into his face. They say that American children are thirteen years of age when born. I know they are precocious, and I like them all the better for it. This child was very winning, very pert and pretty, but less chubby, and more intellectual-looking than most British children. For the life of him Reginald could not help lifting her high above his head and kissing her wee red lips as he lowered her into his arms. "You and I are going to be good friends always, aren't we?" "Oh, yes, doc," she answered gaily; "and of torse the dleat (great) big, big dog." "Yes, and you may ride round the decks on him sometimes." Matty clapped her hands with joy. "What a boo'ful moustache you has!" she said. "You little flatterer!" he replied, as he set her down. "Ah! you have all a woman's wiles." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Everything was on board, and the _Wolverine_ was ready to sail that night. But the captain must go on shore to see his friends and bid them adieu first. The night closed in early, but the sky was studded with stars, and a three-days'-old moon shone high in the west like a scimitar of gold. This gave Reginald heart. Still, it might blow big guns before morning, and although he sat up pretty late, to be initiated by Mr Hall into the game of poker, he went often to the glass and tapped it. The glass was steadily and moderately high. Reginald turned into his bunk at last, but slept but little, and that little was dream-perturbed. Early in the morning he was awakened by the roar of steam getting up. His heart leaped for joy. It is at best a wearisome thing, this being idle in harbour before sailing. But at earliest dawn there was much shouting and giving of orders; the men running fore and aft on deck; other men on shore casting off hawsers. Then the great screw began slowly to churn up the murky water astern. The captain himself was on the bridge, the man at the wheel standing by to obey his slightest command. And so the _Wolverine_ departed, with many a cheer from the shore--ay, and many a blessing. As she went out they passed a man-o'-war, in which the captain had many friends. Early as it was, the commander had the band up, and sweetly across the water came the music of that dear old song I myself have often heard, when standing out to sea, "Good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye." By eventide they were standing well down towards the Bay of Biscay, which they would leave on their port quarter. They would merely skirt it, bearing up for Madeira. But a delightful breeze had sprung up; the white sails were set, and she was running before it, right saucily, too, bobbing and curtseying to each rippling wavelet very prettily, as much as to say: "Ah! you dear old sea, we have been together before now. You will never lose your temper with me, will you?" It is well, indeed, that sailors do not know what is before them. The dinner-hour was seven. Mr and Mrs Hall were seated on chairs on the quarter-deck. Neither was over-well, but Ilda and Reginald were pacing briskly up and down the quarter-deck, chatting pleasantly. I think, though, that Ilda had more to say than he. American girls are born that way. Wee Matty was making love to Oscar, the splendid and good-natured Newfoundland. Nobody more happy than bonnie Matty, bonnie and gay, for her happiness, indeed, was a species of merry madness. Only no one could have heard her childish, gleesome and silvery laugh without laughing with her. The bell at last! Reginald took Ilda down below, then hurried on deck to help his patients. Matty and Oscar seemed to come tumbling down. And so the evening passed away, the stars once more glittering like crystal gems, the great star Sirius shining in ever-changing rays of crimson and blue. It was indeed a goodly night, and Reginald slept to-night. The incubus Love had fled away. CHAPTER TWELVE. "I SAY, CAP," SAID MR HALL, "I SHOULD MAROON A FELLOW LIKE THAT!" While the whole countryside--ay, and the Granite City itself--were thrilled with awe and horror at the brutal murder of poor unoffending Craig Nicol, the _Wolverine_ was making her way on the wings of a delightful ten-knot breeze to the Isle of Madeira. Reginald had ascertained that there was nothing very serious the matter with Mr and Mrs Hall. They were run down, however, very much with the gaieties of Paris and London, to say nothing of New York, and thought rightly that a long sea voyage would be the best thing to restore them. Madeira at last! The beach, with its boulders or round sea-smoothed stones, was a difficult one to land upon. The waves or breakers hurled these stones forward with a hurtling sound that could be heard miles and miles away, then as quickly sucked them back again. Nevertheless, the boat was safely beached, and there were men with willing hands and broad shoulder to carry Mr and Mrs Hall and daughter safely on to dry land. Reginald was sure of foot, and lifting Matty in his arms as she crowed with delight, he bore her safe on shore. The great Newfoundland despised a boat, and hardly was she well off the yacht ere he leaped overboard with a splash. And he also landed, shaking himself free of gallons of water, which made rainbows and halos around him. He drenched his master pretty severely. But it was a fine joke to Oscar, so, grinning and laughing as only this breed can, he went tearing along the beach and back again at the rate of fifteen knots an hour. When he did come back, he licked his master's hand and little Matty's face. "Nothing like a good race," he seemed to say, "to set the blood in motion after a long bath." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ While the party sit in the piazza of a beautiful tree-shaded hotel, sipping iced sherbet, let me say a word about the nature of the _Wolverine's_ voyage. The yacht did not belong to the Halls. She was lent them for the cruise round the Horn to the South Pacific, and many a beautiful island they meant to visit, and see many a strange and wondrous sight. For hitherto all their travelling experiences had been confined to Europe. But your true American wants to see all the world when he can afford it. It was health the Halls were in search of, combined with pleasure if possible; but they meant to collect all the curios they could get, and they also felt certain--so Mrs Hall said--that they would find the South Sea savages very interesting persons indeed. So have I myself found them, especially when their spears were whisking over my boat and they were dancing in warlike frenzy on the beach. In such cases, however, a shot or two from a good revolver has a wonderfully persuasive and calmative effect on even Somali Indians. We British have called Scotland and England an isle of beauty, but I question very much if it can cope with Madeira. Here not only have we splendid mountains, clad in all the beauty of tropical and sub-tropical shrubs and trees, tremendous cliffs and gorges, raging torrents and cataracts, with many a bosky dell, lovely even as those birchen glades in Scotia, but in this heavenly isle there is the sunshine that overspreads all and sparkles on the sea. And that sea, too!--who could describe the splendour of its blue on a calm day, patched here and there towards the shore with browns, seagreens, and opals? No wonder that after making several visits and picnics in shore and high among the mountains, borne there by sturdy Portuguese in hammocks, Mrs Hall should declare that she felt better already. It was with some reluctance that Mr Hall ordered the anchor to be got up at last, and all sail made for the Canaries. Near sunset was it when they sailed slowly away, a sunset of indescribable beauty. A great grey misty bank of cloud was hanging many degrees above the mountains, but beneath it was more clear and streaked with long trailing cloudlets of crimson, light yellow, and purple, the rifts between being of the deepest sea-green. But over the hills hung a shadow or mist of smoky blue. Then descended the sun, sinking in the waters far to the west, a ball of crimson fire with a pathway of blood 'twixt the horizon and the yacht. Then night fell, with but a brief twilight. There was going to be a change, however. The mate, a sturdy, red-faced, weather-beaten, but comely fellow, sought the captain's cabin and reported a rapidly-falling glass, and the gradual obliteration of the stars, that erst had shone so sweetly. How swiftly comes a squall at times in these seas! A huge bank of blackest darkness was seen rapidly advancing towards the ship, and before sail could be taken in or steam got up she was in the grasp of that merciless demon squall. For a minute or two she fled before it and the terrible waves, quivering the while from stem to stern like a dying deer. Then high above the roaring of the wind, and booming and hissing of the waves, great guns were heard. It seemed so, at least, but it was but the bursting of the bellying sails, and platoon-firing next, as the rent ribbons of canvas crackled and rattled in the gale. To lie to was impossible now. With the little sail they had left they must fly on and on. Men staggered about trying to batten down, but for a time in vain. Then came a huge pooping wave, that all but swept the decks. It smashed the bulwarks, it carried away a boat, and, alas! one poor fellow found a watery grave. He must have been killed before being swept overboard. Anyhow, he was seen no more. Everything movable was carried forward with tremendous force. Even the winch was unshipped, and stood partly on end. The man at the wheel and the men battening down were carried away on the current, but though several were badly bruised, they were otherwise unhurt. Sturdy Captain Dickson had rushed to the wheel, else would the _Wolverine_ have broached to and sunk in a few minutes. The water had poured down the companions like cataracts, and it drowned out the half-lit fires. Mr Hall and party had shut themselves up in their state-rooms, but everything in the saloon was floating in water two feet deep. However, this storm passed away almost as quickly as it had come, and once more the seas calmed down, and sky and waters became brightly, ineffably blue. The ship was baled out, and, as the wind had now gone down, fires were got up, and the _Wolverine_ steamed away for the Canaries and the marvellous Peak of Teneriffe. But poor Bill Stevens's death had cast a general gloom throughout the ship. He was a great favourite fore and aft, always merry, always laughing or singing, and a right good sailor as well. So next morning, when red and rosy the sun rose over the sea, orders were sent forward for the men to "lay aft" at nine o'clock for prayers. Then it was "wash and scrub decks, polish the wood, and shine the brasswork." Right rapidly did the sun dry the decks, so that when Mrs Hall, who had received a bad shock, was helped on deck by Reginald, everything 'twixt fo'c'sle and wheel looked clean and nice. The winch had not been badly damaged, and was soon set to rights. I should not forget to mention that the only one not really alarmed during the terrible black Squall was that busy, merry wee body Matty. When she saw the cataract of waters coming surging in, she speedily mounted the table. The fiddles had been put on, and to these she held fast; and she told Reginald all this next morning, adding, "And, oh, doc, it was so nice--dust (just) like a swinging-rope!" But she had had a companion; for, after swimming several times round the table, as if in search of dry land, the beautiful dog clambered up on the table beside Matty. To be sure, he shook himself, but Matty shut her eyes, and wiped her face, and on the whole was very glad of his company. How solemn was that prayer of Mr Hall for the dead. Granted that he was what is so foolishly called "a Dissenter" in England, his heart was in the right place, and he prayed right from that Even his slight nasal twang in no way detracted from the solemnity of that prayer. Ilda Hall had her handkerchief to her face, but poor little cabin-boy Ralph Williams wept audibly. For the drowned sailor had ever been kind to him. The captain was certainly a gentleman, and an excellent sailor, but he had sea ways with him, and now he ordered the main-brace to be spliced; so all the Jacks on board soon forgot their grief. "His body has gone to Davy Jones," said one, "but his soul has gone aloft." "Amen," said others. They stayed at Orotava long enough to see the sights, and Reginald himself and a sailor got high up the peak. He was on board in time for dinner, but confessed to being tired. He had not forgotten to bring a splendid basket of fruit with him, however, nor wildflowers rich and rare. A long lonely voyage was now before them--south-west and away to Rio de Janeiro--so ere long everyone on board had settled quietly down to a sea life. I must mention here that it was the first mate that had chosen the crew. He had done so somewhat hastily, I fear, and when I say that there were two or three Spaniards among them, and more than one Finn, need I add that the devil was there also? One Finn in particular I must mention. He was tall to awkwardness. Somewhat ungainly all over, but his countenance was altogether forbidding. He had an ugly beard, that grew only on his throat, but curled up over his chin--certainly not adding to his beauty. Christian Norman was his name; his temper was vile, and more than once had he floored poor boy Williams, and even cut his head. He smoked as often as he had the chance, and would have drunk himself to insensibility if supplied with vile alcohol. "I don't like him," said the captain one evening at dinner. "Nor I," said Reginald. "I say, cap," said Mr Hall, "I'd maroon a fellow like that! If you don't, mark my words, he will give us trouble yet." And he did, as the sequel will show. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. THE BREAKDOWN--SAVAGES! Captain Dickson was just as kind to Norman, the Finn, as he was to anyone else. Perhaps more so. Not that he dreaded him. Dickson would have shot him with as little compunction as shooting a panther had he given him even a mutinous answer. But he often let him have double allowance of rum. "You're a big man," he would say; "you need a little more than the little ones." Norman would smile grimly, but swallow it. He would even buy the men's, for he seemed to have plenty of money. When half-seas-over Norman would swagger and rant and sing, and with little provocation he would have fought. The other Finns and the Spaniard, besides an Englishman or two, always took Norman's side in an argument. So things went on until Rio was reached. What a splendid harbour--ships of all nations here; what a romantic city as seen from the sea, and the surroundings how romantic, rivalling even Edinburgh itself in beauty! It was early summer here, too. They had left autumn and the coming winter far away in the dreary north. I shall make no attempt to describe the floral grandeur of the country here. I have done so before. But not only Reginald, but all the Halls, and Matty as well, were able to walk round and admire the tropical vegetation and the gorgeous flowers in the gardens; and in the town itself the fish-market and fruit-market were duly wondered at, for everything was new and strange to the visitors. Further out into the country they drove all among the peaked and marvellous mountains and the foliaged glens, and Matty, who sat on Reginald's knee, clapped her hands with delight to see the wee, wee humming-birds buzzing from flower to flower "like chips of rainbows," as Ilda phrased it, and the great butterflies as big as fans that floated in seeming idleness here, there, and everywhere. A whole week was spent here, and every day afforded fresh enjoyments. But they must sail away at last. The captain had half-thought of leaving the Finn Norman here, but the man seemed to have turned over a new leaf, so he relented. South now, with still a little west in it. The good ship encountered more bad weather. Yet so taut and true was she, and so strong withal, that with the exception of the waves that dashed inboards--some of them great green seas that rolled aft like breakers on a stormy beach--she never leaked a pint. Captain Dickson and his mate paid good attention to the glass, and never failed to shorten sail and even batten down in time, and before the approach of danger. But all went well and the ship kept healthy. Indeed, hardly was there a sick man among the crew. Little Matty was the life and soul of the yacht. Surely never on board ship before was there such a merry little child! Had anyone been in the saloon as early as four, or even three, bells in the morning watch, they might have heard her lightsome laugh proceeding from her maid's cabin; for Matty was usually awake long before the break of day, and it is to be presumed that Maggie, the maid, got little sleep or rest after that. Reginald used to be on deck at seven bells, and it was not long before he was joined by Matty. Prettily dressed the wee thing was, in white, with ribbons of blue or crimson, her bonnie hair trailing over her back just as wild and free as she herself was. Then up would come Oscar, the great Newfoundland. Hitherto it might have been all babyish love-making between Reginald and Matty. "I loves 'oo," she told him one morning, "and when I'se old eno' I'se doin' (going) to mally 'oo." Reginald kissed her and set her down on the deck. But the advent of the grand dog altered matters considerably. He came on deck with a dash and a spring, laughing, apparently, all down both sides. "You can't catch me," he would say, or appear to say, to Matty. "I tan tatch 'oo, twick!" she would cry, and off went the dog forward at the gallop, Matty, screaming with laughter, taking up the running, though far in the rear. Smaller dogs on board ship are content to carry and toss and play with a wooden marlin-spike. Oscar despised so puny an object. He would not have felt it in his huge mouth. But he helped himself to a capstan bar, and that is of great length and very heavy. Nevertheless, he would not drop it, and there was honest pride in his beaming eye as he swung off with it. He had to hold his head high to balance it. But round and round the decks he flew, and if a sailor happened to cross his hawse the bar went whack! across his shins or knees, and he was left rubbing and lamenting. Matty tried to take all sorts of cross-cuts between the masts or boats that lay upside down on the deck, but all in vain. But Oscar would tire at last, and let the child catch him. "Now I'se tatched 'oo fairly!" she would cry, seizing him by the shaggy mane. Oscar was very serious now, and licked the child's cheek and ear in the most affectionate manner, well knowing she was but a baby. "Woa, horsie, woa!" It was all she could do to scramble up and on to Oscar's broad back. Stride-legs she rode, but sometimes, by way of practical joke, after she had mounted the dog would suddenly sit down, and away slid Matty, falling on her back, laughing and sprawling, all legs and arms, white teeth, and merry, twinkling eyes of blue. "Mind," she would tell Oscar, after getting up from deck and preparing to remount, "if 'oo sits down adain, 'oo shall be whipped and put into the black hole till the bow-mannie (an evil spirit) tomes and takes 'oo away!" Oscar would now ride solemnly aft, 'bout ship and forward as far as the fo'c's'le, and so round and round the deck a dozen times at least. When dog and child were tired of playing together, the dog went in search of breakfast down below, to the cook's galley. There was always the stockpot, and as every man-jack loved the faithful fellow he didn't come badly off. But even Norman the Finn was a favourite of Matty's, and he loved the child. She would run to him of a morning, when his tall form appeared emerging from the fore-hatch. He used to set her on the capstan, from which she could easily mount astride on his shoulders, grasping his hair to steady herself. How she laughed and crowed, to be sure, as he went capering round the deck, sometimes pretending to rear and jib, like a very wicked horse indeed, sometimes actually bucking, which only made Matty laugh the more. Ring, ding, ding!--the breakfast bell; and the child was landed on the capstan once more and taken down--now by her devoted sweetheart, Reginald Grahame. The ship was well found. Certainly they had not much fresh meat, but tinned was excellent, and when a sea-bank was anywhere near, as known from the colour of the water, Dickson called away a boat and all hands, and had fish for two days at least. Fowls and piggies were kept forward. Well, on the whole she was a very happy ship, till trouble came at last. It was Mr Hall's wish to go round the stormy and usually ice-bound Horn. The cold he felt certain would brace up both himself and his wife. But he wished to see something of the romantic scenery of Magellan's Straits first, and the wild and savage grandeur of Tierra del Fuego, or the Land of Fire. They did so, bearing far to the south for this purpose. The weather was sunny and pleasant, the sky blue by day and star-studded by night, while high above shone that wondrous constellation called the Southern Cross. Indeed, all the stars seemed different from what they were used to in their own far northern land. Now, there dwells in this fierce land a race of the most implacable savages on earth. Little is known of them except that they are cannibals, and that their hands are against everyone. But they live almost entirely in boats, and never hesitate to attack a sailing ship if in distress. Hall and Dickson were standing well abaft on the quarter-deck smoking huge cigars, Mr Hall doing the "yarning," Dickson doing the laughing, when suddenly a harsh grating sound caused both to start and listen. Next minute the vessel had stopped. There she lay, not a great way off the shore, in a calm and placid sea, with not as much wind as would lift a feather, "As idle as a painted ship, upon a painted ocean." In a few minutes' time the Scotch engineer, looking rather pale, came hurrying aft. "Well, Mr McDonald, what is the extent of the damage? Shaft broken?" "Oh, no, sir, and I think that myself and men can put it all to rights in four days, if not sooner, and she'll be just as strong as ever." "Thank you, Mr McDonald; so set to work as soon as possible, for mind you, we are lying here becalmed off an ugly coast. The yacht would make very nice pickings for these Land of Fire savages." "Yes, I know, sir; and so would we." And the worthy engineer departed, with a grim smile on his face. He came back in a few minutes to beg for the loan of a hand or two. "Choose your men, my good fellow, and take as many as you please." Both Hall and Dickson watched the shore with some degree of anxiety. It was evident that the yacht was being swept perilously near to it. The tide had begun to flow, too, and this made matters worse. Nor could anyone tell what shoal water might lie ahead of them. There was only one thing to be done, and Dickson did it. He called away every boat, and by means of hawsers to each the _Wolverine_ was finally moved further away by nearly a mile. The sailors were now recalled, and the boats hoisted. The men were thoroughly exhausted, so the doctor begged the captain to splice the main-brace, and soon the stewardess was seen marching forward with "Black Jack." Black Jack wasn't a man, nor a boy either, but simply a huge can with a spout to it, that held half a gallon of rum at the very least. The men began to sing after this, for your true sailor never neglects an opportunity of being merry when he can. Some of them could sing charmingly, and they were accompanied by the carpenter on his violin. That grand old song, "The Bay of Biscay," as given by a bass-voiced sailor, was delightful to listen to. As the notes rose and fell one seemed to hear the shrieking of the wind in the rigging, the wild turmoil of the dashing waters, and the deep rolling of the thunder that shook the doomed ship from stem to stern. "Hullo?" cried Hall, looking shorewards. "See yonder--a little black fleet of canoes, their crews like devils incarnate!" "Ha!" said Dickson. "Come they in peace or come they in war, we shall be ready. Lay aft here, lads. Get your rifles. Load with ball cartridge, and get our two little guns ready and loaded with grape." The savages were indeed coming on as swift as the wind, with wild shouts and cries, meant perhaps only to hurry the paddle-men, but startling enough in all conscience. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. AGAINST FEARFUL ODDS. Hardly a heart on board that did not throb with anxiety, if not with fear, as that fiendish-looking cannibal fleet drew swiftly nigh. Armed with bows and arrows and spears were they, and Dickson could see also the glitter of ugly creases in the bottom of each canoe. Not tall men were any of them; all nearly naked, however, broad-shouldered, fierce, and grim. The yacht was now stern on to the shore, but at a safe distance. Nevertheless, by the soundings they could tell that the water just here was not so deep as that further in; so both anchors were let go, the chains rattling like platoon-firing as these safeguards sank to the bottom. There was no fear about Matty. To the astonishment of all she had clambered up into the dinghy that hung from davits abaft the binnacle. "Hillo!" she was shouting, as she waved a wee red flag. "Hillo! 'oo bootiful neglos! Tome twick, Matty wants to buy some-fink!" These dark boats and their savage crews were soon swarming round the _Wolverine_, but they had come to barter skins for tobacco, rum, and bread, not to fight, it seemed. Peaceful enough they appeared in all conscience. Yet Dickson would not permit them to board. But both he and Hall made splendid deals. A dozen boxes of matches bought half-a-dozen splendid and well-cured otter skins, worth much fine gold; tobacco bought beautiful large guanaca skins; bread fetched foxes' skins and those of the tuen-tuen, a charming little rodent; skins, also well-cured, of owls, hawks, rock-rabbits, and those of many a beautiful sea-bird. The barter, or nicker, as the Yankee called it, pleased both sides, and the savages left rejoicing, all the more so in that, although the skipper would give them no rum to carry away with them, he spliced a kind of savage main-brace, and everyone swallowed a glass of that rosy fluid as a baby swallows its mother's milk. "The moon will be shining to-night, Hall," said the captain, "and we'll have a visit from these fire-fiends of another description. Glad we have got her anchored, anyhow." Soon after sunset the moon sailed majestically through the little fleecy clouds lying low on the horizon. She soon lost her rosy hue, and then one could have seen to pick up pins and needles on the quarter-deck. She made an immense silver triangular track from ship to shore. Matty was then on deck with Oscar, both merry as ever. But Reginald now took her in his arms and carried her below for bed. Both Dickson and Hall went below to console and hearten the ladies. "Those fire savages will pay us a visit," said Hall, "but you are not to be afraid. We will wipe them off the face of the creation world. Won't we, skipper?" "That will we!" nodded Dickson. But neither Mrs Hall nor Ilda could be persuaded to retire. If a battle was to be fought they would sit with fear and trembling till all was over. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Out from under the dark shadows of the terrible snow-peaked mountain, that fell far over the water, just before eight bells in the first watch--the midnight hour--crept a fleet of canoes, silently--oh, so silently! But presently they got into that track of moonlit sea, so that they could be counted. Thirteen! Ominous number--but ominous for whom? In twenty minutes the plash of the paddles could be distinctly heard, and the warriors could be seen, armed with spear and bow and deadly crease. "Standoff! Standoff!" It was a shout from Dickson. But it was answered by a wilder shout of defiance and rage, and a cloud of arrows flew inboards. "Now then, lads!" cried the captain, "give them fits! Quick is the word!" The six-pounder Armstrong was trained on the foremost boat, with terrible effect. "Bang!" went the gun. Heavens! what a sight! No less than three canoes went down, with the dead and the shrieking wounded. The others but sped onwards the faster, however. A rifle volley now. Then the other gun was fired almost straight down among them, with awful results so far as the savages were concerned. Hall was coolly emptying his revolvers as soon as his fingers could fill them. Had it been daylight his practice would have been better; as it was, there was nothing to be ashamed of. But now the canoes were close under the ship's bows and sides. They would attempt to board. They did, and partly succeeded, cutting through the netting easily with their knives. The sailors fought like true British tars, repelling the fiends with revolvers, with the butts of their rifles, and smashing many a chest and skull even with capstan bars. The officers defended the bows. No less than six savages managed to get inboards. The Newfoundland was slightly wounded; then he was like a wild beast. He downed one savage, and, horrible to say, seizing him by the windpipe, drew it clean away from the lungs. The others were seen to by the sailors, and their bodies tossed overboard. The fire-fiends had had enough of it, and prepared to retire. Grape was once more brought to bear on them, and two more canoes were sunk. The loss to the _Wolverine_ was one man killed and three wounded, but not severely. As long as a canoe was visible, a determined rifle fire was kept up, and many must have fallen. When Hall and Reginald went below to report the victory, they found the ladies somewhat nervous, and there was little Matty on the table-top, barefooted and in her night-dress. The strange little Yankee maiden wouldn't stop in her state-room, and even when the battle was raging fiercest she had actually tried to reach the deck! Then Oscar came down, laughing and gasping, and Matty quickly lowered herself down to hug her darling horsie, as she called him. "Oh, look, auntie!" she cried, after she had thrown her little arms around his great neck and kissed him over and over again, "my pinny is all bluggy!" The night-dress was indeed "bluggy," for poor Oscar had an ugly spear wound in his shoulder. But the doctor soon stitched it, the faithful fellow never even wincing. Then he licked the doctors red hands and Matty's ear, and then went off on deck to bed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Next morning broke bright and crisp and clear, but it was cold, for autumn reigned in this dreary land. Once more a service for the dead, and as the body sank into the deep the poor sailor's messmates turned sadly away, and more than one brought his arm to bear across his eyes. As another attack was to be feared, it was determined to punish the islanders--to carry the war on shore, in fact--and so the four large boats were called away, only a few men being left on board to defend the ship. The guns were too heavy to take, but every man had a rifle, two revolvers and a cutlass. For so small a vessel, the _Wolverine_ was heavily manned, for from the beginning Captain Dickson had expected grim fighting. This attack was more than the natives had calculated on. They did not stand the onset an instant, but fled from their village helter-skelter to the almost inaccessible mountains beyond, dropping their spears and bows to accelerate their flight. But the fire which was poured on them was a withering one, and brought many to the ground. Emboldened by their success, Hall, with Dickson and his brave fellows, made a journey of several miles into the interior. The mountains were everywhere rugged and stern, and covered on their summits with snow that no doubt was perpetual. But in the valleys beneath, which were quite uninhabited except by wild beasts and birds, were beautiful forests of dark waving cypresses, lofty pines, and beeches, their leaves tinted now with rose and yellow. Very silent and solemn were these woods; but for the savages that even now might be hidden in their dark depths, they seemed to woo one to that peace that only a forest can give. A stream was meandering through the valley here, and many a glad fish leaped up from the pools, his scales shining like a rainbow in the sunlight. All haste was now made to regain the shore, where but a few sailors had been left to guard the boats. Only just in time, for the savages were gathering for another attack, and coming down the hillsides in streams. A hot volley or two dispersed them, however, and they once more hid behind the rocks. Here in the village was evidence that these fire-fiends had been sitting down to a terrible feast of roasted human flesh! Doubtless they had killed the wounded and cooked them. It is a terrible thing to think of, but I have proof that a woman will eat of the dead body of either husband or brother, and the children too will ravenously partake. I dare not tell in a story like this the horrors of savage life that I have witnessed. I wish to interest, but not to horrify, my readers. This village was probably one of the largest in the islands which constitute the Tierra del Fuego group. It consisted of nearly nine hundred huts in all, some well-built and comparatively comfortable. First and foremost it was looted, a large cargo of precious skins being secured. Some bows and arrows, spears, etc, were taken as curios; then, just as the sun was sinking red behind the sea, every hut and house was fired. The blaze was tremendous; and back to the ship, by means of its light, the boats were steered. A breeze having sprung up increased the magnificence of the conflagration, and the sparks, like showers of golden snow, were carried far inland and up the mountain sides. No wonder that Matty was clapping her wee hands and crowing with delight at the beauty of the "bonfire," as she called it. Happy indeed were the adventurers when the breeze waxed steadier and stronger. It blew from the west, too. The anchors were quickly hoisted, the ship's head turned to the east, and before two days had fled she had wormed her way out once more into the open ocean. The engines had by this time been repaired, but were not now needed, for the breeze, though abeam, was steady, and good progress was made. A few days more, and the wind having died down, clear sky by day, star-studded at night, and with sharp frost, the _Wolverine_ was once more under steam and forcing her way round the storm-tormented Horn. For the waves are ofttimes houses high here when no wind is blowing, and they break and toss their white spray far over the green and glittering sides of the snow-clad bergs. "And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold; And ice mast-high came floating by, As green as emerald. "The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around; It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound." But at this time a greater danger than that from the ice was threatening, for Norman the Finn was hatching mutiny. Verily a curse seemed to follow the ship wherever she went. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. MUTINY--THE COMING STORM. Nobody would have credited Williams, the cabin-boy, with very much 'cuteness. We never know the hidden depths of even a young lad's mind. The Finn Norman had in his two countrymen and in the Spaniards five men willing to do anything. To put it plainly, for gold they would use their knives against their dearest friends, and rejoice in it too. Norman had not only a body of fearful physical strength, but a winning and persuasive tongue, and he wheedled over no less than three Englishmen, or rather Scotsmen, to join his forces. Late one night a half-whispered conversation was held near to the winch. The Finn had been here before--that is, up in the South Pacific--and he could guide them to an island of gold. And what was it that gold could not purchase in this world? he added. "Everyone of you shall be wealthy. We shall then scrape the vessel from stem to stern, alter her name and rigging, and after loading up with gold, sail for distant Australia. There we shall sell the ship and, going to the diggings for a time, to avoid suspicion, will in a few months return to Sidney or Melbourne as lucky miners. Then hurrah for home!" "We will join," said the Scotsman, "on one condition." "And that is?" "There must be no murder." "Your request is granted. We will rise suddenly, batten down the men below, then rushing aft we shall secure the officers in the saloon. The vessel will then be ours. But we shall maroon the men on the nearest land, with biscuits and a few arms. The women will be best on board," he grinned. "Bah!" said a Spaniard, drawing his ugly knife. "Let us throat them. Dead men tell no tales, you know. Take my advice." But the marooning was finally decided on, and the mutineers retired to their bunks or to their duty. Little did they know that the cabin-boy, with listening ears, though almost frightened out of his life, was hiding behind the winch and had heard every word they had said. As soon as it was possible he escaped, and going at once aft, he reported in a frightened whisper all the details of the terrible plot. "Horrible!" said Dickson. "Strikes me," said Hall, "that there must be a Jonah on board, or a murderer. Let us draw for him, putting all names in a hat, and then lynch the fellow!" "If," said Dickson, "there be a murderer on board, the fellow is that Finn." "Seize the scoundrel at once, then," cried Hall, "and throw him to the sharks or put him in irons." "No, I'll wait, and Williams shall be our spy." Nearly all the mutineers were in the same watch, only one good man and true being among them. Norman played his game well. He knew that if suspected at all, they would be watched by night, so he chose broad daylight for the awful _denouement_. While the men were below at dinner, those in the cabin all having luncheon, then Norman suddenly gave the preconcerted signal. The hatches were thrown on in a moment, and screwed down by two men, while the main band rushed aft and secured the saloon door. "If you value your lives in there," savagely shouted the Finn down through the skylight, as that too was being fastened securely down, "you'll keep quiet." Hall had both his revolvers out in a trice, and fired; but the skylights were closed, and no harm or good was done. Next the mutineers threw open the fore-hatch, and at pistol point ordered every man into the half-deck cabin abaft the galley and abaft the sailors' sleeping bunks. "I'll shoot the first man dead," cried Norman, "who does not look active!" The communication door was then secured, and all was deemed safe. They would bear north now, and make for the nearest island. The rum store was near the foot of the stair, or companion, and close to the stewardess's pantry. The key hung there, so more than a gallon of rum was got up and taken forward. The engineers were told that if they did not crack on, they would be had on deck and made to walk the plank. The Finn had not meant that any orgie should take place; but take place it did, and a fearful one too. The man at the wheel kept on for fear of death, and so did the engineers. By twelve o'clock, or eight bells, in the first watch, the fellows were helplessly drunk and lying about in the galley in all directions. Little Williams, the cabin-boy, had been overlooked. Wise he was indeed, for now he very quietly hauled on the fore-hatch--ay, and screwed it down. Then he went quickly aft and succeeded in releasing the officers. The men were next set free, and the door between secured aft. In ten minutes' time every mutineer in the ship was in irons. Surely no mutiny was ever before quelled in so speedy and bloodless a manner! "I knew," said Hall, "that we had a Jonah on board, and that Jonah is the double-dyed villain Christian Norman. Say, Captain Dickson, is it going to be a hanging match?" "I am almost tempted to hang the ringleader," replied Dickson, "but this would be far too tragical, especially with ladies on board. Remember that, be his heart what it may, there is just one little good spot in his character. He dearly loved little Matty, and she loved him." "Well, sir, what are you going to do about it? I'd like to know that." "This. I cannot pardon any single one of these villains. The Scotsmen, indeed, are worse in a manner of speaking than the Finns or cowardly Spaniards. I shall mete out to them the same punishment, though in a lesser degree, that they would have meted out to us. Not on the inhospitable snow-clad shores of the Tierra del Fuego islands shall they be placed, but on the most solitary isle I can find in some of the South Pacific groups." Now things went on more pleasantly for a time. The prisoners were not only in leg-irons, but manacled, and with sentries placed over them watch and watch by night and by day. These men had orders to shoot at once any man who made the slightest attempt to escape. It was about a week after this, the _Wolverine_ had safely rounded the stormy Cape, and was now in the broad Pacific. A sailor of the name of Robertson had just gone on sentry, when, without a word of warning, Norman the Finn suddenly raised himself to his feet and felled him with his manacled hands. The strength of the fellow was enormous. But the ring of a rifle was heard next minute, and Norman fell on his face, shot through the heart. He was thrown overboard that same evening with scant ceremony. "I feel happier now," said Hall, "that even our Jonah is no more. Now shall our voyage be more lucky and pleasant." Ah! but was it? The _Wolverine_ was purposely kept well out of the ordinary track of ships coming or going from either China or Australia. And luck or not luck, after ten days' steaming westward and north, they sighted an island unknown to the navigator, unknown to any chart. It was small, but cocoa-nuts waved from the summit of its lofty hills. Here, at all events, there must be fruit in abundance, with probably edible rodents, and fish in the sea. And here the mutineers were marooned. Not without fishing gear were they left, nor without a small supply of biscuits, and just three fowling pieces and ammunition, with some axes and carpenter's tools. They deserved a worse fate, but Dickson was kind at heart. Well, at any rate, they pass out of our story. On that island they probably are until this day. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Everyone on the _Wolverine_ seemed to breathe more freely now, and the vessel was once more headed eastwards to regain her direct route to California and San Francisco. For a whole week the breeze blew so pleasantly and steadily that fires were bunked and all sail set. The very ship herself seemed to have regained cheerfulness and confidence, and to go dancing over the sunlit sea, under her white wing-like studding sails, as if she were of a verity a thing of life. Those on board soon forgot all their trials and misery. The mutineers were themselves forgotten. Matty and Oscar (who had recovered from his spear wound) resumed their romps on deck, and surely never did sea-going yacht look more snug and clean than did the _Wolverine_ at this time. She was still far out of the usual track of ships, however, though now bearing more to the nor'ard. So far north were they, indeed, that the twilight at morn or even was very short indeed. In the tropics, it is not figurative language, but fact, to say that, the red sun seemed to leap from behind the clear horizon. But a few minutes before this one might have seen, high in the east, purple streaks of clouds, changing quickly to crimson or scarlet, then the sun, like a huge blood orange, dyeing the rippling sea. At night the descent was just as sudden, but my pen would fail did I try to describe the evanescent beauty of those glorious sunsets. Light and sunshine are ever lovely; so is colour; but here was light and colour co-mingled in a transformation scene so grand, so vast, that it struck the heart of the beholder with a species of wonder not unmixed with awe. And the beholders were usually silent. Then all night long in the west played the silent lightning, bringing into shape and form many a rock-like, tower-like cloud. It was behind these clouds of the night that this tropical lightning played and danced and shimmered. Then at times they came into a sea of phosphorescent light. It was seen all around, but brighter where the vessel raised ripples along the quarter. It dropped like fire from her bows, ay, and even great fishes could be seen--sharks in all probability--sinking down, down, down into the sea's dark depths, like fishes of fire, till at last they were visible only like little balls of light, speedily to be extinguished. About this latitude flying gurnets leapt on board by the score on some nights, and a delightful addition indeed did they prove to the matutinal _menu_. Sometimes a huge octopus would be seen in the phosphorescent sea. It is the devil-fish of the tropics, and, with his awful head and arms, so abhorrent and nightmarish was the sight that it could not be beheld without a shudder. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Pacific Ocean! Yes, truly, very often pacific enough; so much so that with ordinary luck one might sail across its waters in a dinghy boat. But there are times when some portions of it are swept by terrific circular storms. Ah! happy is the ship that, overtaken by one of these, can manage to keep well out and away from its vortex. One evening the sun went down amidst a chaos of dark and threatening clouds, from which thunder was occasionally heard like the sound of distant artillery, but muttering, and more prolonged. The glass went tumbling down. Captain Dickson had never seen it so low. The wind too had failed, and before sunset the sea lay all around them, a greasy glitter on its surface like mercury, with here and there the fin of a basking shark appearing on the surface. Even the air was stifling, sickening almost, as if the foetus of the ocean's slimy depths had been stirred up and risen to the surface. All sail was speedily taken in, and by the aid of oil, the fires were quickly roaring hot beneath the boilers. Higher and higher rose that bank of clouds, darkening the sky. Then-- "The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire flags sheen; To and fro they were hurried about, And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between." CHAPTER SIXTEEN. SHIPWRECK--THE WHITE QUEEN OF THE ISLE OF FLOWERS. To and fro, to and fro, on the quarter-deck walked the imperturbable Yankee, Mr Hall, quietly pulling at his huge cigar. He had seen the ladies, and had told them straight that it was to be a fearful storm, and now he would wait to see what Fate had in store for them. But more impatient far was Captain Dickson. Would steam never be got up? He had an idea which way the storm would come, and he wanted to steam southwards, and as much out of its track as possible. At last the steam begins to roar, and now the screw revolves, and the good ship cleaves its way through the darkness of sky and sea. Dickson is somewhat relieved. He puts two men to the wheel, and sailors lash them to it. Well Dickson knows that the storm will be a fearful one. Who is this fluttering up along the deck? A little dot all in white-- nothing on but a night-dress. Matty, of course. "I lunned away," she explained, "and tomed (came up) to see the lightnin's flash." "Oh, my darling!" cried Reginald, "you must come with me at once!" He picked the little fairy up, and quickly had her safely below again. The men were busy battening down when he returned to deck. Here and there along the bulwarks loose ropes were left that the men, if needful, might lash themselves to the rigging. But now the rain began to come down, first in scattered drops, then in a hot and awful torrent. Louder and louder roared the thunder, brighter and still more vivid flashed the lightning. The thunder-claps followed the lightning so quickly that Dickson knew it was very near. "Lash yourselves, lads!" the skipper roared through the speaking-trumpet. "She is coming!" Ah! come she did. And no shoreman can ever tell what the vehemence of a circular hurricane like this sweeping across the ocean is like in strength and vehemence. Dickson had just time to shout, "The first shock will be the strongest, boys," when the terrible storm burst upon the doomed ship with a violence indescribable, and a noise like a hundred great guns fired at once. Thrown at first almost on her beam-ends, she soon righted, and now she was tossed about like a cork. High up on a mighty wave at one moment, down in a dark gulf the next. The foam of the breaking waters and the incessant lightning was the only light they had, and in this glare the faces of the crew looked blue and ghastly. Bravely did the men stick to the wheel. Hall himself had gone early below to comfort the ladies. Yet, although the waves and spray were making a clean breach over the ship, luckily she was well battened down, and it was dry below. The seas that tumbled inboard were hot and seething. Mr Hall prevailed upon his wife and daughter to lie down on the lockers, or couches, and to these he did his best to lash them; but so great was the uncertain motion, that he had to clutch with one hand to the table while he did so. The air down below was as hot as the waters on deck; hot and sulphurous, so that the perspiration stood on the brows of all below. It was indeed a fearful storm. But it lulled at last, though two men had been called to their account-- swept overboard in the clutches of a great green sea. It lulled; but the intensity of the pitchy darkness still continued. It was no longer a circular storm, but a gale, settling down to less than half a gale towards the commencement of the morning watch. But the binnacle had been washed away, and the men were steering only by blind chance. Just as daylight, grey and gloomy, began to appear in the east, an awful tell-tale rasping was heard beneath the keel of the _Wolverine_, and almost at once two of her masts went by the board. "Axes, men!" cried Dickson--"axes, and clear away the wreck!" It was a dangerous and difficult task, with every now and then a huge sea rushing in from astern, and all but sweeping the decks. Daylight came in quickly now, though clouds seemingly a mile in depth obscured the sun, and the horizon was close on board of them all around. But yonder, looming through the mist, was a coral shore, with huge rugged, and apparently volcanic, mountains rising behind it. Fearing she would soon break up, Captain Dickson determined to lower a boat at all hazards, manned by four of his strongest and best sailors. In this Hall begged that his wife might go with the maid, and the request was granted. Mr Hall watched that boat as she rose and fell on the troubled waters with the greatest anxiety and dread. Suddenly he staggered and clutched the rigging, and his eyes seemed starting from his head. "Oh, my God! my God!" he cried. "My wife! my wife!" For a bigger wave than any, a huge breaker or bore, in fact came rushing from seawards and engulfed the unfortunate boat. And she was never seen, nor anyone who had gone in her. The crew and poor Mrs Hall, with her maid, now-- "Lie where pearls lie deep, Yet none o'er their low bed may weep." Mr Hall was led below by the kind-hearted captain himself, and threw himself on a couch in an agony of grief. Dickson forced him to take a large stimulant, and put a man to watch him, fearing he might rush on deck and pitch himself into the sea. As to their whereabouts, or the latitude and longitude of that strange, wild island, Dickson knew nothing. He had many times and oft sailed these seas, and was certain he had never seen those lofty peaks and rugged hills before. Although the wind continued, and the keel was breaking up, although she was fast making water below, he determined to hang on to her as long as possible, for there was a probability that the storm might soon die away. Some of the crew, however, grew impatient at last, and, in spite of threats, lowered another boat, into which crowded six men. Alas! they, too, went down before they were many yards from the wreck. But see these figures now flitting up and down on the coral sands! And, strangest sight of all, there is among those dusky, almost naked savages, the tall and commanding figure of a white woman, dressed in skins. The savages are evidently obeying her slightest behest, for a queen she is. With ropes of grass they are stoutly binding together three large canoes, flanked by outriggers, thus forming a kind of wide raft. Then these are launched, and right rapidly do the paddles flash and drip and ply, as the triple craft nears the ship. The raft seems to come through the seas rather than over them, but busy hands are baling, and, by the time this strange construction arrives on the lee bow, the canoes are free of water. The _Wolverine_ has but few on board her now, only eight men of the crew, with the officers, little Matty, Hall, and Miss Hall. These latter are lowered first, with three men. They are safely landed through the surf, and Dickson can see the strange white woman advance towards them with outstretched arms. The raft comes back again, and all on board are now taken off, Captain Dickson being the last to leave the doomed ship. Oscar, the grand Newfoundland, prefers to swim. No terrors have the waves or surf for him, and he is on shore barking joyfully as he races up and down the beach long before the raft rasps upon the silver sands. The strange, skin-dressed lady met them. She was English, and dubbed herself Queen of the Isle of Flowers. "For ten long years," she told Captain Dickson, "I have been here, and yours is the first ship I have seen. But come to my house behind the hills, and I will tell you my strange story later on." Though drenched to the skin, they all most gladly followed the Queen, up glens, and by zigzag paths, and over wild hills, till at last they came to one of the wildest and most beautiful valleys these adventurers had ever beheld. Now they could understand how the Queen had named it the Isle of Flowers. A beautiful stream went meandering through the valley with every species of tropical or semi-tropical flowering trees it is possible to imagine growing on its banks. No wonder that Matty, whom Reginald carried in his strong arms, cried: "Oh, doc, dear, zis (this) is surely fairyland! Oh, doc, I'se dizzy wi' beauty!" "Hurry on," said the Queen; "a keen wind is blowing on this hilltop." In the midst of a forest of magnolias that scented the air all around, they found the road that led to the Queen's palace. A long, low building it was, and seemingly comfortable; but the path that led to it was bordered on each side with human skulls placed upon poles. Noticing Dickson's look of horror, she smiled. "These are the skulls of our enemies--a tribe that in war canoes visited our island a few years ago, but never found their way back. My people insisted on placing those horrid relics there. Had I refused my permission, I should have been deposed, probably even slain." Into one room she showed the ladies, the officers and few remaining men into another. Here were couches all around, with comfortable mats of grass, and on these, tired and weary, everyone lay and many slept, till their garments were dried in the sun by the Queen's servants. It was afternoon now, but the wind had lulled, and soon it was night, clear and starry. The vessel had gone on shore at low tide, but some time during the middle watch a great wave had lifted her and thrown her on her beam-ends high up on the coral sands. Next morning, when Dickson and Reginald went over the hills, after a hearty breakfast of roast yams and delicious fish, they found that the sea had receded so far that they could walk around the wreck on the dry sand. That day was spent--with the assistance of the Queen's special servants--in saving from the vessel everything of value, especially stores, and the ship's instruments. Casks of rum and flour, casks of beans, and even butter, with nearly all the bedding and clothes. These latter were spread on the beach to dry. Inland, to the Queen's mansion, everything else was borne on litters. But the greatest "save" of all was the arms and ammunition, to say nothing of tools of every description, and canvas wherewith good tents might be built later on. When all was secured that could be secured, and the remainder of the crew had joined them-- "Men," said Dickson, "let us pray." Down on the coral strand knelt the shipwrecked men, while, with eyes streaming with tears, Captain Dickson prayed as perhaps he had never prayed before, to that Heavenly Father who had spared the lives of those before him. The natives stood aside wonderingly, but they listened intently and earnestly when, led by their captain, the mariners sang a portion of that beautiful psalm: "God is our refuge and our strength, In straits a present aid; Therefore, although the earth remove, We will not be afraid." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. CRUSOES ON THE ISLAND OF FLOWERS--A THREATENED ARMADA. For weeks and weeks mourned poor Hall for his wife; for weeks and weeks mourned he. He was like Rachel weeping for her children, who would not be comforted "because they were not." But the anguish of his grief toned down at last. His sorrow was deep still, but he could listen now to the consolations that Dickson never forgot to give him morn, noon, and night. "Ah, well," he said at last, "I shall meet her again in the Bright Beyond, where farewells are never said, where partings are unknown. That thought must be my solace." And this thought did console both him and Ilda, his daughter. As for Matty, she was too young to know what grief really was, and romped with Reginald's dog in the Queen's beautiful gardens, just as she had done on board the unfortunate yacht--now, alas! a yacht no more. But busy weeks these had been for the shipwrecked mariners. Yet far from unhappy. They were Crusoes now to all intents and purposes, and acting like Crusoes, having saved all the interior stores, etc, that they could, knowing well that the very next storm would not leave a timber of the poor _Wolverine_. So at every low tide they laboured at breaking her up. At high tide they worked equally energetically in building a wooden house on a bit of tableland, that was easy of access, and could not be reached by a tide, however high. The house was very strong, for the very best wood in the ship was used. Moreover, its back was close to the straight and beetling mountain cliff. The six men of the crew that were saved worked like New Hollanders, as sailors say. The house had sturdy doors, and the vessel's windows were transhipped. But this wooden house did not actually touch the ground, but was built on two-foot high stone supports. Soot could be strewn around them, and the white ants thus kept at bay. Stone, or rather scoria, steps led up to the dwelling, one end of which was to be not only the sleeping-place of the men, but a kind of recreation-room as well, for Dickson had succeeded in saving even the piano and violins. The other room to the right was not so large, but, being furnished from the saloon of the _Wolverine_, was almost elegant, and when complete was always decorated and gay with lovely wildflowers. Indeed, all the flowers here were wild. The Queen had begged that Miss Hall and wee Matty might sleep at the palace. This was agreed to; but to luncheon not only they but the Queen herself came over every fine day, and the days were nearly all fine. One day a big storm blew and howled around the rocky mountain peaks. It increased in violence towards evening, and raged all night. Next day scarcely a timber of the wrecked yacht was to be seen, save a few spars that the tempest had cast up on the white and coralline beach. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Captain Dickson was far indeed from being selfish, and quite a quantity of saloon and cabin furniture saved from the wreck was carried on the backs of the natives over the mountain tracks to the beautiful Valley of Flowers, to furnish and decorate the house of the Queen. Her Majesty was delighted, and when her rooms were complete she gave a great dinner-party, or rather banquet. She had much taste, and the table was certainly most tastefully decorated. The _menu_ was a small one. There was fish, however, excellently cooked. "I taught my cook myself," said her Majesty, smiling. This was followed by the _piece de resistance_, a roast sucking-pig. The _entree_ was strange, namely, fillets of a species of iguana lizard. The huge and terrible-looking iguana lizard, as found on the coast of Africa, crawling on the trees, is very excellent eating, and so were these fillets. But the fruits were the most delicious anyone around the festive board had ever tasted. There were, strangely enough, not only blushing pine-apples, but guavas, which eat like strawberries smothered in cream; mangoes, and many other fragrant fruits no one there could name. Dickson had supplied the wine, but very little was used. Goats' milk and excellent coffee supplied its place. Poor Hall was still a patient of Reginald's, and the latter compelled him to take a little wine for his grief's sake. Just a word or two about Queen Bertha. Though but twenty and five, her dark hair was already mixed with threads of silver. She was tall for a woman, very beautiful and very commanding. She never stirred abroad in her picturesque dress of skins without having in her hand a tall staff, much higher than herself. It was ornamented--resplendent, in fact--with gold, silver, precious stones and pearls. "This is my sceptre," she said, "and all my people respect it." She smiled as she added: "I make them do so. I can hypnotise a man with a touch of it; but if a fellow is fractious, I have a strong arm, and he feels the weight of it across his shins. He must fling himself at my feet before I forgive him. My history, gentlemen, is a very brief one, though somewhat sad and romantic. I am the daughter of a wealthy English merchant, who had a strange longing to visit in one of his own ships the shores of Africa and the South Sea Islands. He did so eventually, accompanied by my dear mother and myself, then little more than a child, for I was only fifteen; also an elder brother. Alas! we were driven far out of our way by a gale, or rather hurricane, of wind, and wrecked on this island. My father's last act was to tie me to a spar. That spar was carried away by the tide, and in the _debris_ of the wreck I was washed up on shore. Every soul on board perished except myself. The superstitious natives looked upon the dark-haired maiden as some strange being from another world, and I was revered and made much of from the first. I soon had proof enough that the islanders were cannibals, for they built great fires on the beach and roasted the bodies of the sailors that were washed up. There were, indeed, but few, for the sharks had first choice, and out yonder in that blue and sunlit sea the sharks are often in shoals and schools. Some devoured the human flesh raw, believing that thus they would gain extra strength and bravery in the day of battle." "Are there many battles, then?" asked Reginald. "Hitherto, doctor, my people have been the invaders of a larger island lying to the east of us. Thither they go in their war canoes, and so far fortune has favoured them. They bring home heads and human flesh. The flesh they eat, the heads they place on the beach till cleaned and whitened by crabs and ants; then they are stuck on poles in my somewhat ghastly avenue. I have tried, but all in vain, to change the cannibalistic ways of my people. They come to hear me preach salvation on Sundays, and they join in the hymns I sing; but human flesh they will have. Yes, on the whole I am very happy, and would not change my lot with Victoria of Britain herself. My people do love me, mind, and I would rather be somebody in this savage though beautiful island than nobody in the vortex of London society. "But I have one thing else to tell you. The Red-stripe savages of the isle we have so often conquered are gathering in force, and are determined to carry the war into our country; with what results I cannot even imagine, for they are far stronger numerically than we are, though not so brave. These savages are also cannibals; not only so, but they put their prisoners to tortures too dreadful even to think of. It will be many months before they arrive, but come they will. I myself shall lead my army. This will inspire my people with pluck and from the hilltops I hope you will see us repel the Armada in beautiful style." She laughed right merrily as she finished her narrative. "But my dear Queen," said Dickson, "do you imagine that myself and my brave fellows saved from the wreck will be contented to act as mere spectators from the hills, like the `gods' in a theatre gallery, looking down on a play? Nay, we must be beside you, or near you, actors in the same drama or tragedy. Lucky it is, doctor, that we managed to save our two six-pounders, our rifles, and nearly all our ammunition. Why are they called the Red-stripe savages, your Majesty?" "Because, though almost naked, their bodies when prepared for war are all barred over with red paint. The face is hideous, for an eye is painted on the forehead, and a kind of cap with the pricked ears of the wild fox, which is half a wolf, worn on the head. Their arms are bows, spears, shields of great size, which quite cover them, and terrible black knives." "Our shrapnel, believe me, lady, will go through all that, and their heads as well." "Though loth to seek your assistance," said Queen Bertha, "in this case I shall be glad of it. For if they succeed in conquering us the massacre would be awful. Not a man, woman or child would be left alive on our beautiful island." "Assuredly we shall conquer them," said Dickson. "The very sound of our guns and crack of our rifles will astonish and demoralise them. Not a boat shall return of their invincible Armada; perhaps not a savage will be left alive to tell the tale hereafter." "That would indeed be a blessing to us. And my people have half-promised not to make war on them again. We should therefore live in peace, and fear no more Armadas." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Mr Hall was now brightening up again, and all the survivors of the unfortunate _Wolverine_, having something to engage their attention, became quite jolly and happy. I scarce need mention Matty. The child was happy under all circumstances. Ilda, too, was contented. Perhaps never more so than when taking long walks with Reginald up the lovely valley, gathering wildflowers, or fishing in the winding river. Ilda was really beautiful. Her beauty was almost of the classical type, and her voice was sweet to listen to. So thought Reginald. "How charmingly brown the sun has made you, dear Ilda," said Reginald, as she leant on his arm by the riverside. He touched her lightly on the cheek as he spoke. Her head fell lightly on his shoulder just then, as if she were tired, and he noticed that there were tears in her eyes. "No, not tired," she answered, looking up into his face. Redder, sweeter lips surely no girl ever possessed. For just a moment he drew her to his breast and kissed those lips. Ah, well, Reginald Grahame was only a man. I fear that Ilda was only a woman, and that she really loved the handsome, brown-faced and manly doctor. They had now been one year and two months away from Scotland, and at this very moment the Laird Fletcher was paying all the attention in his power to Annie o' the Banks o' Dee. He was really a modern "Auld Robin Grey." "My mither she fell sick, An' my Jamie at the sea; Then Aold Robin Grey came a-courting me." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. A CANNIBAL BREWER AND CANNIBAL BEER. Queen Bertha of the Isle of Flowers had industriously laboured among her people. It gave her pleasure to do so. She even taught them English, which all could now speak after a fashion. Well, while Dickson and Hall were drilling a small company of blacks as soldiers, and trying to make them experts in the use of the rifle--for they had over a score of these to spare--Reginald spent much of his time on the hills with his gun, shooting small wild pigs, rock-rabbits, tuen-tuens, etc. He was always accompanied by Ilda, merry Matty, and Oscar the Newfoundland. No matter where a wild bird fell, in river or lake, or in the bush, Oscar found it, and laid it at his master's feet. But one day Reginald, while shooting, made a singular discovery indeed. Far up in the hills they came upon the grass hut of a very peculiar old man indeed. Before reaching the place quite, they met three natives, and they were evidently intoxicated, staggering, laughing, singing and dancing. The old man was seated in his doorway. Around his hut were at least a dozen huge clay jars, with clay lids, and these contained beer of some sort. He was the most hideous old wretch that Reginald had yet clapped eyes on. Even Matty was terrified, and hugged the great dog round the neck as she gazed on that awful-looking and repulsive creature. "These jars," said Reginald, "evidently contain some intoxicating drink. And the old brewer doesn't look a beauty, nor a saint either!" Nor did he. Here he is, as I myself have seen him more than once. Squatting tailor-fashion outside the door of his dark and windowless hut, a man with a mop of rough silvery hair, thin lips, drawn back into a grin, so that one could see all his awful teeth--tusks they really seemed to be, each one filed into a pointed triangle, the better to tear human flesh. They were stained red. His eyes were red also, and like those of some scared wild beast and cheeks and brow were covered with symmetrical scars. But he was a brewer, and very busy plying his trade. Beside him were open cocoa-nuts and bunches of fragrant herbs. "Go on," said Reginald; "don't let us interfere with business, pray." The horrid creature put a huge lump of cocoa-nut into his mouth, then some herbs, and chewed the lot together; then taking a mouthful of water from a chatty, he spat the whole mass into a jar and proceeded as before. This awful mess of chewed cocoa-nut, herbs, and saliva ferments into a kind of spirit. This is poured off and mixed with water, and lo! the beer of the cannibal islanders! Reginald, noticing a strange-looking chain hanging across the old man's scarred and tattooed chest, begged to examine it. To his astonishment, it consisted entirely of beautiful pearls and small nuggets of gold. "Where did this come from, my man?" "Ugh! I catchee he plenty twick. Plenty mo'. Ver' mooch plenty." Reginald considered for a moment. Money was no good to an old wretch like this, but he wore around his waist a beautiful crimson sash. This he divested himself of, and held it up before the cannibal brewer. "I will give you this for your chain," he said, "and another as good to-morrow, if you will come now and show us where you find these things." The old man at once threw the chain at Reginald's feet, and seized the scarf delightedly. "I come quick--dis moment!" he cried. And he was as good as his word. It was a long walk, and a wild one. Sometimes Reginald carried Matty; sometimes she rode on the great dog. But they arrived at last at the entrance to a gloomy defile, and here in the hillsides were openings innumerable, evidently not made by hands of man. Here, however, was an El Dorado. Caves of gold! for numerous small nuggets were found on the floors and shining in the white walls around them. It was evident enough that it only needed digging and a little hard work to make a pile from any single one of these caves. Next about the pearls. The old savage took the party to the riverside. He waded in, and in five minutes had thrown on shore at least a hundred pearl oysters. These, on coming to bank, he opened one by one, and ten large and beautiful white pearls were found, with ever so many half-faced ones. Strange and wondrous indeed was the story that Reginald Grahame had to relate in private to Mr Hall and Captain Dickson on his return to his home by the sea. At present the trio kept the secret to themselves. That gold was to be had for the gathering was evident enough. But to share it with six men was another question. It might be better, at all events, if they were first and foremost to make their own pile. Anyhow, the men's services might be required; in that case they could choose their own claims, unless Reginald claimed the whole ravine. This he was entitled to do, but he was very far indeed from being mean and greedy. But so intricate was the way to the ravine of gold that without a guide no one could possibly find it. For six whole weeks no gold digging was thought about. Matters of even greater import occupied the minds of the white men. The company of blacks was beautifully drilled by this time, and made fairly good marksmen with the rifle. They were, indeed, the boldest and bravest on the island, and many of them the Queen's own bodyguards. Well, the bay enclosed by the reefs on one of which the _Wolverine_ had struck was the only landing-place in the whole island. Every other part of the shore was guarded by precipitous rocks a thousand feet high at least, rising sheer and black out of the ocean. The Armada must come here, then, if anywhere; and, moreover, the bay faced the enemy's own island, although, with the exception of a mountain peak or two, seen above the horizon, it was far too distant to be visible. A grass watch-tower was built on the brow of a hill, and a sentry occupied this by night as well as by day. Only keen-eyed blacks were chosen for this important duty, and they were told that if any suspicious sign was observed they must communicate immediately with Captain Dickson. And now, facing the sea, a strong palisaded fort was built, and completely clayed over, so as to be almost invisible from the sea. It was roofed over with timber, as a protection against the enemy's arrows; it was also loop-holed for rifles, and here, moreover, were mounted the two six-pounders. Plenty of ammunition for both rifles and guns was placed at a safe distance from the ports. One evening the sentry ran below to report that, seeing a glare in the sky, he had climbed high up the mountain side, and by aid of the night-glass could see that fires were lighted on the brow of every low hill on the enemy's island, and that savages in rings were wildly dancing around them. The sentry had no doubt that the attack on the Isle of Flowers would soon follow this. Dickson thanked the man heartily for his attention, gave him coffee and biscuit, and sent him back to the sentry hut. So kind was the captain, and so interested in the welfare of the blacks, that any one of those he had trained would have fought at fearful odds for him. For kindness towards, a savage soon wins his heart, and his respect as well. Three days more passed by--oh, so slowly and wearily! For a cloud hovered over the camp that the white men tried in vain to dispel. There was this fearful Armada to face and to fight, and the anxiety born of thinking about it was harder to bear than the actual battle itself would be. Dickson was a strictly pious man. Never a morning and never an evening passed without his summoning his men to prayers, and in true Scottish fashion reading a portion from the little Bible which, like General Gordon, he never failed to carry in his bosom. I think he did good. I think he made converts. Mind, without any preaching. He simply led these darkened intellects to the Light, the glorious Light of revealed religion. The portion of the fort where the guns were placed was so fashioned as to be able to cover a wide space of sea on both sides, and from this arrangement Dickson expected great results. A whole week had worn away since the first fires had been seen from the hilltop; but every night those fires had blazed. It was evident enough the enemy was endeavouring to propitiate their gods before sailing. For by day, on climbing a mountain, Dickson, by means of his large telescope, could see on the beach that human sacrifices were being offered up. It was fearful to behold. Men, or perhaps women, were chained to stakes on the beach, and pyres of wood built around them. As the fire curled up through the smoke in tongues, he could see the wretches writhing in agony, while round them danced the spear-armed savages. Reginald had little to do at present, and would have but little to do until summoned to tight. So he was often at the Queen's palace, and a very delightful conversationalist she proved herself to be. She had avowed her intention of being at the great battle herself. Her presence, and the sway of her pole-like sceptre, she assured the doctor, would give her people confidence, and mayhap be the turning point which would lead to victory. Many a ramble together had Reginald and Ilda, nearly always followed by sweet wee Matty and her canine favourite Oscar. One day, however, Matty was at the seaside camp, and Reginald went out with Ilda alone to collect bouquets for the Queen's table. The day was a hot one, but both were young, and when they zigzagged up a mountain side they found not only shade on a green mound beneath some spreading trees, but coolness as well. All this morning Reginald had been thinking sorrowfully about his lost love, as he now called Annie, and of the country he never expected again to see, because never did ships visit this unknown island unless driven hither by storm or tempest. But now there was the soft and dreamy light of love in Ilda's eyes, if ever there were in a woman's. Reginald was very far indeed from being unfaithful at heart to his betrothed, but--well, he could not help thinking how strangely beautiful Ilda was. When she leant towards him and gave one coy glance into his face, it might have been but passion--I cannot say; it might be budding love. At all events, he drew her to his breast and kissed those red lips over and over again, she blushing, but unresisting as before. What he might have said I do not know. But at that moment a half-naked armed savage burst hurriedly in upon the scene. "Come, sah, come; de capatin he sendee me. De bad black mans' war canoes dey is coming, too. Plenty big boat, plenty spear and bow." Reginald thought no more of love just then. His Scottish blood was on fire, and when he had seen Ilda safe in the palace he bade her an affectionate but hurried farewell, and hurried away to the front. The Armada was coming in deadly earnest, and no one in the Isle of Flowers could even guess how matters might end. CHAPTER NINETEEN. GOLD AND PEARLS--JACK CAROUSING. No confusion here in the fort. The men were all in, the other spear-armed corps of at least five hundred were hidden in the bush at the base of the mountain side. Inside everything was being conducted as quietly and regularly as--as--well, as a marriage in church. But looking seaward, even without the aid of a glass, the great Armada could be seen approaching. Huge black many-paddled war canoes, forty in all, and probably with fifty men in each, or nearly a thousand altogether. Nearer and nearer they swept with many a wild or warlike shout that was meant to strike terror into the hearts of the Flower Islanders. They were soon so near that the rattling of their spears as they struck them against their big shields could be distinctly heard. So near now that with a small opera-glass which the doctor carried, he could see their painted skins and faces, and the red and horrible streaks. And now it was time to fire the first gun. A shot or shell would have carried much further, but grape would be ever so much more demoralising. Dickson himself trained that gun on the foremost or leading boat. The surprise of the enemy was indeed great. Never had they seen a gun fired before, nor heard the roar of one. But yonder on shore and in front of the barricaded fort they could see a balloon of white smoke, with a stream of red fire in the centre. Then the roar of that piece of ordnance was appalling. Next moment the crowded boat or war canoe was filled with corpses and the shrieking, bleeding wounded. But she was in splinters, and quickly filled and sank. The other boats lay on their paddles for a minute, uncertain what to do. Meanwhile, and just as Reginald was quickly sponging out the gun previous to reloading, and all was silent for a time, a curious thing occurred. In at the tiny back door of the fort, which had not yet been closed, rushed a tiny, laughing figure, all in white and barefooted. It was Matty, and in jumped honest Oscar next. She was laughing merrily. "Oh!" she cried, clapping her hands with glee. "They put me to bed, but I dot up again and runned away twickly, and I'se come to 'ssist!" "Oh, my darling!" cried Reginald, in great concern, "why did you come?" "I can tally (carry) tartridges and powder." "No, no, no, dear. You must obey me. Here, there is my coat, and in that corner you must sit till all the fight is over." Matty said: "Tiss me, then." He kissed her, and down she sat with the dog beside her, and looked very demure indeed, with that one wee forefinger in her mouth. Strange to say, she soon fell fast asleep, with her head pillowed on the dog's back, one hand clutching his mane. The battle now became general all along the line. For the riflemen in the back, as well as those within the fort, began to fire. And now slowly down the hill came Bertha, the Island Queen, sceptre-pole in hand, and dressed in skins of dazzling white. A very imposing figure she looked. But her presence gave extra courage to her people. The officers in almost every boat were picked off easily, so short was now the range. It must be admitted that the enemy showed no lack of courage, though boat after boat was sunk to the number of six, and rifles rang out from the bush and fort in a series of independent but incessant firing, and well did the foe understand that their main safety now consisted in landing as soon as they possibly could. They knew that in a hand-to-hand fight the "fire-sticks," as savages call our rifles, would be of little avail. The guns were worked with splendid results, however, and by the time the war canoes were beached only about four hundred men were left to fight. But these cannibals knew no fear. One more telling volley from the bush, one more shot from a six-pounder, then from behind a bush rushed the white Queen waving aloft her sceptre, and instantly from their cover, spear-armed, now rushed the Flower Islanders, one thousand strong at least The fight was a fearful one. Dickson, Hall, with Reginald and the men in the fort, joined with revolver and cutlass. The Queen was in the front. No, she fought not, but her presence there was like that of Joan of Arc. Many of the invaded fell dead and wounded; but even the fierce foe was forced to yield at last, and the miserable remnant of them tried once more to reach their boats. They never did. It was a war of extermination, and the invaders were utterly and completely wiped out Never a boat, never a man returned home to their distant island to tell the fearful tale. The Flower Islanders expected now a grand feast. Here was flesh--human flesh. The Queen forbade it, and Dickson himself gave orders that every body-- the wounded had been stabbed--should be rowed out to sea and thrown overboard to feed the sharks. They demurred. Dickson was determined and stern. If not obeyed instantly, he should turn the guns on the would-be cannibals. Reginald suggested as a kind of compromise that each man who had been fighting should receive a large biscuit and a glass of rum. It was a happy thought, and after this the work was set about merrily. The sea-burial occupied all the afternoon till within an hour of sunset. Then the canoes returned. All was over. The Armada was no more. But around him now Dickson gathered the Flower Island Army, and offered up a prayer of thanks to the God of Battle, who had fought on their side, and the islanders seemed much impressed. The enemy would probably never attempt invasion again--in our heroes' time, at all events. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Queen gave a banquet that night, she herself presiding. Of course, nothing was talked about except the incidents of the recent terrible battle. Matty came in for a share of praise, but was told she really must not run away again. And she promised, only adding that she thought she could "'ssist the poor dear doc." The banquet lasted till late. The Queen had not forgotten how to play and sing. Dickson and Reginald were both good musicians, and one or two blacks gave inimitable performances, partly gesture, partly song; which would assuredly have brought down the house if given in a London music-hall. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Being freed now for a time from any fear of further invasion, attention was turned to the gold mines and to the pearl-fishing. At a meeting on the hillside it was resolved that the men--they were all honest fellows--should be admitted to the secret. To have shut them out would hardly have been fair, so thought all. Well, naturally enough, Reginald chose what he considered the best two claims; then came Dickson's choice; then Mr Hall's, and after these the six white sailors, and they were willing to dig like heroes. They divided the work of the day into two parts. One was spent at the gold mines, the other in fishing for pearls. They were remarkably successful with the latter, but for nine months at least the gold came but slowly in, and this was disheartening. Nevertheless, they continued to dig and dig, assisted by native labour. The savages often found nuggets among the _debris_ that had been overlooked by the white men, and these they dutifully presented to the owners of the claims. It must be admitted that the men were most energetic, for while their officers were always at the Queen's palace by five o'clock, and ready for dinner, the men often worked by moonlight, or even by the glimmer of lanterns. They were slowly accumulating wealth. Success crowned Reginald's efforts at last, though. For, to his extreme wonderment and delight, he struck a splendid pocket. It was deep down at the far end of the cave, and the mould was of a sandy nature, much of it apparently powdered quartz, broken, perhaps, by the awful pressure of the mountain above. But the very first nugget he pulled from here was as large as a pineapple, and many more followed, though none so large. No wonder his heart palpitated with joy and excitement, or that his comrades crowded round to shake his hand and congratulate him. But that cave had already made Reginald a fairly wealthy man. His success, moreover, encouraged the others to dig all the harder, and not without excellent results. It seemed, indeed, that not only was this island a flowery land, but an isle of gold. And the further they dug into the hill the more gold did they find. The men were very happy. "Oh, Bill," said one to his pal one night at supper, "if ever we does get a ship home from this blessed isle, won't my Polly be glad to see me just!" "Ay, Jack, she will; but I ain't in any particular hurry to go yet, you know." "Well, it's two years come Monday since we sailed away from the beautiful Clyde. Heigho! I shouldn't wonder if Polly has given me up for good and all, and married some counter-jumping land-lubber of a draper or grocer." "Never mind, Jack; there's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it yet. Pass the rum. This is Saturday night, and it was just real good of Captain Dickson to send us an extra drop of the rosy. Fill your glasses, gentlemen, for a toast and a song. That digging has made me a mighty deal too tired to think of dancing to the sweetest jig e'er a fiddler could scrape out." "Well, give us your toast, Bill. We're all primed and waiting." "My toast ain't a very short one, but here it goes: `May the next year be our very last in this 'ere blessed island; may we all go home with bags of gold, and find our sweethearts true and faithful.'" "Hear, hear!" And every glass was drained to the bottom. "Now for the song." "Oh, only an old ditty o' Dibdin's, and I'd rather be on the heavin' ocean when I sings it. There is no accompaniment to a song so fetching as that which the boom and the wash of the waves make. Them's my sentiments, boys. "Wives and Sweethearts. "'Tis said we ve't'rous diehards, when we leave the shore, Our friends should mourn, Lest we return To bless their sight no more; But this is all a notion Bold Jack can't understand, Some die upon the ocean, And some die on the land. Then since 'tis clear, Howe'er we steer, No man's life's under his command; Let tempests howl And billows roll, And dangers press; In spite of these there are some joys Us jolly tars to bless, For Saturday night still comes, my boys, To drink to Poll and Bess. "Hurrah!" But just at this moment a strange and ominous sound, like distant thunder, put a sudden stop to the sailors' Saturday night. All started to their feet to listen. CHAPTER TWENTY. "OH, AWFUL! WHAT CAN IT BE?" CRIED REGINALD. I do not hesitate to say that the possession of unprotected wealth maketh cowards of most people. The anxiety connected therewith may keep one awake at night, and bring on a state of nervousness that shall end in a break-up of the general health. But no thought of ever losing the precious nuggets and pearls that had cost him so much hard work came into the mind of Reginald Grahame, until an event took place which proved that gold may tempt even those we trust the most. Harry Jenkins was a bright little sailor, the pet of his mess. He was always singing when at work in the diggings, and he generally managed to keep his comrades in excellent humour, and laughing all the time. In their messroom of an evening they were all frank and free, and hid nothing one from the other. For each believed in his pal's honesty. "I have a thousand pounds' worth of nuggets at least!" said Harry one evening. "And I," said Bill Johnson, "have half as much again." They showed each other their gold, comparing nuggets, their very eyes glittering with joy as they thought of how happy they should be when they returned once more to their own country. Then they each stowed away their wealth of nuggets and pearls, placed in tiny canvas bags inside their small sea-chests. This was about a week after that pleasant Saturday night which was so suddenly broken up by the muttering of subterranean thunder and the trembling of the earth. But earthquakes were frequent in the island, though as yet not severe. The Queen was by no means alarmed, but Ilda was--terribly so. "Oh," she cried, "I wish I were away and away from this terrible island!" The Queen comforted her all she could. "I have a presentiment," replied the poor girl, "that this is not the last nor the worst." But when days and days passed away, and there were no more signs of earth-tremor, she regained courage, and was once more the same happy girl she had been before. Then the occurrence took place that made Reginald suspicious of the honesty of some of those British sailors. One morning Harry was missing. They sought him high, they sought him low, but all in vain. Then it occurred to Johnson to look into his box. The box, with all his gold and pearls, was gone! Harry's box had been left open, and it was found to be empty. No one else had lost anything. However, this was a clue, and the officers set themselves to unravel the mystery at once. Nor was it long before they did so. Not only was one of the largest canoes missing, with a sail that had been rigged on her, but two of the strongest natives and best boatmen. It was sadly evident that Harry was a thief, and that he had bribed these two savages to set out to sea with him. There was a favouring breeze for the west, and Harry no doubt hoped that, after probably a week's sailing, he would reach some of the more civilised of the Polynesian islands, and find his way in a ship back to Britain. Whether he did so may never be known, but the fact that the breeze increased to over half a gale about three days after he had fled, makes it rather more than probable that the big canoe was swamped, and that she foundered, going down with the crew and the ill-gotten gold as well. Only a proof that the wicked do not always prosper in this world. Poor Johnson's grief was sad to witness. "On my little store," he told his messmates, wringing his hands, and with the tears flowing over his cheeks, "I placed all my future happiness. I care not now what happens. One thing alone I know: life to me has no more charms, and I can never face poor Mary again." He went to the diggings again in a halfhearted kind of way, and for a day or two was fairly successful; but it was evident that his heart was almost broken, and that if something were not done he might some evening throw himself over a cliff, and so end a life that had become distasteful to him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ So one morning Reginald had an interview with his messmates. "I myself," he said, "must have already collected over twenty thousand pounds in nuggets and pearls, and will willingly give of this my store five hundred pounds worth of gold by weight, if you, Captain Dickson, and you, Hall, will do the same. Thus shall we restore reason and happiness to a fellow-creature, and one of the best-hearted sailors that ever lived and sailed the salt, salt seas." Both Dickson and Hall must need shake hands with Reginald, and, while the tears stood in his eyes, the former said: "That will we, my dear boy, and God will bless your riches, and restore you all your desires whenever we reach our British shores again." And so that very night there was no more happy man than Johnson. Another Saturday night in the men's mess. Dickson willingly spliced the main-brace twice over, and the night passed pleasantly on with yarn and song till midnight. But the thief Harry was never mentioned. It was better thus. Already, perhaps, the man had met his doom, and so they forgave him. Yet somehow this incident rankled in Reginald's bosom, and made him very uneasy. "I say," he said to Dickson one day, "I confess that the flight of Harry Jenkins with poor Johnson's gold has made me suspicious." "And me so as well," said Dickson. "I mean," said Reginald, "to bury my treasure, and I have already selected a spot." "You have? Then I shall bury mine near yours. I have ever liked you, doctor, since first we met, and we have been as brothers." They shook hands. Appealed to, Mr Hall said straight: "I am a wealthy man, and, if ever I reach America, I shall have more than I can spend. I shall leave mine in the box where it is. I admit," he added, "that if there be one thief among six men, there may be two, and gold is a great temptation. But I'll go with you at the dead of night, and help to carry, and help you to bury your treasure." They thanked him heartily, and accepted his kindly assistance. The spot at which Reginald had chosen to hide his gold and treasure was called Lone Tree Hill. It was on a bare, bluff mountain side. Here stood one huge eucalyptus tree, that might have been used as a landmark for ships at sea had it been in the track of vessels. But this island, as I have already said, was not so. Strangely enough, all around this tree the hill was supposed to be haunted by an evil spirit, and there was not a native who would go anywhere near it, even in broad daylight. The spirit took many forms, sometimes rushing down in the shape of a fox, or even wild pig, and scaring the natives into convulsions, but more often, and always before an earthquake, the spirit was seen in the shape of a round ball of flame on the very top of the tree. This was likely enough. I myself have seen a mysterious flame of this kind on the truck or highest portion of a ship's mast, and we sailors call it Saint Elmo's fire. I have known sailors, who would not have been afraid to bear the brunt of battle in a man-o'-war, tremble with superstitious dread as they beheld that mysterious quivering flame at the mast-head. Some evil, they would tell you, was sure to happen. A storm invariably followed. Well, generally a gale wind did, owing to the electric conditions of the atmosphere. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ A bright scimitar of moon was shining at midnight when Dickson and Reginald, assisted by Hall, stole silently out and away to the hills to bury their treasure. There were few sounds to be heard to-night on the island. Far out in the bay there was at times the splash of a shark or the strange cooing of a porpoise, and in the valley the yapping of foxes in pursuit of their prey. The mournful hooting of great owls sounded from the woods, with now and then the cry of a night bird, or shriek of wounded bird. It was a long and stiff walk to Lone Tree Hill; but arrived there, they set to work at once to dig at the eucalyptus root. The holes made-- Dickson's to the east, Reginald's to the west--the nuggets, enclosed in strong tarpaulin bags, were laid in, and next the pearls, in small cash-boxes, were placed above these. The earth was now filled in, and the sods replaced so carefully and neatly that no one could have told that the earth had ever been broken or the sods upturned. Then, breathing a prayer for the safety of their treasure, on which so much might depend in future, they walked silently down the hill and back to the camp. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ But that very night--or rather towards morning--an event took place that alarmed all hands. The earth shook and trembled, and finally heaved; and it felt as if the house were a ship in the doldrums crossing the Line. Everyone was dashed on to the floor, and for a time lay there almost stunned, giddy, and even sick. It passed off. But in an hour's time a worse shock followed, and all hands rushed into the open air to seek for safety. Outside it was not only hot and stifling--for not a breath of wind was blowing--but the air had a strange and almost suffocating sulphurous odour. And this was soon accounted for. Now, not far from Lone Tree Mountain was a high and conical hill. From this, to the great astonishment of all, smoke and flames were now seen issuing. The flames leapt in marvellous tongues high up through the smoke. There was the whitest of steam mingling with the smoke, and anon showers of dust, scorai, and stones began to fall. For a minute or two the sight quite demoralised the trio. But the men, too, had run out, and all had thrown themselves face down on the ground while the heaving of the earth continued. It was a new experience, and a terrible one. Dickson went towards them now. "I do not think, boys, that the danger is very extreme," he said. "But I advise you to keep out of doors as much as possible, in case of a greater shock, which may bring down our humble dwelling. And now, Hall, and you, Reginald," he added, "the ladies at the palace will, I fear, be in great terror. It is our duty to go to them. Our presence may help to cheer them up." Daylight was beginning to dawn, though from rolling clouds of smoke in the far east the sun could only be seen like a red-hot iron shot. It was evident enough to our heroes when they had climbed the highest intervening hill, that the island from which the Armada had come was far more severely stricken than this Isle of Flowers was. But as they still gazed eastward at the three or four blazing mountains on that island, they started and clung together with something akin to terror in every heart. "Oh, awful! What can it be?" cried Reginald. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. A TERRIBLE TIME. Never until the crack of doom might they hear such another report as that which now fell upon their ears. At almost the same moment, in a comminglement of smoke and fire, a huge dark object was seen to be carried high into the air, probably even a mile high. It then took a westerly direction, and came towards the Isle of Flowers, getting larger every second, till it descended into the sea, end on, and not two miles away. It was seen to be a gigantic rock, perhaps many, many acres in extent. The waters now rose on every side, the noise was deafening; then in, landwards, sped a huge bore, breaker, or wave, call it what you please, but darkness almost enveloped it, and from this thunders roared and zigzag lightning flashed as it dashed onwards to the island shore. The men they had left behind had speedily climbed the rocks behind the camp, for although the wave did not reach so high, the spray itself would have suffocated them, had they not looked out for safety. It was an awful moment. But the wave receded at last, and the sea was once more calm. Only a new island had been formed by the fall of the rock into the ocean's coral depths, and for a time the thunder and lightning ceased. Not the volcanic eruptions, however. And but for the blaze and lurid light of these the enemy's isle, as it was called, must have been in total darkness. Truly a terrible sight! But our heroes hurried on. Just as they had expected, when they reached the Queen's palace they found poor Miss Hall, and even little Matty--with all her innocent courage--in a state of great terror. The Queen alone was self-possessed. She had seen a volcanic eruption before. Ilda was lying on the couch with her arms round Matty's waist Matty standing by her side. The child was now seven years of age, and could talk and think better. Reginald, after kissing Ilda's brow, sat down beside them, and Matty clambered on his knee. Meanwhile, the darkness had increased so much that the Queen called upon her dusky attendants to light the great oil lamp that swung from the roof. The Queen continued self-possessed, and tried to comfort her guests. "It will soon be over," she said. "I am assured of that. My experience is great." But Matty refused all consolation. "I'se never been a very great sinner, has I?" she innocently asked Reginald, as she clung round his neck. "Oh, no, darling," he said; "you are too young to be much of a sinner." "You think God won't be angry, and will take you and me and Ilda and Queen Bertha straight up to Heaven, clothes and all?" "My child," said Reginald, "what has put all this into your head?" "Oh," she answered, "because I know the Day of Judgment has come." Well, there was some excuse for the little innocent thinking so. Without the thickest darkness reigned. Dickson and Hall went to the door, but did not venture out. Scoria was falling, and destroying all the shrubs and flowers in the beautiful valley. The river was mixed with boiling lava, and the noise therefrom was like a thousand engines blowing off steam at one and the same time. Surely never was such loud and terrible thunder heard before; and the lightning was so vivid and so incessant that not only did the island itself seem all ablaze, but even the distant sea. Crimson and blue fire appeared to lick its surface in all directions. But the burning mountain itself was the most wondrous sight eyes of man could look upon. The smoke and steam rose and rolled amidst the play of lightning miles high apparently. The peak of the mountain itself shot up a continuous stream of orange-yellow flame, in which here and there small black spots could be seen--rocks and stones, without a doubt. But the cone of the great hill itself was marvellously beautiful. For rivers of lava--Dickson counted nine in all--were rushing down its sides in a straight course, and these were streams of coloured fire, almost every one a different hue--deep crimson, green, and blue, and even orange. Were it not for the terror of the sight, our heroes would have enjoyed it. Reginald carried Matty to the door to see the beauty of the burning mountain. She took one brief glance, then shudderingly held closer to Reginald's neck. "Take me back, take me back!" she cried in an agony of fear. "That is the bad place! Oh, when will God come and take us away?" All that fearful day and all the following night scoria and ashes continued to fall, the thunder never ceased, and the lightning was still incessant. There was no chance now of getting back to camp, and they trembled to think of what might have taken place. Towards morning, however, a wondrous change took place. The sky got clearer, a star or two shone through the rifts of heavy, overhanging clouds. The fire no longer rose from the mountain, only a thick balloon-shaped white cloud lay over it. Then the rain began to fall, and, strangely enough, mingled with the rain, which felt warm, were gigantic hailstones and pieces of ice as large as six-pound shells. Then up rose the glorious sun. Like a red ball of fire he certainly was; but oh, what a welcome sight! That forenoon, all being now peace and quiet, Dickson and his comrades determined to march back to camp and ease their minds. After a long and toilsome journey over the hills, many of which were covered with ashes, they reached camp, and were glad to find the men alive, and the house intact. A rampart had been built around the barracks, as Hall called it, and inside was a large drill-yard. Dickson served out rum to the men, and they soon were cheerful enough once more. The guns had been mounted on the walls, and all rifles were stowed away inside. This was at a suggestion from Hall. "You never can trust those niggers," he said quietly, shaking his head. And well it was, as it turned out, that Dickson had taken Mr Hall's advice. That same afternoon, about two o'clock, the same savages who had fought with rifles from the bush against the invaders came hurriedly and somewhat excitedly into camp. The spokesman, a tall and splendid-looking native, gesticulated wildly, as he almost shouted in the officers' ears: "To-mollow molning dey come! All dis island rise! Dey come to kill and eat!" The officers were astonished. What had they done to deserve so terrible a fate? "Dey blame you for all. Oh, be plepared to fight. Gib us guns, and we too will fight plenty much. Foh true!" A very uneasy night was passed, but the yard and guns had been cleared of cinders and scoria, the bulwarks strengthened, and before the sun once more shone red over the sea Dickson was prepared for either battle or siege. Everyone had been assigned his quarters. The day was still, hot, and somewhat sultry. Luckily the little garrison was well provisioned, and the water would last a week or even longer. Low muttering thunders were still heard in the direction of the volcano, and sometimes the earth shook and trembled somewhat, but it was evident that the subterranean fires had burnt themselves out, and it might be a score of years before another eruption occurred. It was evident that the savages did not think so. For as long as the cloud hung over the peak they did not consider themselves safe. About twelve o'clock that day distant shouts and cries were heard in the nearest glen, and presently an undisciplined mob of nearly a thousand howling savages, armed with bows and spears and broad black knives, appeared on the sands, in their war-paint. It was evidently their intention to storm the position, and determinedly too. They halted, however, and seemed to have a hasty consultation. Then a chief boldly advanced to the ramparts to hold a parley. His speech was a curious one, and he himself, dressed partly in skins and leaning on a spear like a weaver's beam, was a strangely wild and romantic figure. The officers appeared above the ramparts to look and to listen. "Hear, O white men!" cried the savage chief, in fairly good English; "'tis you who brought dis evil on us. We now do starve. De rice and de fruit and de rats and most all wild beasts dey kill or hide demselves. In de sea all round de fish he die. We soon starve. But we not wish to fight. You and your men saved us from the foe that came in der big black war canoe. Den you try to teach us God and good. But we all same as before now. We must fight, eat and live, if you do not leave the island. Plenty big canoe take you off. Den de grass and trees and fruit will grow again, and we shall be happy and flee onct mo'." "An end to this!" cried Dickson angrily. "Fight as you please, and as soon as you please. But mind, you will have a devilish hot reception, and few of you will return to your glens to tell the tale. Away!" As soon as the chief had returned and communicated to his men the result of the interview, they shrieked and shouted and danced like demons. They brandished their spears aloft and rattled them against their shields. Then, with one continuous maddened howl, they dashed onwards to scale the ramparts. "Blood! blood!" was their battle cry. Well knowing that if once they got inside the little garrison would soon be butchered, Dickson immediately had both guns trained on them. He himself did so. "Bang! bang!" they went, and the grape made fearful havoc in the close and serried ranks of the cannibals. The rifles kept up a withering fire. Again, and quickly too, the guns were loaded and run out, and just as the enemy had scaled the brae they were once more met by the terrible fire, and positively hewn down before it. Not even savages could stand this. They became demoralised, and fled incontinently. And they soon disappeared, carrying many of their dead with them. Far along the beach went they, and as stakes were placed in the ground, large fires built around them, and one or more of the dead thrown on each, it was evident that they had made up their minds not to starve. One of the blacks was now sent out from the fort to make a circuit round the hills, and then, mingling with the savages, to find out out what was their intention. He returned in a few hours, and while the awful feast was still going on. A night attack was determined on, and they believed they would inherit strength and bravery by eating their dead comrades. That was the scout's report. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. MORE FEARFUL FIGHTING--GOLDEN GULCH--"A SHIP! A SHIP!" Forewarned is, or ought to be, forearmed. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that Dickson and the others greatly dreaded an attack by savages under cover of the moonless darkness of a tropical night. All was done that could be done to repel the fury of the onslaught. But come it must and would. Just as the sun was sinking behind the western mountains, amidst lurid and threatening clouds, a happy thought occurred to one of the sailors. "Sir," he said to Dickson, "the darkness will be our greatest foe, will it not?" "Certainly. If these demon cannibals would but show front in daylight we could easily disperse them, as we did before. Have you any plans, McGregor?" "I'm only a humble sailor," said McGregor, "but my advice is this. We can trust the honest blacks we have here within the fort?" "Yes." "Well, let them throw up a bit of sand cover for themselves down here on the beach and by the sea. Each man should wear a bit of white cotton around his arm, that we may be able to distinguish friend from foe. Do you follow me, sir?" "Good, McGregor. Go on." "Well, captain, the cannibals are certain to make direct for the barracks and attempt to scale as they did before. I will go in command of our twenty black soldiers, and just as you pour in your withering grape and rifle bullets we shall attack from the rear, or flank, rather, and thus I do not doubt we shall once more beat them off." "Good again, my lad; but remember we cannot aim in the darkness." "That can be provided against. We have plenty of tarry wood here, and we can cut down the still standing brush, and making two huge bonfires, deluge the whole with kerosene when we hear the beggars coming and near at hand. Thus shall you have light to fight." "McGregor, my lad, I think you have saved the fort and our lives. Get ready your men and proceed to duty. Or, stay. While they still are at their terrible feast and dancing round the fires, you may remain inside." "Thanks, sir, thanks." The men had supper at eleven o'clock and a modicum of rum each. The British sailor needs no Dutch courage on the day of battle. The distant fires burnt on till midnight. Then, by means of his night-glass, Dickson could see the tall chieftain was mustering his men for the charge. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Half an hour later they came on with fiendish shouts and howling. Then brave McGregor and his men left the barracks and hid in the darkling to the left and low down on the sands. The enemy advanced from the right. Their chief was evidently a poor soldier, or he would have caused them to steal as silently as panthers upon the fort. When within a hundred yards, Dickson at one side and Reginald at the other, each accompanied by a man carrying a keg of kerosene, issued forth at the back door. In three minutes more the flames sprang up as if by magic. They leaped in great white tongues of fire up the rock sides, from which the rays were reflected, so that all round the camp was as bright as day. The astonished savages, however, came on like a whirlwind, till within twenty yards of the brae on which stood the fort. Then Mr Hall, the brave and imperturbable Yankee, "gave them fits," as he termed it. He trained a gun on them and fired it point-blank. The yells and awful howlings of rage and pain told how well the grape had done its deadly work, and that many had fallen never to rise again. The tall, skin-clad chief now waved his spear aloft, and shouted to his men, pointing at the fort. That dark cloud was a mass of frenzied savages now. They leaped quickly over their dead and wounded, and rushed for the hill. But they were an easy mark, and once again both guns riddled their ranks. They would not be denied even yet. But lo! while still but half-way up the hill, to their astonishment and general demoralisation, they were attacked by a terrible rifle fire from the flank. Again and again those rifles cracked, and at so close a range that the attacking party fell dead in twos and threes. But not until two more shots were fired from the fort, not until the giant chief was seen to throw up his arms and fall dead in his tracks, did they hurriedly rush back helter-skelter, and seek safety in flight. The black riflemen had no mercy on their brother-islanders. Their blood was up. So was McGregor's, and they pursued the enemy, pouring in volley after volley until the darkness swallowed them up. The slaughter had been immense. The camp was molested no more. But at daybreak it was observed that no cloud hung any longer on the volcanic peak. The savages were still grouped in hundreds around their now relighted fires, and it was evident a new feast was in preparation. But something still more strange now happened. Accompanied by two gigantic spear-armed men of the guard, the Queen herself was seen to issue from the glen, and boldly approach the rebels. What she said may never be known. But, while her guard stood like two statues, she was seen to be haranguing the cannibals, sometimes striking her sceptre-pole against the hard white sand, sometimes pointing with it towards the volcanic mountain. But see! another chief approaches her, and is apparently defying her. Next moment there is a little puff of white smoke, and the man falls, shot through the head. And now the brave and romantic Queen nods to her guards, and with their spears far and near the fires are dispersed and put out. This was all very interesting, as well as wonderful, to the onlookers at the fort, but when the Queen was seen approaching the little garrison, a little white flag waving from her pole, and followed by all the natives, astonishment was at its height. Humbly enough they approached now, for the Queen in their eyes was a goddess. With a wave of her sceptre she stopped them under the brae, or hill, and Dickson and Reginald hurried down to meet her floral majesty. "Had I only known sooner," she said sympathisingly, "that my people had rebelled and attempted to murder you, I should have been here long, long before now. These, however, are but the black sheep of my island, and now at my command they have come to sue for pardon." "And they will lay down their arms?" "Yes, every spear and bow and crease." "Then," said Dickson, "let them go in single file and heap them on the still smouldering fire up yonder." Queen Bertha said something to them in their own language, and she was instantly obeyed. The fire so strangely replenished took heart and blazed up once more, and soon the arms were reduced to ashes, and the very knives bent or melted with the fierce heat. "Go home now to your wives and children," she cried imperiously. "For a time you shall remain in disgrace. But if you behave well I will gladly receive you once more into my favour. Disperse! Be off!" All now quietly dispersed, thankfully enough, too, for they had expected decapitation. But ten were retained to dig deep graves near the sea and bury the dead. There were no wounded. This done, peace was restored once more on the Island of Flowers. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Three weeks of incessant rain followed. It fell in torrents, and the river itself overflowed its banks, the fords being no longer of any use, so that the men were confined to their barracks. It was a long and a dreary time. Very much indeed Reginald would have liked to visit the palace, to romp with little Matty, and listen to the music of Ilda's sweet voice. "As for Annie--she must have given me up for dead long ere now," he said to himself. "Why, it is two years and nine months since I left home. Yes, something tells me that Annie is married, and married to--to--my old rival the Laird. Do I love Ilda? I dare not ask myself the question. Bar Annie herself, with sweet, baby, innocent face, I have never known a girl that so endeared herself to me as Ilda has done. And--well, yes, why deny it?--I long to see her." One day the rain ceased, and the sun shone out bright and clear once more. The torrents from the mountains were dried up, and the river rapidly went down. This was an island of surprises, and when, three days after this, Reginald, accompanied by Hall and Dickson, went over the mountains, they marvelled to find that the incessant downpour of rain had entirely washed the ashes from the valley, and that it was once more smiling green with bud and bourgeon. In a week's time the flowers would burst forth in all their glory. The ford was now easily negotiable, and soon they were at the Queen's palace. Need I say that they received a hearty welcome from her Majesty and Ilda? Nor did it take Matty a minute to ensconce herself on Reginald's knee. "Oh," she whispered, "I'se so glad you's come back again! Me and Ilda cried ourselves to sleep every, every night, 'cause we think the bad black men kill you." Ilda crying for him! Probably praying for him! The thought gave him joy. Then, indeed, she loved him. No wonder that he once again asked himself how it would all end. The weather now grew charming. Even the hills grew green again, for the ashes and _debris_ from the fire-hill, as the natives called it, had fertilised the ground. And now, accompanied by Ilda and Matty, who would not be left behind, an expedition started for the valley of gold. The road would be rough, and so a hammock had been sent for from the camp, and two sturdy natives attached it to a long bamboo pole. Matty, laughing with delight, was thus borne along, and she averred that it was just like flying. Alas! the earthquake had been very destructive in Golden Gulch. Our heroes hardly knew it. Indeed, it was a glen no longer, but filled entirely up with fallen rocks, lava, and scoria. They sighed, and commenced the return journey. But first a visit must be paid to Lone Tree Mountain. For Reginald's heart lay there. "From that elevation," said Reginald, "we shall be able to see the beautiful ocean far and near." The tree at last! It was with joy indeed they beheld it. Though damaged by the falling scoria, it was once more green; but the grave in which the gold and pearls lay was covered three feet deep in lava and small stones. The treasure, then, was safe! They were about to return, when Ilda suddenly grasped Reginald's arm convulsively. "Look! look!" she cried, pointing seawards. "The ship! the ship! We are saved! We are saved!" CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. "SHE THREW HERSELF ON THE SOFA IN AN AGONY OF GRIEF." Nearer and nearer drew that ship, and bigger and bigger she seemed to grow, evidently with the intention of landing on the island. Even with the naked eye they soon could see that her bulwarks were badly battered, and that her fore-topmast had been carried away. Back they now hurried to leave Ilda and Matty at the palace. Then camp-wards with all speed; and just as they reached the barracks they could hear the rattling of the chains as both anchors were being let go in the bay. A boat now left the vessel's side, and our three heroes hurried down to meet it. The captain was a red-faced, white-haired, hale old man, and one's very _beau-ideal_ of a sailor. He was invited at once up to the barracks, and rum and ship biscuits placed before him. Then yarns were interchanged, Captain Cleaver being the first to tell the story of his adventures. Very briefly, though, as seafarers mostly do talk. "Left Rio three months ago, bound for San Francisco. Fine weather for a time, and until we had cleared the Straits. Then--oh, man! may I never see the like again! I've been to sea off and on for forty years and five, but never before have I met with such storms. One after another, too; and here we are at last. In the quiet of your bay, I hope to make good some repairs, then hurry on our voyage. And you?" he added. "Ah," said Dickson, "we came infinitely worse off than you. Wrecked, and nearly all our brave crew drowned. Six men only saved, with us three, Mr Hall's daughter and a child. The latter are now with the white Queen of this island. We managed to save our guns and provisions from our unhappy yacht and that was all." "Well, you shall all sail to California with me. I'll make room, for I am but lightly loaded. But I have not yet heard the name of your craft, nor have you introduced me to your companions." "A sailor's mistake," laughed Dickson; "but this is Mr Hall, who was a passenger; and this is Dr Reginald Grahame. Our vessel's name was the _Wolverine_." "And she sailed from Glasgow nearly three years ago?" Captain Cleaver bent eagerly over towards Dickson as he put the question. "That is so, sir." "Why, you are long since supposed to have foundered with all hands, and the insurance has been paid to your owners." "Well, that is right; the ship is gone, but _we_ are alive, and our adventures have been very strange and terrible indeed. After dinner I will tell you all. But now," he added, with a smile, "if you will only take us as far as 'Frisco, we shall find our way to our homes." Captain Cleaver's face was very pale now, and he bit his lips, as he replied: "I can take you, Captain Dickson, your six men, Mr Hall and the ladies, but I cannot sail with this young fellow." He pointed to Reginald. "It may be mere superstition on my part," he continued, "but I am an old sailor, you know, and old sailors have whims." "I cannot see why I should be debarred from a passage home," said Reginald. "I am a plain man," said Cleaver, "and I shall certainly speak out, if you pretend you do not know." "I do _not_ know, and I command you to speak out." "Then I will. In Britain there is a price set upon your head, sir, and you are branded as a _murderer_!" Dickson and Hall almost started from their seats, but Reginald was quiet, though deathly white. "And--and," he said, in a husky voice, "whom am I accused of murdering?" "Your quondam friend, sir, and rival in love, the farmer Craig Nicol." "I deny it _in toto_!" cried Reginald. "Young man, I am not your judge. I can only state facts, and tell you that your knife was found bloodstained and black by the murdered man's side. The odds are all against you." "This is truly terrible!" said Reginald, getting red and white by turns, as he rapidly paced the floor. "What can it mean?" "Captain Dickson," he said at last, "do you believe, judging from all you have seen of me, that I could be guilty of so dastardly a deed, or that I could play and romp with the innocent child Matty with, figuratively speaking, blood between my fingers, and darkest guilt at my heart? Can you believe it?" Dickson held out his hand, and Reginald grasped it, almost in despair. "Things look black against you," he said, "but I do _not_ believe you guilty." "Nor do I," said Hall; "but I must take the opportunity of sailing with Captain Cleaver, I and my daughter and little Matty." Reginald clasped his hand to his heart. "My heart will break!" he said bitterly. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ In a few days' time Cleaver's ship was repaired, and ready for sea. So was Hall, and just two of the men. The other four, as well as Dickson himself, elected to stay. There was still water to be laid in, however, and so the ship was detained for forty-eight hours. One morning his messmates missed Reginald from his bed. It was cold, and evidently had not been slept in for many hours. "Well, well," said Dickson, "perhaps it is best thus, but I doubt not that the poor unhappy fellow has thrown himself over a cliff, and by this time all his sorrows are ended for ay." But Reginald had had no such intention. While the stars were yet shining, and the beautiful Southern Cross mirrored in the river's depth, he found himself by the ford, and soon after sunrise he was at the palace. Ilda was an early riser and so, too, was wee Matty. Both were surprised but happy to see him. He took the child in his arms, and as he kissed her the tears rose to his eyes, and all was a mist. "Dear Matty," he said, "run out, now; I would speak with Ilda alone." Half-crying herself, and wondering all the while, Matty retired obediently enough. "Oh," cried Ilda earnestly, and drawing her chair close to his, "you are in grief. What can have happened?" "Do not sit near me, Ilda. Oh, would that the grief would but kill me! The captain of the ship which now lies in the bay has brought me terrible news. I am branded with murder! Accused of slaying my quondam friend and rival in the affections of her about whom I have often spoken to you--Annie Lane." Ilda was stricken dumb. She sat dazed and mute, gazing on the face of him she loved above all men on earth. "But--oh, you are not--_could_ not--be guilty! Reginald--my own Reginald!" she cried. "Things are terribly black against me, but I will say no more now. Only the body was not found until two days after I sailed, and it is believed that I was a fugitive from justice. That makes matters worse. Ilda, I could have loved you, but, ah! I fear this will be our last interview on earth. Your father is sailing by this ship, and taking you and my little love Matty with him." She threw herself in his arms now, and wept till it verily seemed her heart would break. Then he kissed her tenderly, and led her back to her seat. "Brighter times may come," he said. "There is ever sunshine behind the clouds. Good-bye, darling, good-bye--and may every blessing fall on your life and make you happy. Say good-bye to the child for me; I dare not see her again." She half rose and held out her arms towards him, but he was gone. The door was closed, and she threw herself now on the sofa in an agony of grief. The ship sailed next day. Reginald could not see her depart. He and one man had gone to the distant hill. They had taken luncheon with them, and the sun had almost set before they returned to camp. "Have they gone?" was the first question when he entered the barrack-hall. "They have gone." That was all that Dickson said. "But come, my friend, cheer up. No one here believes you guilty. All are friends around you, and if, as I believe you to be, you are innocent, my advice is this: Pray to the Father; pray without ceasing, and He will bend down His ear and take you out of your troubles. Remember those beautiful lines you have oftentimes heard me sing: "`God is our comfort and our strength, In straits a present aid; Therefore although the earth remove, We will not be afraid.' "And these: "`He took me from a fearful pit, And from the miry clay; And on a rock he set my feet, Establishing my way.'" "God bless you for your consolation. But at present my grief is all so fresh, and it came upon me like a bolt from the blue. In a few days I may recover. I do not know. I may fail and die. It may be better if I do." Dickson tried to smile. "Nonsense, lad. I tell you all will yet come right, and you will see." The men who acted as servants now came in to lay the supper. The table was a rough one indeed, and tablecloth there was none. Yet many a hearty meal they had made off the bare boards. "I have no appetite, Dickson." "Perhaps not; but inasmuch as life is worth living, and especially a young life like yours, eat you must, and we must endeavour to coax it." As he spoke he placed a bottle of old rum on the table. He took a little himself, as if to encourage his patient, and then filled out half a tumblerful and pushed it towards Reginald. Reginald took a sip or two, and finally finished it by degrees, but reluctantly. Dickson filled him out more. "Nay, nay," Reginald remonstrated. "Do you see that couch yonder?" said his companion, smiling. "Yes." "Well, as soon as you have had supper, on that you must go to bed, and I will cover you with a light rug. Sleep will revive you, and things to-morrow morning will not look quite so dark and gloomy." "I shall do all you tell me." "Good boy! but mind, I have even Solomon's authority for asking you to drink a little. `Give,' he says, `strong drink to him Who is ready to perish... Let him drink... and remember his misery no more.' And our irrepressible bard Burns must needs paraphrase these words in verse: "`Give him strong drink, until he wink, That's sinking in despair; And liquor good to fire his blood, That's pressed wi' grief and care. There let him bouse and deep carouse Wi' bumpers flowing o'er; Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more.'" CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. "OH, MERCIFUL FATHER! THEY ARE HERE." Well, it seemed there was very little chance of poor Reginald (if we dare extend pity to him) forgetting either his loves or the terrible incubus that pressed like a millstone on heart and brain. Captain Dickson was now doctor instead of Grahame, and the latter was his patient. Two things he knew right well: first, that in three or four months at the least a ship of some kind would arrive, and Reginald be taken prisoner back to England; secondly, that if he could not get him to work, and thus keep his thoughts away from the awful grief, he might sink and die. He determined, therefore, to institute a fresh prospecting party. Perhaps, he told the men, the gold was not so much buried but that they might find their way to it. "That is just what we think, sir, and that is why we stayed in the island with you and Dr Grahame instead of going home in the _Erebus_. Now, sir," continued the man, "why not employ native labour? We have plenty of tools, and those twenty stalwart blacks that fought so well for us would do anything to help us. Shall I speak to them, captain?" "Very well, McGregor; you seem to have the knack of giving good advice. It shall be as you say." After a visit to the Queen, who received them both with great cordiality, and endeavoured all she could to keep up poor Reginald's heart, they took their departure, and bore up for the hills, accompanied by their black labourers, who were as merry as crickets. Much of the lava, or ashes, had been washed away from the Golden Mount, as they termed it, and they could thus prospect with more ease in the gulch below. In the most likely part, a place where crushed or powdered quartz abound, work was commenced in downright earnest. "Here alone have we any chance, men," said Captain Dickson cheerily. "Ah, sir," said McGregor, "you have been at the diggings before, and so have I." "You are right, my good fellow; I made my pile in California when little more than a boy. I thought that this fortune was going to last me for ever, and there was no extravagance in New York I did not go in for. Well, my pile just vanished like mist before the morning sun, and I had to take a situation as a man before the mast, and so worked myself up to what I am now, a British master mariner." "Well, sir," said Mac, "you have seen the world, anyhow, and gained experience, and no doubt that your having been yourself a common sailor accounts for much of your kindness to and sympathy for us poor Jacks." "Perhaps." Mining work was now carried on all day long, and a shaft bored into the mountain side. This was their only chance. Timber was cut down and sawn into beams and supports, and for many weeks everything went on with the regularity of clock-work; but it was not till after a month that fortune favoured the brave. Then small nuggets began to be found, and to these succeeded larger ones; and it was evident to all that a well-lined pocket was found. In this case both the officers and men worked together, and the gold was equally divided between them. They were indeed a little Republic, but right well the men deserved their share, for well and faithfully did they work. Two months had passed away since the departure of the _Erebus_, and soon the detectives must come. Reginald's heart gave a painful throb of anxiety when he thought of it. Another month and he should be a prisoner, and perhaps confined in a hot and stuffy cell on board ship. Oh! it was terrible to think of! But work had kept him up. Soon, however, the mine gave out, and was reluctantly deserted. Every night now, however, both Dickson and Reginald dined and slept at the palace of Queen Bertha. With her Reginald left his nuggets. "If I should be condemned to death," he said,--"and Fate points to that probability--the gold and all the rest is yours, Dickson." "Come, sir, come," said the Queen, "keep up your heart. You say you are not guilty." They were sitting at table enjoying wine and fruit, though the latter felt like sawdust in Reginald's hot and nerve-fevered mouth. "I do not myself believe I am guilty, my dear lady," he answered. "You do not _believe_?" "Listen, and I will tell you. The knife found--it was mine--by the side of poor Craig Nicol is damning evidence against me, and this is my greatest fear. Listen again. All my life I have been a sleep-walker or somnambulist." The Queen was interested now, and leaned more towards him as he spoke. "You couldn't surely--" she began. "All I remember of that night is this--and I feel the cold sweat of terror on my brow as I relate it--I had been to Aberdeen. I dined with friends--dined, not wisely, perhaps, but too well. I remember feeling dazed when I left the train at--Station. I had many miles still to walk, but before I had gone there a stupor seemed to come over me, and I laid me down on the sward thinking a little sleep would perfectly refresh me. I remember but little more, only that I fell asleep, thinking how much I would give only to have Craig Nicol once more as my friend. Strange, was it not? I seemed to awake in the same place where I had lain down, but cannot recollect that I had any dreams which might have led to somnambulism. But, oh, Queen Bertha, my stocking knife was gone! I looked at my hands. `Good God!' I cried, for they were smeared with blood! And I fainted away. I have no more to say," he added, "no more to tell. I will tell the same story to my solicitor alone, and will be guided by all he advises. If I have done this deed, even in my sleep, I deserve my fate, whate'er it may be, and, oh, Queen Bertha, the suspense and my present terrible anxiety is worse to bear than death itself could be." "From my very inmost heart I pity you," said the Queen. "And I too," said Dickson. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was now well-nigh three months since the _Erebus_ had left, and no other vessel had yet arrived or appeared in sight. But one evening the Queen, with Reginald and Dickson, sat out of doors in the verandah. They were drinking little cups of black coffee and smoking native cigarettes, rolled round with withered palm leaves in lieu of paper. It was so still to-night that the slightest sound could be heard: even leaves rustling in the distant woods, even the whisk of the bats' wings as they flew hither and thither moth-hunting. It was, too, as bright as day almost, for a round moon rode high in the clear sky, and even the brilliant Southern Cross looked pale in her dazzling rays. There had been a lull in the conversation for a few minutes, but suddenly the silence was broken in a most unexpected way. From seaward, over the hills, came the long-drawn and mournful shriek of a steamer's whistle. "O, Merciful Father!" cried Reginald, half-rising from his seat, but sinking helplessly back again--"they are here!" Alas! it was only too true. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When the _Erebus_ left the island, with, as passengers, Mr Hall and poor, grief-stricken Ilda, she had a good passage as far as the Line, and here was becalmed only a week, and made a quick voyage afterwards to the Golden Horn. Here Mr Hall determined to stay for many months, to recruit his daughter's health. All the remedies of San Francisco were at her command. She went wherever her father pleased, but every pleasure appeared to pall upon her. Doctors were consulted, and pronounced the poor girl in a rapid decline. There was a complete collapse of the whole nervous system, they said, and she must have received some terrible shock. Mr Hall admitted it, asking at the same time if the case were hopeless, and what he could do. "It is the last thing a medical man should do," replied the physician, "to take hope away. I do not say she may not recover with care, but--I am bound to tell you, sir--the chances of her living a year are somewhat remote." Poor Mr Hall was silent and sad. He would soon be a lonely man indeed, with none to comfort him save little Matty, and she would grow up and leave him too. Shortly after the arrival of the _Erebus_ at California, a sensational heading to a Scotch newspaper caught the eye of the old Laird McLeod, as he sat with his daughter one morning at breakfast: "Remarkable Discovery. The Supposed Murderer of Craig Nicol Found on a Cannibal Island." The rest of the paragraph was but brief, and detailed only what we already know. But Annie too had seen it, and almost fainted. And this very forenoon, too, Laird Fletcher was coming to McLeod Cottage to ask her hand formally from her father. Already, as I have previously stated, she had given a half-willing consent. But now her mind was made up. She would tell Fletcher everything, and trust to his generosity. She mentioned to Jeannie, her maid, what her intentions were. "I would not utterly throw over Fletcher," said Jeannie. "You never know what may happen." Jeannie was nothing if not canny. Well, Fletcher did call that forenoon, and she saw him before he could speak to her old uncle--saw him alone. She showed him the paper and telegram. Then she boldly told him that while her betrothed, whom she believed entirely innocent of the crime laid at his door, was in grief and trouble, all thoughts of marriage were out of the question entirely. "And you love this young man still?" "Ay, Fletcher," she said, "and will love him till all the seas run dry." The Laird gave her his hand, and with tears running down her cheeks, she took it. "We still shall be friends," he said. "Yes," she cried; "and, oh, forgive me if I have caused you grief. I am a poor, unhappy girl!" "Every cloud," said Fletcher, "has a silver lining." Then he touched her hand lightly with his lips, and next moment he was gone. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE CRUISE OF THE "VULCAN." The next news concerning what was called the terrible Deeside murder was that a detective and two policemen had started for New York, that thence they would journey overland to San Francisco, and there interview the captain of the _Erebus_ in order to get the latitude and longitude of the Isle of Flowers. They would then charter a small steamer and bring the accused home for trial--and for justice. It is a long and somewhat weary journey, this crossing America by train, but the detective and his companions were excited by the adventure they were engaged on, and did not mind the length of the way. The _Vulcan_, which they finally chartered at 'Frisco, was a small, but clean and pretty steamer, that was used for taking passengers (a few select ones only) to view the beauties of the Fiji Islands. Many a voyage had she made, but was as sturdy and strong as ever. It must be confessed, however, that Master Mariner Neaves did not half-like his present commission, but the liberality of the pay prevailed, and so he gave in. His wife and her maid, who acted also as stewardess, had always accompanied him to sea, and she refused to be left on this expedition. So away they sailed at last, and soon were far off in the blue Pacific, steering southwards with a little west in it. And now a very strange discovery was brought to light. They had been about a day and a half at sea, when, thinking he heard a slight noise in the store-room, Captain Neaves opened it. To his intense surprise, out walked a beautiful little girl of about seven. She carried in her hand a grip-sack, and as she looked up innocently in Neaves's face, she said naively: "Oh, dear, I is so glad we are off at last. I'se been so very lonely." "But, my charming little stowaway, who on earth are you, and how did you come here?" "Oh," she answered, "I am Matty. I just runned away, and I'se goin' south with you to see poor Regie Grahame. That's all, you know." "Well, well, well!" said Neaves wonderingly. "A stranger thing than this surely never happened on board the saucy _Vulcan_, from the day she first was launched!" Then he took Matty by the hand, and laughing in spite of himself, gave her into the charge of his wife. "We can't turn back," he explained; "that would be unlucky. She must go with us." "Of course," said Matty, nodding her wise wee head. "You mustn't go back." And so it was settled. But Matty became the sunshine and life of all on board. Even the detective caught the infection, and the somewhat solemn-looking and important policeman as well. All were in love with Matty in less than a week. If Neaves was master of the _Vulcan_, Matty was mistress. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Well, when that ominous whistle was heard in the bay of Flower Island, although utterly shaken and demoralised for a time, Reginald soon recovered. Poor Oscar, the Newfoundland, had laid his great head on his master's knees and was gazing up wonderingly but pityingly into his face. "Oh, Queen Bertha," said Reginald sadly, as he placed a hand on the dog's great head, "will--will you keep my faithful friend till all is over?" "That I shall, and willingly. Nothing shall ever come over him; and mind," she said, "I feel certain you will return to bring him away." Next morning broke sunny and delightful. All the earth in the valley was carpeted with flowers; the trees were in their glory. Reginald alone was unhappy. At eight o'clock, guided by two natives, the detectives and policemen were seen fording the river, on their way to the palace. Reginald had already said good-bye to the Queen and his beautiful brown-eyed dog. "Be good, dear boy, and love your mistress. I will come back again in spirit if not in body. Good-bye, my pet, good-bye." Then he and Dickson went quietly down to meet the police. The detective stopped and said "Good-morning" in a kindly, sympathetic tone. "Good-morning," said Reginald sadly. "I am your prisoner." The policeman now pulled out the handcuffs. The detective held up his hand. "If you, Grahame," he said, "will assure me on your oath that you will make no attempt to escape or to commit suicide, you shall have freedom on board--no irons, no chains." The prisoner held up his hand, and turned his eyes heavenwards. "As God is my last Judge, sir," he said, "I swear before Him I shall give you not the slightest trouble. I know my fate, and can now face it." "Amen," said the detective. "And now we shall go on board." Reginald took one last longing, lingering look back at the palace; the Queen was there, and waved him farewell; then, though the tears were silently coursing down his cheeks, he strode on bravely by Dickson's side. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Arrived on board, to his intense surprise, Matty was the first to greet him. She fairly rushed into his arms, and he kissed her over and over again. Then she told him all her own little story. Now the men came off with their boxes, and Dickson with his traps. The _Vulcan_ stayed not two hours altogether after all were on board. Steam was got up, and away she headed back once more for 'Frisco, under full steam. I think that Reginald was happier now than he had been for months. The bitterness of death seemed to be already past, and all he longed for was rest, even should that rest be in the grave. Moreover, he was to all intents and purposes on parole. Though he took his meals in his own cabin, and though a sentry was placed at the door every night, he was permitted to walk the deck by day, and go wherever he liked, and even to play with Matty. "I cannot believe that the poor young fellow is guilty of the terrible crime laid to his charge," said Mrs Neaves to her husband one day. "Nor I either, my dear; but we must go by the evidence against him, and I do not believe he has the slightest chance of life." "Terrible!" Yet Mrs Neaves talked kindly to him for all that when she met him on the quarter-deck; but she never alluded to the dark cloud that hung so threateningly over his life. The more she talked to him, the more she believed in his innocence, and the more she liked him, although she tried hard not to. Matty was Reginald's almost constant companion, and many an otherwise lonely hour she helped to cheer and shorten. He had another companion, however--his Bible. All hope for this world had fled, and he endeavoured now to make his peace with the God whom he had so often offended and sinned against. Captain Dickson and he often sat together amidships or on the quarter-deck, and the good skipper of the unfortunate _Wolverine_ used to talk about all they should do together when the cloud dissolved into thin air, and Reginald was once more free. "But, ah, Dickson," said the prisoner, "that cloud will not dissolve. It is closed aboard of me now, but it will come lower and lower, and then--it will burst, and I shall be no more. No, no, dear friend, I appreciate the kindness of your motives in trying to cheer me, but my hopes of happiness are now centred in the Far Beyond." If a man in his terrible position could ever be said to experience pleasure at all, Reginald did when the four honest sailors came to see him, as they never failed to do, daily. Theirs was heart-felt pity. Their remarks might have been a little rough, but they were kindly meant, and the consolation they tried to give was from the heart. "How is it with you by this time?" McGregor said one day. "You mustn't mope, ye know." "Dear Mac," replied Reginald, "there is no change, except that the voyage will soon be at an end, just as my voyage of life will." "Now, sir, I won't have that at all. Me and my mates here have made up our minds, and we believe you ain't guilty at all, and that they dursn't string you up on the evidence that will go before the jury." "I fear not death, anyhow, Mac. Indeed, I am not sure that I might not say with Job of old, `I prefer strangling rather than life.'" "Keep up your pecker, sir; never say die; and don't you think about it. We'll come and see you to-morrow again. Adoo." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Yes, the voyage was coming to a close, and a very uneventful one it had been. When the mountains of California at last hove in sight, and Skipper Neaves informed Reginald that they would get in to-morrow night, he was rather pleased than otherwise. But Matty was now in deepest grief. This strange child clung around his neck and cried at the thoughts of it. "Oh, I shall miss you, I shall miss you!" she said. "And you can't take poor Matty with you?" And now, to console her, he was obliged to tell her what might have been called a white lie, for which he hoped to be forgiven. "But Matty must not mourn; we shall meet again," he said. "And perhaps I may take Matty with me on a long cruise, and we shall see the Queen of the Isle of Flowers once more, and you and dear Oscar, your beautiful Newfoundland, shall play together, and romp just as in the happy days of yore. Won't it be delightful, dear?" Matty smiled through her tears, only drawing closer to Reginald's breast as she did. "Poor dear doggy Oscar?" she said. "He will miss you so much?" "Yes, darling; his wistful, half-wondering glance I never can forget. He seemed to refuse to believe that I could possibly leave him, and the glance of love and sorrow in the depths of his soft brown eyes I shall remember as long as I live." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The first to come on board when the vessel got in was Mr Hall himself and Ilda. The girl was changed in features, somewhat thinner, paler, and infinitely more sad-looking. But with loving abandon she threw herself into Reginald's arms and wept. "Oh, dear," she cried, "how sadly it has all ended!" Then she brightened up a little. "We--that is, father and I--are going to Italy for the winter, and I may get well, and we may meet again. God in Heaven bless you, Reginald!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Then the sad partings. I refuse to describe them. I would rather my story were joyful than otherwise, and so I refrain. It was a long, weary journey that to New York, but it ended at last, and Reginald found himself a prisoner on board the _B--Castle_ bound for Britain's far-off shores. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. MEETING AND PARTING. Reginald was infinitely more lonely now and altogether more of a prisoner too. Neither Captain Dickson nor the four sailors returned by the same ship, so, with the exception of the detective, who really was a kind-hearted and feeling man, he had no one to converse with. He was permitted to come up twice a day and walk the deck forward by way of exercise, but a policeman always hovered near. If the truth must be told, he would have preferred staying below. The passengers were chiefly Yankees on their way to London Paris, and the Riviera, but as soon as he appeared there was an eager rush forward as far as midships, and as he rapidly paced the deck, the prisoner was as cruelly criticised as if he had been some show animal or wild beast. It hurt Reginald not a little, and more than once during his exercise hour his cheeks would burn and tingle with shame. When he walked forward as far as the winch, he turned and walked aft again, and it almost broke his heart--for he dearly loved children--to see those on the quarter-deck clutch their mothers' skirts, or hide behind them screaming. "Oh, ma, he's coming--the awful man is coming?" "He isn't so terrible-looking, is he, auntie?" said a beautiful young girl one day, quite aloud, too. "Ah, child, but remember what he has done. Even a tiger can look soft and pleasant and beautiful at times." "Well," said another lady, "he will hang as high as Haman, anyhow!" "And richly deserves it," exclaimed a sour-looking, scraggy old maid. "I'm sure I should dearly like to see him strung. He won't walk so boldly along the scaffold, I know, and his face will be a trifle whiter then!" "Woman!" cried an old white-haired gentleman, "you ought to be downright ashamed of yourself, talking in that manner in the hearing of that unfortunate man; a person of your age might know just a little better!" The old maid tossed her yellow face. "And let me add, madam, that but for God's grace and mercy you might occupy a position similar to his. Good-day, miss!" There was a barrier about the spot where the quarter-deck and midships joined. Thus far might steerage passengers walk aft, but no farther. To this barrier Reginald now walked boldly up, and, while the ladies for the most part backed away, as if he had been a python, and the children rushed screaming away, the old gentleman kept where he was. "God bless you, sir," said Reginald, loud enough for all to hear, "for defending me. The remarks those unfeeling women make in my hearing pierce me to the core." "And God bless you, young man, and have mercy on your soul." He held out his hand, and Reginald shook it heartily. "I advise you, Mr Grahame, to make your peace with God, for I cannot see a chance for you. I am myself a New York solicitor, and have studied your case over and over again." "I care not how soon death comes. My hopes are yonder," said Reginald. He pointed skywards as he spoke. "That's good. And remember: "`While the lamp holds out to burn, The greatest sinner may return.' "I'll come and see you to-morrow." "A thousand thanks, sir. Good-day." Mr Scratchley, the old solicitor, was as good as his word, and the two sat down together to smoke a couple of beautiful Havana cigars, very large and odorous. The tobacco seemed to soothe the young man, and he told Scratchley his story from beginning to end, and especially did he enlarge on the theory of somnambulism. This, he believed, was his only hope. But Scratchley cut him short. "See here, young man; take the advice of one who has spent his life at the Bar. Mind, I myself am a believer in spiritualism, but keep that somnambulism story to yourself. I must speak plainly. It will be looked upon by judge and jury as cock-and-bull, and it will assuredly do you more harm than good. Heigho!" he continued. "From the bottom of my heart I pity you. So young, so handsome. Might have been so happy and hopeful, too! Well, good-bye. I'll come again." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Mr Scratchley was really a comfort to Reginald. But now the voyage was drawing near its close. They had passed the isles of Bute and Arran, and had entered on the wild, romantic beauties of the Clyde. It was with a feeling of utter sadness and gloom, however, that the prisoner beheld them. Time was when they would have delighted his heart. Those days were gone, and the darkness was all ahead. The glad sunshine sparkled in the wavelets, and, wheeling hither and thither, with half-hysterical screams of joy, were the white-winged, free, and happy gulls; but in his present condition of mind things the most beautiful saddened him the most. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Two days are past and gone, and Reginald is now immured in gaol to await his trial. It was lightsome and comfortable, and he had books to read, and a small, cheerful fire. He had exercise also in the yard, and even the gaolers talked kindly enough to him; but all the same he was a prisoner. His greatest trial had yet to come--the meeting with--ah! yes, and the parting from--Annie--his Annie--Annie o' the Banks o' Dee. One day came a letter from her, which, though it had been opened and read by the authorities, was indeed a sweet boon to him. He read it over and over again, lover-like. It burned with affection and love, a love that time and absence had failed to quench. But she was coming to see him, "she and her maid, Jeannie Lee," she continued. Her uncle was well and hearty, but they were no longer owners of the dear old house and lands of Bilberry. She would tell him all her story when she saw him. And the letter ended: "With unalterable love, your _own_ Annie." The ordeal of such a meeting was one from which Reginald naturally shrank; but this over, he would devote himself entirely to communion with Heaven. Only Heavenly hopes could now keep up his heart. The day came, and Annie, with Jeannie, her maid, arrived at the prison. He held Annie at arms' length for a few seconds. Not one whit altered was she. Her childlike and innocent beauty was as fresh now, and her smile as sweet, though somewhat more chastened, as when he had parted with her in sorrow and tears more than three years ago. He folded her in his arms. At this moment, after a preliminary knock at the door, the gaoler entered. "The doctor says," he explained, "that your interview may last an hour, and that, fearing it may be too much for you, he sends you this. And a kindly-hearted gent he is." He placed a large glass of brandy and water before Reginald as he spoke. "What! Must I drink all this?" "Yes--and right off, too. It is the doctor's orders." The prisoner obeyed, though somewhat reluctantly. Even now he needed no Dutch courage. Then, while Jeannie took a book and seated herself at some little distance, the lovers had it all to themselves, and after a time Annie felt strong enough to tell her story. We already know it. "Yes, dear, innocent Reginald, we were indeed sorry to leave bonnie Bilberry Hall, and live in so small a cottage. And though he has kept up wonderfully well, still, I know he longs at times for a sight of the heather. He is not young now, darling, and yet he may live for very many years. But you were reported as lost, dear, and even the figurehead of the _Wolverine_ and a boat was found far away in the Pacific. Then after that, dearest, all hope fled. I could never love another. The new heir of Bilberry Hall and land proposed to me. My uncle could not like him, and I had no love to spare. My heart was in Heaven with you, for I firmly believed you drowned and gone before. Then came Laird Fletcher. Oh, he was very, very kind to us, and often took uncle and myself away in his carriage to see once more the bonnie Highland hills. And I used to notice the tears standing in dear uncle's eyes when he beheld the glory and romance of his own dear land, and the heather. And then I used to pity poor uncle, for often after he came home from a little trip like this he used to look so forlornly at all his humble surroundings. Well, dear, from kindness of every kind Fletcher's feelings for me seemed to merge into love. Yes, true love, Reginald. But I could not love him in return. My uncle even pleaded a little for Fletcher. His place is in the centre of the Deeside Highlands, and, oh, the hills are high, and the purple heather and crimson heath, surrounded by dark pine forests, are a sight to see in autumn. Well, you were dead, Reginald, and uncle seemed pining away; and so when one day Fletcher pleaded more earnestly than ever, crying pathetically as he tried to take my hand, `Oh, Annie, my love, my life, I am unworthy of even your regard, but for sake of your dear old uncle won't you marry me?' then, Reginald, I gave a half-consent, but a wholly unwilling one. Can you forgive me?" He pressed her closer to his heart by way of answer. How quickly that hour sped away lovers only know. But it ended all too soon. The parting? Ay, ay; let this too be left to the imagination of him or her who knows what true love is. After Annie had gone, for the first time since his incarceration Reginald collapsed. He threw himself on his bed and sobbed until verily he thought his heart would break. Then the gaoler entered. "Come, come, my dear lad," said the man, walking up to the prisoner and laying a kindly and sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "Keep up, my boy, keep up. We have all to die. God is love, lad, and won't forsake you." "Oh," cried the prisoner, "it is not death I fear. I mourn but for those I leave behind." A few more weeks, and Reginald's case came on for trial. It was short, perhaps, but one of the most sensational ever held in the Granite City, as the next chapter will prove. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. A SENSATIONAL MURDER TRIAL. The good people of Aberdeen--yclept the Granite City--are as fond of display and show as even the Londoners, and the coming of the lords, who are the judges that try the principal cases, is quite an event of the year, and looked forward to with longing, especially by the young people. Ah! little they think of or care for the poor wretches that, in charge of warders or policemen, or both, are brought up from their cells, to stand pale and trembling before the judge. The three weeks that intervened between the departure of poor, unhappy Annie from his cell and the coming of the lords were the longest that Reginald ever spent in life--or appeared to be, for every hour was like a day, every day seemed like a month. The gaoler was still kind to him. He had children of his own, and in his heart he pitied the poor young fellow, around whose neck the halter would apparently soon be placed. He had even--although I believe this was against the rules--given Reginald some idea as to the day his trial would commence. "God grant," said Reginald, "they may not keep me long. Death itself is preferable to the anxiety and awful suspense of a trial." But the three weeks passed away at last, and some days to that, and still the lords came not. The prisoner's barred window was so positioned that he could see down Union Street with some craning of the neck. One morning, shortly after he had sent away his untouched breakfast, he was startled by hearing a great commotion in the street, and the hum of many voices. The pavements were lined with a sea of human beings. Shortly after this he heard martial music, and saw men on the march with nodding plumes and fixed bayonets. Among them, guarded on each side, walked lords in their wigs and gowns. Reginald was brave, but his heart sank to zero now with terror and dread. He felt that his hour had come. Shortly the gaoler entered. "Your case is to be the first," he said. "Prepare yourself. It will come off almost immediately." He went away, and the prisoner sank on his knees and prayed as surely he never prayed before. The perspiration stood in great drops on his forehead. Another weary hour passed by, and this time the door was opened to his advocate. His last words were these: "All you have got to do is to plead `Not guilty'; then keep silent. If a question is put to you, glance at me before you answer. I will nod if you must answer, and shake my head if you need not." "A thousand thanks for all your kindness, sir. I'm sure you will do your best." "I will." Once more the gaoler entered. "The doctor sends you this," he said. "And drink it you must, or you may faint in the dock, and the case be delayed." At last the move was made. Dazed and dizzy, Reginald hardly knew whither he was being led, until he found himself in the dock confronting the solemn and sorrowful-looking judge. He looked just once around the court, which was crowded to excess. He half-expected, I think, to see Annie there, and was relieved to find she was not in court. But yonder was Captain Dickson and the four sailors who had remained behind to prosecute the gold digging. Dickson smiled cheerfully and nodded. Then one of the policemen whispered attention, and the unhappy prisoner at once confronted the judge. "Reginald Grahame," said the latter after some legal formalities were gone through, "you are accused of the wilful murder of Craig Nicol, farmer on Deeside, by stabbing him to the heart with a dirk or _skean dhu_. Are you guilty or not guilty?" "Not guilty, my lord." This in a firm voice, without shake or tremolo. "Call the witnesses." The first to be examined was Craig's old housekeeper. She shed tears profusely, and in a faint tone testified to the departure of her master for Aberdeen with the avowed intention of drawing money to purchase stock withal. She was speedily allowed to stand down. The little boys who had found the body beneath the dark spruce-fir in the lonely plantation were next interrogated, and answered plainly enough in their shrill treble. Then came the police who had been called, and the detective, who all gave their evidence in succinct but straightforward sentences. All this time there was not a sound in the court, only that sea of faces was bent eagerly forward, so that not a word might escape them. The excitement was intense. Now came the chief witness against Reginald; and the bloodstained dirk was handed to Shufflin' Sandie. "Look at that, and say if you have seen it before?" said the judge. "As plain as the nose on your lordship's face!" said Sandie, smiling. That particular nose was big, bulbous, and red. Sandie's reply, therefore, caused a titter to run through the court. The judge frowned, and the prosecution proceeded. "Where did you last see it?" "Stained with blood, sir; it was found beneath the dead man's body." On being questioned, Sandie also repeated his evidence as given at the coroner's inquest, and presently was allowed to stand down. Then the prisoner was hissed by the people. The judge lost his temper. He had not quite got over Sandie's allusion to his nose. "If," he cried, "there is the slightest approach to a repetition of that unseemly noise, I will instantly clear the court?" The doctor who had examined the body was examined. "Might not the farmer have committed suicide?" he was asked. "Everything is against that theory," the doctor replied, "for the knife belonged to Grahame; besides, the deed was done on the road, and from the appearance of the deceased's coat, he had evidently been hauled through the gateway on his back, bleeding all the while, and so hidden under the darkling spruce pine." "So that _felo de se_ is quite out of the question?" "Utterly so, my lord." "Stand down, doctor." I am giving the evidence only in the briefest epitome, for it occupied hours. The advocate for the prosecution made a telling speech, to which the prisoner's solicitor replied in one quite as good. He spoke almost ironically, and laughed as he did so, especially when he came to the evidence of the knife. His client at the time of the murder was lying sound asleep at a hedge-foot. What could hinder a tramp, one of the many who swarm on the Deeside road, to have stolen the knife, followed Craig Nicol, stabbed him, robbed and hidden the body, and left the knife there to turn suspicion on the sleeping man? "Is it likely," he added, "that Reginald--had he indeed murdered his quondam friend--would have been so great a fool as to have left the knife there?" He ended by saying that there was not a jot of trustworthy evidence on which the jury could bring in a verdict of guilty. But, alas! for Reginald. The judge in his summing up--and a long and eloquent speech it was--destroyed all the good effects of the solicitor's speech. "He could not help," he said, "pointing out to the jury that guilt or suspicion could rest on no one else save Grahame. As testified by a witness, he had quarrelled with Nicol, and had made use of the remarkable expression that `the quarrel would end in blood.' The night of the murder Grahame was not sober, but lying where he was, in the shade of the hedge, Nicol must have passed him without seeing him, and then no doubt Grahame had followed and done that awful deed which in cool blood he might not even have thought about Again, Grahame was poor, and was engaged to be married. The gold and notes would be an incentive undoubtedly to the crime, and when he sailed away in the _Wolverine_ he was undoubtedly a fugitive from justice, and in his opinion the jury had but one course. They might now retire." They were about to rise, and his lordship was about to withdraw, when a loud voice exclaimed: "Hold! I desire to give evidence." A tall, bold-looking seafarer stepped up, and was sworn. "I have but this moment returned from a cruise around Africa," he said. "I am bo's'n's mate in H.M.S. _Hurricane_. We have been out for three years. But, my lord, I have some of the notes here that the Bank of Scotland can prove were paid to Craig Nicol, and on the very day after the murder must have taken place I received these notes, for value given, from the hands of Sandie yonder, usually called Shufflin' Sandie. I knew nothing about the murder then, nor until the ship was paid off; but being hurried away, I had no time to cash the paper, and here are three of them now, my lord." They were handed to the jury. "They were smeared with blood when I got them. Sandie laughed when I pointed this out to him. He said that he had cut his finger, but that the blood would bring me luck." (Great sensation in court.) Sandie was at once recalled to the witness-box. His knees trembled so that he had to be supported. His voice shook, and his face was pale to ghastliness. "Where did you obtain those notes?" said the judge sternly. For a moment emotion choked the wretch's utterance. But he found words at last. "Oh, my lord my lord, I alone am the murderer! I killed one man--Craig Nicol--I cannot let another die for my crime! I wanted money, my lord, to help to pay for my new house, and set me up in life, and I dodged Nicol for miles. I found Mr Grahame asleep under a hedge, and I stole the stocking knife and left it near the man I had murdered. When I returned to the sleeping man, I had with me--oh, awful!--some of the blood of my victim that I had caught in a tiny bottle as it flowed from his side,"--murmurs of horror--"and with this I smeared Grahame's hands." Here Sandie collapsed in a dead faint, and was borne from the court. "Gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, "this evidence and confession puts an entirely new complexion on this terrible case. The man who has just fainted is undoubtedly the murderer." The jury agreed. "The present prisoner is discharged, but must appear to-morrow, when the wretched dwarf shall take his place in the dock." And so it was. Even the bloodstained clothes that Sandie had worn on the night of the murder had been found. The jury returned a verdict of guilty against him without even leaving the box. The judge assumed the black cap, and amidst a silence that could be felt, condemned him to death. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Reginald Grahame was a free man, and once more happy. The court even apologised to him, and wished him all the future joys that life could give. But the wretched culprit forestalled justice, and managed to strangle himself in his cell. And thus the awful tragedy ended. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "I knew it, I knew it!" cried Annie, as a morning or two after his exculpation Reginald presented himself at McLeod Cottage. And the welcome he received left nothing to be desired. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. THE LAST CRUISE TO THE ISLAND OF FLOWERS. In quite a ship-shape form was poor Reginald's release from prison, and from the very jaws of death. Met at the door by his friends and old shipmates. Dickson was there, with his four brave sailors, and many was the fellow-student who stretched out his hands to shake Reginald's, as pale and weakly he came down the steps. Then the students formed themselves into procession--many who read these lines may remember it-- and, headed by a brass band, marched with Dickson and the sailors, who bore Reginald aloft in an armchair, marched to the other end of Union Street, then back as far as a large hotel. Here, after many a ringing cheer, they dismissed themselves. But many returned at eventide and partook of a sumptuous banquet in honour of Reginald, and this feast was paid for by Dickson himself. The common sailors were there also, and not a few strange tales they had to tell, their memories being refreshed by generous wine. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ And now our story takes a leap of many months, and we find the _Highland Mary_, a most beautiful yacht, somewhat of the _Wolverine_ type, far, far at sea, considerable to nor'ard of the Line, however, but bounding on under a spread of whitest canvas, over just such a sea as the sailor loves. No big waves here, but wavelets of the darkest steel-blue, and each one wrinkled and dimpled with the warm, delightful breeze, kissed by the sunlight, and reflecting the glory in millions of broken rays, as if the sea were besprinkled with precious stones and diamonds of purest ray serene. Let us take a look on deck. We cannot but be struck with the neatness and brightness of everything our eyes fall upon. The fires are out. There is no roaring steam, no clouds of dark, dense smoke, no grind and grind of machinery, and no fall of black and sooty hailstones from the funnel. Ill indeed would this have accorded with the ivory whiteness of the quarter-deck, with the snow-white table linen, which one can catch a glimpse of down through the open skylight. But worst of all would it accord with the dainty dresses of the ladies, or the snowy sailor garb of the officers. The ladies are but two in reality, Annie herself--now Mrs Reginald Grahame--and daft, pretty wee Matty. But there is Annie's maid, Jeannie Lee, looking as modest and sweet as she ever did. Annie is seated in a cushioned chair, and, just as of old, Matty is on Reginald's knee. If Annie is not jealous of her, she certainly is not jealous of Annie. In her simple, guileless young heart, she believes that she comes first in Reginald's affections, and that Annie has merely second place. I daresay it is the bracing breeze and the sunshine that makes Matty feel so happy and merry to-day. Well, sad indeed would be the heart that rejoiced not on such a day as this! Why, to breathe is joy itself; the air seems to fill one with exhilaration, like gladsome, sparkling wine. Here is Captain Dickson. He never did look jollier, with his rosy, laughing face, his gilt-bound cap and his jacket of blue, than he does now. He is half-sitting, half-standing on the edge of the skylight, and keeping up an animated conversation with Annie. Poor Annie, her troubles and trials seem over now, and she looks quietly, serenely happy; her bonnie face--set off by that tiny flower-bedecked bride's bonnet--is radiant with smiles. But Matty wriggles down from Reginald's knee at last, and is off to have a game of romps with Sigmund, the splendid Dane. Sigmund is four-and-thirty inches high at the shoulder, shaped in body somewhat like a well-built pointer, but in head like a long-faced bull-terrier. His coat is short, and of a slatey-blue; his tail is as straight and strong as a capstan bar. At any time he has only to switch it across Matty's waist, when down she rolls on the ivory-white decks. Then Sigmund bends down, and gives her cheek just one loving lick, to show there is no bad feeling; but so tickled is he at the situation, that with lips drawn back and pearly teeth showing in a broad smile, he must set out on a wild and reckless rush round and round the decks from winch to binnacle. If a sailor happens to get in his way, he is flung right into the air by the collision, and is still on his back when Sigmund returns. But the dog bounds over the fallen man, and continues his mad gallop until, fairly exhausted, he comes back to lie down beside Matty, with panting breath, and about a yard, more or less, of a red-ribbon of tongue depending from one side of his mouth. Matty loves Sigmund, but she loves Oscar more, and wonders if she will ever see him once again; and she wonders, too, if Sigmund and Oscar will agree, or if they will fight, which would be truly terrible to think of. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Yonder is McGregor. He is elevated to the rank of bo's'n, and the three other sailors that came home in the _Vulcan_ are here too. With the pile in gold and pearls they made on the Isle of Flowers, they needn't have been now serving before the mast. This would probably be their last voyage, for they meant to go into business on shore. But they loved the sea, and they loved Reginald and Dickson too. So here they were, and many more tars also; and when the main-brace was spliced of a Saturday night, it would have been good for anyone to have come forward to the bows and listened to the songs sung and the tales told by honest Jack. But how came Matty on board? The story is soon told, and it is a sad one. A few weeks after his marriage, being in London, and dropping into the Savoy Hotel on the now beautiful Embankment, Reginald found Mr Hall standing languid and lonely by the bar with a little glass of green liquor in his hand. "Delighted to see you! What a pleasant chance meeting to be sure!" Then Matty ran up for her share of the pleasure, and was warmly greeted. Ah! but Mr Hall had a sad story to tell. "I am now a lonely, childless man," he said. "What!" cried Reginald--"is Ilda--" "She is dead and gone. Lived but a week in Italy--just one short week. Faded like a flower, and--ah, well, her grave is very green now, and all her troubles are over. But, I say, Grahame, we have all to die, and if there is a Heaven, you know, I daresay we shall be all very happy, and there won't be any more partings nor sad farewells." Reginald had to turn away his head to hide the rising tears, and there was a ball in his throat that almost choked him, and quite forbade any attempt at speaking. The two old friends stayed long together, and it was finally arranged that Mr Hall should pay a long visit to the old Laird McLeod, and that Reginald should have the loan of his little favourite Matty in a voyage to the South Sea Island. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The cruise of the _Highland Mary_ was a long but most pleasant and propitious one. They steamed through the Straits of Magellan, and were delighted when the yacht, under, a favouring breeze, went stretching west and away out into the blue and beautiful Pacific Ocean. Dickson had taken his bearings well, and at last they found themselves at anchor in the bay off the Isle of Flowers, opposite the snow-white coralline beach and the barracks and fort where they had not so long ago seen so much fighting and bloodshed. Was there anyone happier, I wonder, at seeing her guests, her dear old friends, than Queen Bertha? Well, if there was, it was honest Oscar on meeting his long-lost master. Indeed, the poor dog hardly knew what to do with joy. He whined, he cried, he kissed and caressed his master, and scolded him in turns. Then he stood a little way off and barked at him. "How could you have left your poor Oscar so long?" he seemed to say. Then advancing more quietly, he once more placed a paw on each of his master's shoulders and licked his ear. "I love you still," he said. After this he welcomed Matty, but in a manner far more gentle, for he ever looked upon her as a baby--his own baby, as it were. And there she was, her arms around his massive neck, kissing his bonnie broad brow-- just a baby still. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Isle of Flowers was very lovely now, and the valley-- "Oh?" cried Annie, in raptures, as she gazed down the verdant strath. "Surely this is fairyland itself!" The ladies, and Jeannie as well, were the guests of the Queen during the long, happy month they stayed on the island. There was no more gold-seeking or pearl-fishing to any great extent. Only one day they all went up the valley and had a delightful picnic by the winding river and under the shade of the magnolia trees. Reginald and Dickson both waded into the river, and were lucky enough, when they came out with their bags full of oysters, to find some rare and beautiful pearls. They were as pure as any Scotch ever taken from the Tay, and had a pretty pinkish hue. But now Jeannie Lee herself must bare her shapely legs and feet and try her luck. She wanted one big pearl for her dear mistress, she said, and three wee ones for a ring for somebody. Yes, and she was most successful, and Annie is wearing that large pearl now as I write. And the three smaller? Well, I may as well tell it here and be done with it. McGregor, the handsome, bold sailor, had asked Jeannie to be his wife, and she had consented. The ring was for Mac. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ On Lone Tree Mountain, assisted by the men, Dickson and Reginald soon set to digging, and found all their gold and pearls safe and sound. And now parting time came, and farewells were said, the Queen saying she should live in hopes of seeing them back again. "God bless you all, my children." "And God bless you, Queen Bertha." With ringing British cheers, the little band playing "Good-bye, Sweetheart, Good-bye," the _Highland Mary_ sailed slowly, and, it appeared, reluctantly, away from the Isle of Flowers. At sunset it was seen but as a little blue cloud low down on the western horizon. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ To Matty's surprise the two great dogs made friends with each other at once, and every day during that long voyage homewards they romped and played together, with merry Matty as their constant companion, and never quarrelled even once. British shores and the snow-white steeples and spires of bonnie Aberdeen at last! The first thing that Reginald did was to hire a carriage, and, accompanied by Annie and the honest dog Oscar, drive straight to McLeod's cottage. To their surprise and alarm they found the house empty and the windows boarded up. "Oh, Annie!" cried Reginald. "I fear the worst. Your poor uncle has gone." Annie had already placed her handkerchief to her eyes. "Beg pardon," said the jarvey, "but is it Laird McLeod you're a-talking about? Oh, yes; he's gone this six months! Man! I knew the old man well. Used to drive him most every day of his life. But haven't you heard, sir?" "No, my good fellow; we have not been on shore two hours. Tell us." "There isn't much to tell, sir, though it was sad enough. For the young Laird o' Bilberry Hall shot himself one morning by accident while out after birds. Well, of course, that dear soul, the old Laird, is gone back to his estate, and such rejoicings as there was you never did see." "And he is not dead, then?" "Dead! He is just as lively as a five-year-old!" This was indeed good news. They were driven back to the ship, and that same afternoon, accompanied by Matty, after telegraphing for the carriage to meet them, they started by train up Deeside. Yes, the carriage was there, and not only the Laird, but Mr Hall as well. I leave anyone who reads these lines to imagine what that happy reunion was like, and how pleasantly spent was that first evening, with so much to say, so much to tell. But a house was built for Mr Hall on the estate, and beautiful gardens surrounded it, and here he meant to settle down. Jeannie was married in due course, but she and McGregor took a small farm near to Bilberry Hall, and on the estate, while Reginald and his wife lived in the mansion itself. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Many years have passed away since the events I have related in this "ower-true" tale. Matty is a tall girl now, and her uncle's constant companion. Reginald and Annie are lovers still--"happy, though married." The heather still blooms bonnie on the hills; dark wave the pine trees in the forests around; the purring of the dove is heard mournfully sounding from the thickets of spruce, and the wildflowers grow on every bank and brae; but--the auld Laird has worn away. His home is under the long green grass and the daisies; yet even when the snow-clads that grave in a white cocoon, Annie never forgets to visit it, and rich and rare are the flowers that lie at its head. And so my story ends, so drops the curtain down. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The End. 
39047	----	Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net NURSE HEATHERDALE'S STORY BY MRS MOLESWORTH ILLUSTRATED BY L LESLIE BROOKE MACMILLAN & CO LONDON MDCCCXCI TO MY FAR-AWAY BUT FAITHFUL FRIEND GISÉLA LINDFIELD, _August_ 22, 1891. [Illustration: She was sitting in the dame's old-fashioned armchair, in the window of the little room; the bright summer sunshine streaming in behind her.--P. 31.] CONTENTS PAGE CHAPTER I LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT 1 CHAPTER II AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL 17 CHAPTER III TRELUAN 36 CHAPTER IV A NURSERY TEA 51 CHAPTER V THE SHOP IN THE VILLAGE 66 CHAPTER VI THE SMUGGLERS' CAVES 82 CHAPTER VII A RAINY DAY 96 CHAPTER VIII THE OLD LATIN GRAMMAR 110 CHAPTER IX UPSET PLANS 124 CHAPTER X THE NEW BABY 137 CHAPTER XI IN DISGRACE AGAIN 151 CHAPTER XII LOST 167 CHAPTER XIII 'OLD SIR DAVID'S' SECRET 183 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE 'Hasn't her a nice face?' 14 She was sitting in the dame's old-fashioned armchair, in the window of the little room; the bright summer sunshine streaming in behind her 31 Then there burst upon the view a wonderful surprise 74 Miss Bess and Master Francis were talking eagerly with old Prideaux 82 'Poor F'ancie,' she said pitifully. 'So tired, Baby wants to kiss thoo' 113 'Auntie!' he said, smiling a very little; 'how pretty you look!' 129 Sir Hulbert, holding Master Francis with one arm and the side of the ladder with the other, followed 179 NURSE HEATHERDALE'S STORY CHAPTER I LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT I could fancy it was only yesterday! That first time I saw them. And to think how many years ago it is really! And how many times I have told the story--or, perhaps, I should say the _stories_, for after all it is only a string of simple day-by-day events I have to tell, though to me and to the children about me they seem so interesting and, in some ways, I think I may say, rather out of the common. So that now that I am getting old, or 'beginning to think just a tiny bit about some day getting old,' which is the only way Miss Erica will let me say it, and knowing that nobody else _can_ know all the ins and outs which make the whole just as I do, and having a nice quiet time to myself most days (specially since dear tiresome little Master Ramsey is off to school with his brothers), I am going to try to put it down as well as I can. My 'as well as I can' won't be anything very scholarly or fine, I know well; but if one knows what one wants to say it seems to me the words will come. And the story will be there for the dear children, who are never sharp judging of old Heather--and for their children after them, maybe. I was standing at our cottage door that afternoon--a beautiful summer afternoon it was, early in June. I was looking idly enough across the common, for our cottage stood--stands still, perhaps--I have not been there for many a year--just at the edge of Brayling Common, where it skirts the pine-woods, when I saw them pass. Quite a little troop they looked, though they were scarcely near enough for me to see them plainly. There was the donkey, old Larkins's donkey, which they had hired for the time, with a tot of a girl riding on it, the page-boy leading it, and a nursemaid walking on one side, and on the other an older little lady--somewhere about ten years old she looked, though she was really only eight. What an air she had, to be sure! What a grand way of holding herself and stepping along like a little princess, for all that she and her sisters were dressed as simple as simple. Pink cotton frocks, if I remember right, a bit longer in the skirts than our young ladies wear them now, and nice white cotton stockings,--it was long before black silk ones were the fashion for children,--and ankle-strap shoes, and white sun-bonnets, made with casers and cords, nice and shady for the complexions, though you really had to be close to before you could see a child's face inside of them. And some way behind, another little lady, a good bit shorter than Miss Bess--I meant to give all their names in order later on, but it seems strange-like not to say it--and looking quite three years younger, though there was really not two between them. And alongside of her a boy, thin and pale and darkish-haired--that, I could see, as he had no sun-bonnet of course, only a cap of some kind. He too was a good bit taller than Miss ----, the middle young lady I mean, though short for his age, which was eleven past. They were walking together, these two--they were mostly always together, and I saw that the boy was a little lame, just a touch, but enough to take the spring out of his step that one likes to see in a young thing. And though I couldn't see her face, only some long fair curls, long enough to come below the cape of her bonnet, a feeling came over me that the child beside him was walking slow, keeping back as it were, on purpose to bear him company. There was something gentle and pitying-like in her little figure, in the way she went closer to the boy and took his hand when the nurse turned round and called back something--I couldn't hear the words but I fancied the tone was sharp--to the two children behind, which made them press forward a little. The other young lady turned as they came nearer and said something with a sort of toss-up of her proud little head to the nurse. And then I saw that she held out her hand to her younger sister, who kept hold all the same of the boy's hand on the other side. And that was how they were walking when they went in among the trees and were lost to my sight. But I still stood looking after them, even when there was nothing more of them to be seen. Not even the dog--oh, I forgot about him--he was the very last of the party--a brisk, shortish haired, wiry-looking rough terrier, who, just as he got to the entrance of the wood, turned round and stood for a moment barking, for all the world as if he might be saying, 'My young ladies have gone a-walking in the wood now, and nobody's to come a-troubling of them. So I give you fair notice.' He did think, did Fusser, that was _his_ name, that he managed all the affairs of the family. Many a time we've laughed at him for it. 'Dear me,' thought I to myself, 'I could almost make a story out of those young ladies and gentleman, though I've only seen them for a minute, or two at the most.' For I was very fond of children even then, and knew a good deal about their ways, though not so much--no, nor nothing like--what I do now! But I was in rather a dreamy sort of humour. I had just left my first place,--that of nursery-maid with the family where my mother had been before me, and where I had stayed on older than I should have done by rights, because of thinking I was going to be married. And six months before, my poor Charles had died suddenly, or so at least it had seemed to us all. For he caught cold, and it went to his chest, and he was gone in a fortnight. The doctor said for all he looked strong, he was really sadly delicate, and it was bound to be sooner or later. It may have been true, leastways the doctor meant to comfort me by saying so, though I don't know that I found much comfort in the thought. Not so much anyhow as in mother's simple words that it was God's will, and so it must be right. And in thinking how happy we had been. Never a word or a coldness all the four years we were plighted. But it was hard to bear, and it changed all my life for me. I never could bring myself to think of another. Still I was only twenty-one, and after I'd been at home a bit, the young ladies would have me back to cheer me up, they said. I travelled with them that spring; but when they all went up to London, and Miss Marian was to be married, and the two little ones were all day with the governess, I really couldn't for shame stay on when there was no need of me. So, though with many tears, I came home, and was casting about in my mind what I had best do--mother being hale and hearty, and no call for dress-making of a plain kind in our village--that afternoon, when I stood watching the stranger little gentry and old Larkins's donkey and the dog, as they crossed the common into the firwood. It was mother's voice that woke me up, so to say. 'Martha,' she called out in her cheery way, 'what's thee doing, child? I'm about tidied up; come and get thy work, and let's sit down a bit comfortable. I don't like to see thee so down-like, and such bright summer weather, though mayhap the very sunshine makes it harder for thee, poor dear.' And she gave a little sigh, which was a good deal for her, for she was not one as made much talk of feelings and sorrows. It seemed to spirit me up somehow. 'I wasn't like that just now, mother,' I said cheerfully. 'I've been watching some children--gentry--going over the common--three little young ladies and a boy, and Larkins's donkey. They made me think of Miss Charlotte and Miss Marian when first I went there, though plainer dressed a good deal than our young ladies were. But real gentry, I should say.' 'And you'd say right,' mother answered. 'They are lodging at Widow Nutfold's, quite a party of them. Their father's Sir----; dear, dear, I've forgot the name, but he's a barrowknight, and the family's name is Penrose. They come from somewhere far off, near by the sea--quite furrin parts, I take it.' 'Not out of England, you don't mean, do you?' I asked. For mother, of course, kept all her old country talk, while I, with having been so many years with Miss Marian and her sisters, and treated more like a friend than a servant, and great pains taken with my reading and writing, had come to speak less old-fashioned, so to say, and to give the proper meaning to my words. 'Foreign parts really means out of this country, where they talk French or Italian, you know, mother.' But mother only shook her head. 'Nay,' she said, 'I mean what I say. Furrin parts is furrin parts. I wouldn't say as they come from where the folks is nigger blacks, or from old Boney's country neither, as they used to frighten us about when I was a child. But these gentry come from furrin parts. Why, I had it from Sarah Nutfold's own lips, last Saturday as never was, at Brayling market, and old neighbours of forty years; it's not sense to think she'd go for to deceive me.' Mother was just a little offended, I could see, and I thought to myself I must take care of seeming to set her right. 'Of course not,' I said. 'You couldn't have it surer than from Mrs. Nutfold. I daresay she's pleased to have them to cheer her up a bit. They seem nice little ladies to look at, though they're on the outside of plain as to their dress.' 'And more sense, too,' said mother. 'I always thought our young ladies too expensive, though where money's no consideration, 'tis a temptation to a lady to dress up her children, I suppose.' 'But they were never _over_-dressed,' I said, in my turn, a little ruffled. 'Nothing could be simpler than their white frocks to look at.' 'Ay, to look at, I'll allow,' said mother. 'But when you come to look _into_ them, Martha, it was another story. Embroidery and tucks and real Walansian!' and she held up her hands. 'Still they've got it, and they've a right to spend it, seein' too as they're generous to those who need. But these little ladies at Sarah's are not rich, I take it. There was a deal of settlin' about the prices when my lady came to take the rooms. She and the gentleman's up in London, but one or two of the children got ill and needed country air. It's a heavy charge on Sarah Nutfold, for the nurse is not one of the old sort, and my lady asked Sarah, private-like, to have an eye on her.' 'There now,' I cried, 'I could have said as much! The way she turned just now so sharp on the poor boy and the middle little lady. I could see she wasn't one of the right kind, though I didn't hear what she said. No one should be a nurse, or have to do with children, mother, who doesn't right down love them in her heart.' 'You're about right there, Martha,' mother agreed. Just then father came in, and we sat round, the three of us, to our tea. 'It's a pleasure to have thee at home again, my girl, for a bit,' he said. And the kind look in his eyes made me feel both cheered and sad together. It was the first day I had been with them at tea-time, for I had got home pretty late the night before. 'And I hope it'll be a longish bit this time,' he went on. I gave a little sigh. 'I'd like to stay a while; but I don't know that it would be good for me to stay very long, father, thank you,' I said. 'I'm young and strong and fit for work, and I'd like to feel I was able to help you and mother if ever the time comes that you're laid by.' 'Please God we'll never need help of that kind, my girl,' said father. 'But it's best to be at work, I know, when one's had a trouble. The day'll maybe come, Martha, when you'll be glad to have saved a little more for a home of your own, after all. So I'd not be the one to stand in your way, a few months hence--nor mother neither--if a good place offers.' 'Thank you, father,' I said again; 'but the only home of my own I'll ever care for will be here--by mother and you.' And so it proved. I little thought how soon father's words about not standing in my way if a nice place offered would be put to the test. I saw the children who were lodging at Mrs. Nutfold's several times in the course of the next week or two. They seemed to have a great fancy for the pine-woods, and from where they lived they could not, to get to them, but pass across the common within sight of our cottage. And once or twice I met them in the village street. Not all of them together--once it was only the two youngest with the nurse; they were waiting at the door of the post-office, which was also the grocer's and the baker's, while she was inside chattering and laughing a deal more than she'd any call to, it seemed to me. (I'm afraid I took a real right-down dislike to that nurse, which isn't a proper thing to do before one has any certain reason for it.) And dear little ladies they looked, though the elder one--that was the middle one of the three--had rather an anxious expression in her face, that struck me. The baby--she was nearly three, but I heard them call her baby--was a little fat bundle of smiles and dimples. I don't think even a cross nurse would have had power to trouble _her_ much. Another time it was the two elder girls and the lame boy I met. It was a windy day, and the eldest Missy's big flapping bonnet had blown back, so I had a good look at her. She was a beautiful child--blue eyes, very dark blue, or seeming so from the clear black eyebrows and thick long eyelashes, and dark almost black hair, with just a little wave in it; not so long or curling as her sister's, which was out-of-the-way beautiful hair, but seeming somehow just to suit her, as everything about her did. She came walking along with the proud springing step I had noticed that first day, and she was talking away to the others as if to cheer and encourage them, even though the boy was full three years older than she, and supposed to be taking charge of her and her sister, I fancy. 'Nonsense, Franz,' she was saying in her decided spoken way, 'nonsense. I won't have you and Lally treated like that. And I don't care--I mean I can't help if it does trouble mamma. Mammas must be troubled about their children sometimes; that's what being a mamma means.' I managed to keep near them for a bit. I hope it was not a mean taking-advantage. I have often told them of it since--it was really that I did feel such an interest in the dear children, and my mind misgave me from the first about that nurse--it did so indeed. 'If only----' said the boy with a tiny sigh. But again came that clear-spoken little voice, 'Nonsense, Franz.' I never did hear a child of her age speak so well as Miss Bess. It's pretty to hear broken talking in a child sometimes, lisping, and some of the funny turns they'll give their words; but it's even prettier to hear clear complete talk like hers in a young child. Then came a gentle, pitiful little voice. 'It isn't nonsense, Queen, darling. It's _howid_ for Franz, but it wasn't nonsense he was going to say. I know what it was,' and she gave the boy's hand a little squeeze. 'It was only--if aunty _was_ my mamma, Bess, but you know she isn't. And _aunts_ aren't forced to be troubled about not their own children.' 'Yes they are,' the elder girl replied. 'At least when they're instead of own mammas. And then, you know, Franz, it's not only you, it's Lally too, and----' That was all I heard. I couldn't pretend to be obliged to walk slowly just behind them, for in reality I was rather in a hurry, so I hastened past; but just as I did so, their little dog, who was with them, looked up at me with a friendly half-bark, half-growl. That made the children smile at me too, and for the life of me, even if 'twas not good manners, I couldn't help smiling in return. 'Hasn't her a nice face?' I heard the second little young lady say, and it sent me home with quite a warm feeling in my heart. [Illustration: 'Hasn't her a nice face?'] It was about a week after that, when one evening as we were sitting together--father, mother, and I--and father was just saying there'd be daylight enough to need no candles that night--we heard the click of the little garden gate, and a voice at the door that mother knew in a moment was Widow Nutfold's. 'Good evening to you, Mrs. Heatherdale,' she said, 'and many excuses for disturbing of you so late, but I'm that put about. Is your Martha at home?--thank goodness, my dear,' as I came forward out of the dusk to speak to her. 'It's more you nor your good mother I've come after; you'll be thinking I'm joking when you hear what it is. Can you slip on your bonnet and come off with me now this very minute to help with my little ladies? Would you believe it--that their good-for-nothing girl is off--gone--packed up this very evening--and left me with 'em all on my hands, and Miss Baby beginning with a cold on her chest, and Master Francis all but crying with the rheumatics in his poor leg. And even the page-boy, as was here at first, was took back to London last week.' The good woman held up her hands in despair, and then by degrees we got the whole story--how the nurse had not been meaning to stay longer than suited her own convenience, but had concealed this from her lady; and having heard by a letter that afternoon of another situation which she could have if she went at once, off she had gone, in spite of all poor Widow Nutfold could say or do. 'She took a dislike to me seein' as I tried to look after her a bit and to stop her nasty cross ways, and she told me that impertinent, as I wanted to be nurse, I might be it now. She has a week or two's money owing her, but she was that scornful she said she'd let it go; she had been a great silly for taking the place.' 'But she might be had up and made to give back some of her wages,' said father. 'Sir Hulbert and my lady are not that sort, and she knows it,' said Mrs. Nutfold. 'The wages was pretty fair--it was the dulness of the life down in Cornwall the girl objected to most, I fancy.' 'Cornwall,' repeated mother. 'There now, Martha, if that isn't furrin parts, I don't know what is.' But I hadn't time to say any more. I hurried on my shawl and bonnet, and rolled up an apron or two, and slipped a cap into a bandbox, and there I was. 'Good-night, mother,' I said. 'I'll look round in the morning--and I don't suppose I'll be wanted to stay more than a day or two. My lady's sure to find some one at once, being in London too.' 'I should think so,' said old Sarah, but there was something in her tone I did not quite understand. CHAPTER II AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL We hurried across the common--it was still daylight though the sun had set some little time. The red and gold were still lingering in the sky and casting a beautiful glow on the heather and the gorse bushes. For Brayling Common is not like what the word makes most people think of--there's no grass at all--it's all heather and gorse, and here and there clumps of brambles, and low down on the sandy soil all sorts of hardy, running, clinging little plants that ask for nothing but sunshine and air. For of moisture there's but scanty supply; it no sooner rains than it dries up again. But oh it is beautiful--the colours of it I've never seen equalled--not even in Italy or Switzerland, where I went with my first ladies, as I said before. The heather seems to change its shade a dozen times a day, as well as with every season--according as the sky is cloudy or bright, or the sun overhead or on his way up or down. I cannot say it the right way, but I know that many far cleverer than me would feel the same; you may travel far before you'd see a sweeter piece of nature than our common, with its wonderful changefulness and yet always beautiful. There's little footpaths in all directions, as well as a few wider tracks. It takes strangers some time to learn their way, I can tell you. The footpaths are seldom wide enough for two, so it's a queer sort of backwards and forwards talking one has to be content with. And we walked too fast to have breath for much, only Widow Nutfold would now and then throw back to me, so to say, some odds and ends of explaining about the children that she thought I'd best know. 'They're dear young ladies,' she said, 'though Miss Elisabeth is a bit masterful and Miss Baby--Augusta's her proper name--a bit spoilt. Take them all together, I think Miss Lally's my favourite, or would be if she was a little happier, poor child! I can't stand whiney children.' I smiled to myself--I knew that the good woman's experience of children was not great--she had married late and never had one of her own. It was real goodness that made her take such an interest in the little Penroses. 'Poor child,' I said, 'perhaps the cross nurse has made her so,' at which Sarah gave a sort of grunt. 'What is her real name--the middle young lady's, I mean?' 'Oh, bless you, I couldn't take upon me to say it--it's too outlandish. Miss Lally we call her--' and I could hear that Mrs. Nutfold's breath was getting short--she was stout in her later years--and that she was a little cross. 'You must ask for yourself, Martha.' So I said no more, though I had wanted to hear about the boy, who had spoken of their mother as his aunty, and how he had come to be so delicate and lame. And in a few minutes more we found ourselves at the door of Clover Cottage; that was Mrs. Nutfold's house, though 'Bramble Cottage' would have suited it better, standing where it did. She took the key out of her pocket. 'I locked them in,' she said, nodding her head, 'though they didn't know it.' 'Gracious,' says I, 'you don't mean as the children are all alone?' 'To be sure--who'd be with them? I wasn't going to make a chatter all over the place about that impident woman a-goin' off. And Bella, my girl, goes home at five. 'Twas after she left there was all the upset.' I felt rather startled at hearing this. Suppose they had set themselves on fire! But old Sarah seemed quite easy in her mind, as she opened the door and went in, me following. 'Twas a nice roomy cottage, and so clean. Besides the large kitchen at one side, with a good back-kitchen behind it, and a tidy bedroom for Mrs. Nutfold, there was a fair-sized parlour, with casement windows and deep window-seats--all old-fashioned, but roomy and airy. And upstairs two nice bed-rooms and a small one. I knew it well, having been there off and on to help Mrs. Nutfold with her lodgers at the busy season before I went away to a regular place. So I was a little surprised when she turned to the kitchen, instead of opening the parlour door. And at first, what with coming out of the half-light and the red glow still in my eyes, and what with that there Fusser setting upon me with such a barking and jumping--all meant for a welcome, I soon found--as never was, I scarce could see or hear. But I soon got myself together again. 'Down Fusser, naughty Fuss,' said the children, and, 'he won't bite, it's only meant for "How do you do?"' said the eldest girl. And then she turned to me as pretty as might be. 'Is this Martha?' says she, holding out her little hand. 'I _am_ pleased to see you. It's very good of you, and oh, Mrs. Nutfold, I'm so glad you've come back. Baby is getting so sleepy.' Poor little soul--so she was. They had set her up on Sarah's old rocking-chair near the fire as well as they could, to keep her warm because of her cold, and it was a chilly evening rather. But it was past her bed-time, and she was fractious with all the upset. I just was stooping down to look at her when she gave a little cry and held out her arms to me. 'Baby so tired,' she said, 'want to go to bed.' 'And so you shall, my love,' I said. 'I'll have off my bonnet in a moment, and then Martha will put Miss Baby to bed all nice and snug.' 'Marfa,' said a little voice beside me. It was the middle young lady. 'I like that name, don't you, Francie?' That was the boy--they were all there, poor dears. Old Sarah had thought they'd be cosier in the kitchen while she was out. I smiled back at Miss Lally, as they called her. She was standing by Master Francis; both looking up at me, with a kind of mixture of hope and fear, a sort of asking, 'Will she be good to us?' in their faces, which touched me very much. Master Francis was not a pretty child like the others. He was pale and thin, and his eyes looked too dark for his face. He was small too, no taller than Miss Bess, and with none of her upright hearty look. But when he smiled his expression was very sweet. He smiled now, with a sort of relief and pleasure, and I saw that he gave a little squeeze to Miss Lally's hand, which he was holding. 'Yes,' he said, 'it's a nice name. The other nurse was called "Sharp;" it suited her too,' with a twinkle in his eyes I was pleased to see. 'Lally can't say her "th's" properly,' he went on, as if he was excusing her a little, 'nor her "r's" sometimes, though Bess and I are trying to teach her.' 'It's so babyish at _her_ age, nearly six, not to speak properly,' said Miss Bess, with her little toss of the head, at which Miss Lally's face puckered up, and the corners of her mouth went down, and I saw what Sarah Nutfold meant by saying she was rather a 'whiney' child. I didn't give her time for more just then. I had got Miss Baby up in my arms, where she was leaning her sleepy head on my shoulder in her pretty baby way. I felt quite in my right place again. 'Come along, Miss Lally, dear,' I said. 'It must be your bed-time too, and if you'll come upstairs with Miss Baby and me, you'll be able to show me all the things--the baths, and the sponges, and everything--won't that be nice?' She brightened up in a moment--dear child, it's always been like that with her. Give her a hint of anything she could do for others, and she'd forget her own troubles--fancy or real ones--that minute. 'The hot water's all ready,' said Mrs. Nutfold. 'I kep' the fire up, so as you shouldn't have no trouble I could help, Martha, my dear.' And then the three of us went upstairs to the big room at the back, where I was to sleep with Miss Baby in her cot, and which we called the night nursery. Miss Lally was as bright as a child could be, and that handy and helpful. But more than once I heard a sigh come from the very depths of her little heart, it seemed. 'Sharp never lettened me help wif Baby going to bed, this nice way,' she said, and sighed again. 'Never mind about Sharp, my dear,' I said. 'She had her ways, and Martha has hers. What are you sighing about?' 'I'm so fwightened her'll come back and you go, Marfa,' she said, nestling up to me. Baby was safe in bed by now, prayers said and all. 'And--I'm sleepy, but I don't like going to bed till Queen comes.' 'Who may she be, my dear?' I asked, and then I remembered their talking that day in the street. 'Oh, it's Miss Bess, you mean.' 'Yes--it's in the English hist_ory_,' said the child, making a great effort over the 'r.' 'There was a queen they called "Good Queen Bess," so I made that my name for Bess. But mamma laughed one day and said that queen wasn't "good." I was so sorry. So I just call Bess "Queen" for short. And I say "good" to myself, for my Bess _is_ good; only I wish she wouldn't be vexed when I don't speak words right,' and again the little creature sighed as if all the burdens of this weary world were on her shoulders. 'It's that Miss Bess wants you to speak as cleverly as she does, I suppose. It'll come in time, no fear. When I was a little girl I couldn't say the letter "l," try as I might. I used to leave it out altogether--I remember one day telling mother I had seen such a sweet "ittie 'amb"--I meant "little lamb."' 'Oh, how funny,' said Miss Lally laughing. She was always ready to laugh. 'It's a good thing I can say "l's," isn't it? My name wouldn't be--nothing--would it?--without the "l's."' 'But it's only a short, isn't it, Missy?' I said. 'Yes, my _weal_ name is "Lalage." Do you fink it's a pretty name?' she said. She was getting sleepy, and it was too much trouble to worry about her speaking. 'Yes, indeed, I think it's a sweet name. So soft and gentle like,' I said, which pleased her, I could see. 'Papa says so too--but mamma doesn't like it so much. It was Francie's mamma's name, but she's dead. And poor Francie's papa's dead too. He was papa's brother,' said Miss Lally, in her old-fashioned way. There was a funny mixture of old-fashionedness and simple, almost baby ways about all those children. I've never known any quite like them. No doubt it came in part from their being brought up so much by themselves, and having no other companions than each other. But from the first I always felt they were dear children, and more than common interesting. A few days passed--very quiet and peaceful, and yet full of life too they seemed to me. I felt more like myself again, as folks say, than since my great trouble. It _was_ sweet to have real little ones to see to again--if Miss Baby had only known it, that first evening's bathing her and tucking her up in bed brought tears of pleasure to my eyes. 'Come now,' I said, to myself, 'this'll never do. You mustn't let yourself go for to get so fond of these young ladies and gentleman that you're only with for a day or two at most,' but I knew all the same I couldn't help it, and I settled in my own mind that as soon as I could I would look out for a place again. I wasn't afraid of what some would count a hardish place--indeed, I rather liked it. I've always been that fond of children that whatever I have to do for them comes right--what does try my temper is to see things half done, or left undone by silly upsetting girls who haven't a grain of the real nurse's spirit in them. My lady wrote at once on hearing from Mrs. Nutfold. She was very angry indeed about Sharp's behaviour, and at first was by way of coming down immediately to see to things. But by the next day, when she had got a second letter saying how old Sarah had fetched me, and that I was willing to stay for the time, she wrote again, putting off for a few days, and glad to do so, seeing how cleverly her good Mrs. Nutfold had managed. That was how she put it--my lady always had a gracious way with her, I will say--and I was to be thanked for my obligingness; she was sure her little dears would be happy with any one so well thought of by the dame. They were very busy indeed just then, she and Sir Hulbert, she said, and very gay. But when I came to know her better I did her justice, and saw she was not the butterfly I was inclined to think her. She was just frantic to get her husband forward, so to speak, and far more ambitious for him than caring about anything for herself. He had had a trying and disappointing life of it in some ways, had Sir Hulbert, and it had not soured him. He was a right-down high-minded gentleman, though not so clever as my lady, perhaps. And she adored him. They adored each other--seldom have I heard of a happier couple: only on one point was there ever disunion between them, as I shall explain, all in good time. A week therefore--fully a week--had gone by before my little ladies' mother came to see them. And when she did come it was at short notice enough--a letter by the post--and Mayne, the postman, never passed our way much before ten in the morning. So the dame told as how she'd be down by the first train, and get to Clover Cottage by eleven, or soon after. We were just setting off on our morning walk when Sarah came calling after us to tell. She was for us not going, and stopping in till her ladyship arrived; but when I put it to her that the children would get so excited, hanging about and nothing to do, she gave in. 'I'll bring them back before eleven,' I said. 'They'll be looking fresh and rosy, and with us out of the way you and the girl can get the rooms all tidied up as you'd like for my lady to find them.' And Sarah allowed it was a good thought. 'You've a head on your shoulders, my girl,' was how she put it. So off we set--our usual way, over the common to the firwoods. There's many a pretty walk about Brayling, and a great variety; but none took the young ladies' and Master Francie's fancy like the firwoods. They had never seen anything of the kind before, their home being by the seashore was maybe the reason--or one reason. For I feel much the same myself about loving firwoods, though, so to say, I was born and bred among them. There's a charm one can't quite explain about them--the sameness and the stillness and the great tops so high up, and yet the bareness and openness down below, though always in the shade. And the scent, and the feel of the crisp crunching soil one treads on, soil made of the millions of the fir needles, with here and there the cones as they have fallen. 'It's like fairy stories,' Miss Lally used to say, with her funny little sigh. But we couldn't linger long in the woods that morning, though a beautiful morning it was. Miss Bess and Miss Baby were in the greatest delight about 'mamma' coming, and always asking me if I didn't think it must be eleven o'clock. Miss Lally was pleased too, in her quiet way, only I noticed that she was a good deal taken up with Master Francie, who seemed to have something on his mind, and at last they both called to Miss Bess, and said something to her which I didn't hear, evidently asking her opinion. 'Nonsense,' said Miss Bess, in her quick decided way; 'I have no patience with you being so silly. As if mamma would be so unjust.' 'But,' said Master Francis hesitatingly, 'you know, Bess--sometimes----' 'Yes,' put in Miss Lally, 'she might think it had been partly Francie's fault.' 'Nonsense,' said Miss Bess again; 'mamma knows well enough that Sharp was horrid. I am sure Francie has been as good as good for ever so long, and old Mrs. Nutfold will tell mamma so, even if possibly she did not understand.' Their faces grew a little lighter after this, and by the time we had got home and I had tidied them all up, I really felt that my lady would be difficult to please if she didn't think all four looking as bright and well as she could wish. I kept myself out of the way when I heard the carriage driving up, though the children would have dragged me forward. But I was a complete stranger to Lady Penrose, and things having happened as they had, I felt that she might like to be alone with the children, at first, and that no doubt Sarah Nutfold would be eager to have a talk with her. I sat down to my sewing quietly--there was plenty of mending on hand, Sharp's service having been but eye-service in every way--and I won't deny but that my heart was a little heavy thinking how soon, how very soon, most likely, I should have to leave these children, whom already, in these few days, I had grown to love so dearly. I was not left very long to my meditations, however; before an hour had passed there came a clear voice up the old staircase, 'Martha, Martha, come quick, mamma wants you,' and hastening out I met Miss Bess at the door. She turned and ran down again, I following her more slowly. How well I remember the group I saw as I opened the parlour door! It was like a picture. Lady Penrose herself was more than pretty--beautiful, I have heard her called, and I think it was no exaggeration. She was sitting in the dame's old-fashioned armchair, in the window of the little room; the bright summer sunshine streaming in behind her and lighting up her fair hair--hair for all the world like Miss Lally's, though perhaps a thought darker. Miss Baby was on her knee and Miss Bess on a stool at her feet, holding one of her hands. Miss Lally and Master Francie were a little bit apart, close together as usual. 'Come in,' said my lady. 'Come in, Martha,' as I hesitated a little in the doorway. 'I am very pleased to see you and to thank you for all your kindness to these little people.' She half rose from her chair as I drew near, and shook hands with me in the pretty gracious way she had. 'I am sure it has been a pleasure to me, my lady,' I said. 'I've been used to children for so long that I was feeling quite lost at home doing nothing.' 'And you are very fond of children, truly fond of them,' my lady went on, glancing up at me with a quick observant look, that somehow reminded me of Miss Bess; 'so at least Mrs. Nutfold tells me, and I think I should have known it for myself even if she had not said so. I have to go back to town this afternoon--supposing you all run out into the garden for a few minutes, children; I want to talk to Martha a little, and it will soon be your dinner time.' She got up as she spoke, putting Miss Baby down gently; the child began grumbling a little--but, 'No, no, Baby, you must do as I tell you,' checked her in a moment. 'Take her out with you, Bess,' she added. I could see that my lady was not one to be trifled with. When they had all left the room she turned to me again. 'Sit down, Martha, for a minute or two. One can always talk so much more comfortably sitting,' she said pleasantly. 'And I have no doubt the children have given you plenty of exercise lately, though you don't look delicate,' she added, with again the little look of inquiry. 'Thank you, my lady; no, I am not delicate; as a rule I am strong and well, though this last year has brought me troubles and upsets, and I haven't felt quite myself.' 'Naturally,' she said. 'Mrs. Nutfold has told me about you. I was talking to her just now when I first arrived.' Truly my lady was not one to let the grass grow under the feet. 'She says you will be looking for a situation again before long. Is there any chance of your being able to take one at once, that is to say if mine seems likely to suit you.' She spoke so quick and it was so unexpected that I felt for a moment half stupid and dazed-like. 'Are you sure, my lady, that I should suit you?' I managed to say at last. 'I have only been in one place in my life, and you might want more experience.' 'You were with Mrs. Wyngate, in ----shire, I believe? I know her sister and can easily hear any particulars I want, but I feel sure you would suit me.' She went on to give me a good many particulars, all in the same clear decided way. 'The Wyngates are very rich,' she said, as she ended. 'You must have seen a great deal of luxury there. Now we are not rich--not at all rich--though we have a large country place that has belonged to the family for many hundreds of years; but we are obliged to live plainly and the place is rather lonely. I don't want you to decide all at once. Think it all over, and consult your parents, and let me have your answer when I come down again.' 'That will be the difficulty,' I replied; 'my parents wanted me to stay on some time with them. There is nothing about the work or the wages I should object to, and though Mrs. Wyngate was very kind, I have never cared for much luxury in the nursery--indeed, I should have liked plainer ways; and I love the country, and as for the young ladies and gentleman, my lady, if it isn't taking a liberty to say so, I love them dearly already. But it is father and mother----' 'Well, well,' said my lady, 'we must see. The children are very happy with you, and I hope it may be arranged, but of course you must consult your parents.' She went back to London that same afternoon, and that very evening, when they were all in bed, I slipped on my bonnet and ran home to talk it over with father and mother. CHAPTER III TRELUAN There were fors and againsts, as there are with most things in this world. Father was sorry for me to leave so soon and go so far, and he scarce thought the wages what I might now look for. Mother felt with him about the parting, but mother was a far-seeing woman. She thought the change would be the best thing for me after my trouble, and she thought a deal of my being with real gentry. Not but that Mrs. Wyngate's family was all one could think highly of, but Mr. Wyngate's great fortune had been made in trade, and there was a little more talk and thought of riches and display among them than quite suited mother's ideas, and she had sometimes feared it spoiling me. 'The wages I wouldn't put first,' she said. 'A good home and simple ways among real gentlefolk--that's what I'd choose for thee, my girl. And the children are good children and not silly spoilt things, and straightforward and well-bred, I take it?' 'All that and more,' I answered. 'If anything, they've been a bit too strict brought up, I'd say. If I go to them I shall try to make Miss Lally brighten up--not that she's a dull child, but she has the look of taking things to heart more than one likes to see at her age. And poor Master Francis--I'm sure he'd be none the worse of a little petting--so delicate as he is and his lameness.' 'You'll find your work to do, if you go--no fear,' said mother. 'Maybe it's a call.' I got to think so myself--and when my lady wrote that all she heard from Mrs. Wyngate was most satisfactory, I made up my mind to accept her offer, and told her so when she came down again for a few hours the end of the week. We stayed but a fortnight longer at Brayling--and a busy fortnight it was. I had my own things to see to a little, and would fain have finished the set of shirts I had begun for father. The days seemed to fly. I scarce could believe it was not a dream when I found myself with all the family in a second-class railway carriage, starting from Paddington on our long journey. It was a long journey, especially as, to save expense, we had come up from Brayling that same morning. We were not to reach the little town where we left the railway till nearly midnight, to sleep there, I was glad for the poor children's sake to hear, and start again the next morning on a nineteen miles' journey by coach. 'And then,' said Miss Lally, with one of her deep sighs, 'we shall be at home.' I thought there was some content in her sigh this time. 'Shall you be glad, dearie, to be at home again?' I said. 'I fink so,' she answered. 'And oh, I am glad you've comed wif us, 'stead of Sharp. And Francie's almost more gladder still, aren't you, dear old Francie?' 'I should just think I was,' said the boy. 'Sharp,'--and the little girl lowered her voice and glanced round; we were, so to speak, alone at one end of the carriage,--Miss Lally, her cousin and I, for Miss Baby was already asleep in my arms and Miss Bess talking, like a grown-up young lady, at the other end, with her papa and mamma--'Sharp,' said Miss Lally, 'really _hated_ poor Francie, because she thought he told mamma about her tempers. And she made mamma think he was naughty when he wasn't. Francie and I were frightened when Sharp went away that mamma would think it was his fault. But she didn't. Queen spoke to her, and Mrs. Dame' (that was her name for old Sarah) 'did too. And you didn't get scolded, did you, Francie?' 'No,' said Master Francie quietly, 'I didn't.' He looked as if he were going to say more, but just then Miss Bess, who had had enough for the time, of being grown up--and indeed she was but a complete child at heart--got up from her seat and came to our end of the carriage. Sir Hulbert was reading his newspaper, and my lady was making notes in a little memorandum book. 'What are you talking about?' said the eldest little sister, sitting down beside me. 'You all look very comfortable, Baby especially.' 'We are talking about Sharp going away,' replied Miss Lally, 'and Francie thinking he'd be scolded for it.' 'Oh! do leave off about that and talk of something nicer. Franz is really silly. If you'd only speak right out to mamma,' she went on, 'things would be ever so much better.' The boy shook his head rather sadly. 'Now you know,' said Miss Bess, 'they would be. Mamma is never unjust.' She was speaking in her clear decided way, and feeling a little afraid lest their voices should reach to the other end--I wouldn't have liked my lady to think I encouraged the children in talking her over--I tried to change the conversation. 'Won't you tell me a little about your home?' I said. 'You know it'll all be quite new to me; I've only seen the sea once or twice in my life, and never lived by it.' 'Treluan isn't quite close to the sea,' said Master Francis, evidently taking up my feeling. 'We can see it from some of the top rooms, and from one end of the west terrace at high tides, and we can hear it too when it's stormy. But it's really two miles to the coast.' 'There are such dear little bays, lots of them,' said Miss Bess. 'We can play Robinson Crusoe and smugglers and all sorts of things, for the bays are quite separated from each other by the rocks.' 'There's caves in some,' said Miss Lally, 'rather f'ightening caves, they're so dark;' but her eyes sparkled as if she were quite able to enjoy some adventures. 'We shall be at no loss for nice walks, I see; but how do you amuse yourselves on wet days?' 'Oh! we've always plenty to do,' said Miss Bess. 'Miss Kirstin comes from the Vicarage every morning for our lessons, and twice a week papa teaches Franz and me Latin in the afternoon, and the house is very big, you know. When we can't go out, we may race about in the attics over the nurseries. There's a stair goes up to the tower, just by the nursery door, and you pass the attics on the way. They're called the tower attics, because there are lots more over the other end of the house. Francie's room is in the tower.' It was easy to see by this talk that Treluan was a large and important place. 'I suppose the house is very, very old?' I said. 'Oh yes! thousands--I mean hundreds--of years old. Centuries mean hundreds, don't they, Franz?' said she, turning to her cousin. 'Yes, dear,' he answered gently, though I could see he was inclined to smile a little. 'If you know English history,' he went on to me, 'I could tell you exactly how old, Treluan is. The first bit of it was built in the reign of King Henry the Third, though it's been changed ever so often since then. About a hundred years ago the Penroses were very rich, very rich indeed. But when one of them died--our great, great grand-uncle, I think it was--and his nephew took possession, it was found the old man had sold a lot of the land secretly--it wasn't to be told till his death--and no one has ever been able to find out what he did with the money. It was the best of the land too.' 'And they were so surprised,' said Miss Bess, 'for he'd been a very saving old man, and they thought there'd be lots of money over, any way. Wasn't it too bad of him--horrid old thing?' 'Queen,' said Miss Lally gravely. 'You know we fixed never to call him that, 'cos he's dead. He was a--oh, what's that word?--something like those things in the hall at home--helmet--was it that? No--do tell me, Queen.' 'You're muddling it up with crusaders, you silly little thing,' said Miss Bess. 'How could he have been a crusader only a hundred years ago?' 'No, no, it isn't that--I said it was _like_ it,' said Miss Lally, ready to cry. 'What's the other word for helmet?' 'I know,' said Master Francis, '_vizor_--and----' 'Yes, yes--and the old man was a _miser_, that's it,' said the child. 'Papa said so, and he said it's like a' illness, once people get it they can't leave off.' Miss Bess and Master Francis could not help laughing at the funny way the child said it, nor could I myself, for that matter. And then they went on to tell me more of the strange old story--how their great grandfather and their grandfather after him had always gone on hoping the missing money would sooner or later turn up, though it never did, till--putting what the children told me together with my lady's own words--it became clear that poor Sir Hulbert had come into a sadly impoverished state of things. 'Perhaps the late baronet and his father were not of the "saving" sort,' I said to myself, and from what I came to hear afterwards, I fancy I was about right. After a while my lady came to our end of the carriage. She was afraid, she said, I'd find Miss Baby too heavy--wouldn't I lay her comfortably on the seat, there was plenty of room?--my lady was always thoughtful for others--and then when we had got the child settled, she sat down and joined in our talk a little. 'We've been telling Martha about Treluan and about the old uncle that did something with the money,' said Miss Bess. My lady did not seem to mind. 'It is a queer story, isn't it?' she said. 'Worse than queer, indeed----' and she sighed. 'Though even with it, things would not be as they are, if other people had not added their part to them.' She glanced round in a half impatient way, and somehow her glance fell on Master Francis, and I almost started as I caught sight of the expression that had come over her face--it was a look of real dislike. 'Sit up, Francis--do, for goodness' sake,' she said sharply; 'you make yourself into a regular humpback.' The boy's pale, almost sallow face reddened all over. He had been listening with interest to the talking, and taking his part in it. Now he straightened himself nervously, murmuring something that sounded like, 'I beg your pardon, Aunt Helen,' and sat gazing out of the window beside him as if lost in his own thoughts. I busied myself with pulling the rugs better over Miss Baby, so that my lady should not see my face just then. But I think she felt sorry for her sharp tone, for when she spoke again it was even more pleasantly than usual. 'Have you told nurse other things about Treluan, children?' she said. 'It is really a dear old place,' she went on to me; 'it might be made _quite_ delightful if Sir Hulbert could spend a little more upon it. I had set my heart on new furnishing your room this year, Bess darling, but I'm afraid it will have to wait.' 'Never mind, dear,' said Miss Bess comfortingly, in her old-fashioned way, 'there's no hurry. If I could have fresh covers to the chairs, the furniture itself--I mean the _wood_ part--is quite good.' 'I did get some nice chintz in London,' said her mamma; 'there was some selling off rather cheap. But it's the getting things made--everything down with us is so difficult and expensive,' and my lady sighed. Her mind seemed full of the one idea, and I began to think she should try to take a cheerier view of things. 'If you'll excuse me mentioning it,' I said, 'I have had some experience in the cutting out of chair-covers and such things. It would be a great pleasure to me to help to make the young ladies' rooms nice.' 'That would be very nice indeed,' said my lady; 'I really should like to do what we can to brighten up the old house. I expect it will look very gloomy to you, nurse, till you get used to it. I do want Bess's room to look better. Of course Lally is in the nursery still, and won't need a room of her own for a long time yet.' Miss Lally was sitting beside me, and as her mamma spoke, I heard a very tiny little sigh. 'Never mind, Miss Lally dear,' I whispered. 'We'll brighten up the nurseries too, nicely.' These little scraps of talk come back to my mind now, when I think of that first journey down to Treluan so many years ago. I put them down such as they are, as they may help better than words of my own to give an idea of the dear children and all about them, as they then were. We reached Treluan the afternoon of the next day. It was a dull day unfortunately, though the very middle of summer--rainy and gray. Of course every one knows that there's much weather of that kind in the west country, but no doubt it added to the impression of gloom with which the first sight of the old house struck me, I must confess. Gloom, perhaps, is hardly the word to use; it was more a feeling of desertedness, almost of decayed grandeur, quite unlike anything I had ever seen before. For in my former place everything had been bright and new, fresh and perfect of its kind. Afterwards, when I came to see into things better, I found there was no neglect or mismanagement; everything that _could_ be done was done by Sir Hulbert outside, and my lady in her own department--uphill and trying work though it must often have been for them. But that first evening, when I looked round the great lofty hall into which my lady had led the way, dusky and dim already with the rain pattering against the high arched windows and a chilly feeling in the air, the half dozen servants or so, who had come out to meet us--evidently the whole establishment--standing round, I must own that in spite of the children's eager excitement and delight at finding themselves at home again, my heart went down. I did feel so very far away from home and father and mother, and everything I had ever known. The first thing to cheer me was when the old housekeeper--cook-housekeeper she really was--Mrs. Brent, came forward after speaking to my lady, and shook me kindly by the hand. 'Welcome to Treluan, Nurse Heatherdale,' she said. And here I should explain that as there was already a Martha in the house, my lady had expressed her wish that I should be called 'nurse,' or 'Heatherdale,' from which came my name of 'Heather,' that I have always been called by. 'Welcome to Treluan, and don't go for to think that it's always as dull as you see it just now, as like as not to-morrow will be bright and sunny.' She was a homely-looking body with a very kind face, not Cornish bred I found afterwards, though she had lived there many years. Something about her made me think of mother, and I felt the tears rise to my eyes, though no one saw. 'Shall I show nurse the way upstairs, my lady?' she said. For Mrs. Brent was like her looks, simple and friendly like. She had never known Treluan in its grand days of course, though she had known it when things were a good deal easier than at present; and that evening, when the children were asleep, she came up to sit with me a bit, and, though with perfect respect to her master and mistress and no love of gossip in her talk (for of that she was quite free), she explained to me a few things which already had puzzled me a little. No praise was too high for Sir Hulbert with her, and my lady was a really good, high-minded woman. 'But she takes her troubles too heavy,' said Mrs. Brent; 'she's like to break her heart at having no son of her own, and that and other things make her not show her best self to poor little Master Francis, though, considering he's been here since he was four, 'tis a wonder he doesn't seem to her like a child of her own. And Sir Hulbert feels it; it's a real grief to him, for he loved Master Francis's father dearly through all the troubles he caused them, and anyway 'tis not fair to visit the father's sin on the innocent child.' Then she told me how Master Francis's father had made things worse by his extravagance, half-breaking his young wife's heart and leaving debts behind him, when he was killed by an accident; and that Sir Hulbert, for the honour of the family, had taken these debts upon himself. 'His wife was a pretty young creature, half a foreigner. Sir Hulbert had her brought here with the boy, and here she died, not long before Miss Lalage was born, and so, failing a son, Master Francis is the heir, and a sweet, good young gentleman he is, though nothing as to looks. 'Tis a pity he's so shy and timid in his ways; it gives my lady the idea he's not straightforward, though that I'm very sure he is, and most affectionate at heart, though he hasn't the knack of showing it.' 'Except to Miss Lally, I should say,' I put in; 'how those two do cling together, to be sure.' 'He loves them all dearly, my lady too, though he's frightened of her. Miss Lally's the one he's most at home with, because she's so little, and none of Miss Bess's masterful ways about her. Poor dear Miss Lally, many's the trouble she's got into for Master Francis's sake.' All this was very interesting to me, and helped to clear my mind in some ways from the first, which was, I take it, a good thing. Mrs. Brent said little about Sharp, but I could see she had not approved of her; and she was so kind as to add some words about myself, and feeling sure I would make the children happy, especially the two whom it was easy to see were her own favourites, Miss Lally and her cousin. This made me feel the more earnest to do my very best in every way for the young creatures under my care. CHAPTER IV A NURSERY TEA Writing down that talk with good Mrs. Brent made me put aside the account of our arrival at Treluan, clearly though I remember it. Even to this day I never go up the great staircase--of course it is not often that I pass that way--without recalling the feelings with which I stepped up it for the first time--Mrs. Brent in front, carrying a small hand-lamp, the passages being so dark, though it was still early in the evening; the children running on before me, except Miss Baby, who was rather sleepy and very cross, poor dear, so that half way up I had to lift her in my arms. All up the dark wainscoted walls, dead and gone Penroses looked down upon us, in every sort of ancient costume. They used to give me a half eerie feeling till I got to know them better and to take a certain pride in them, feeling myself, as I came to do, almost like one of the family, though in a humble way. At the top of the great staircase we passed along the gallery, which runs right across one side of the hall below; then through a door on the right and down a long passage ending in a small landing, from which a back staircase ran down again to the ground floor. The nurseries in those days were the two large rooms beyond, now turned into a billiard-room, my present lady thinking them scarcely warm enough for the winter. It is handy too to have the billiard-room near the tower, where the smoking-room now is, and the spare rooms for gentlemen-visitors. A door close beside the nurseries opened on to the tower stair; some little way up this stair another door leads into the two or three big attics over the nurseries, which the children used as playrooms in the wet weather. Master Francis's room was the lowest door on the tower staircase, half way as it were, as to level, between the nurseries and the attics. The ground-floor rooms of the tower were entered from below, as the separate staircase only began from the nursery floor. All these particulars, of course, I learnt by degrees, having but a very general idea of things that first night; but plans of houses and buildings have always had an interest for me, and as a girl I think I had a quick eye for sizes and proportions. I do remember the first time I saw the ground-floor room of the tower, under Master Francis's, so to say, wondering to myself how it came to be so low in the ceiling, seeing that the floor of his room was several feet higher than that of the nurseries. No doubt others would have been struck by this also, had the lowest room in the tower been one in regular use, but as long as any one could remember it had only been a sort of lumber-room. It was only by accident that I went into it one day, months after I had come to Treluan. The nurseries were nice airy rooms; the schoolroom was underneath the day nursery, down on the ground floor; and Miss Bess's room was off the little landing I spoke of before you came to the nursery passage. But all seemed dim and dusky in the half light, that first evening. It was long before the days of gas, of course, except in towns, though that, I am told, is now thought nothing of compared to this new electric light, which Sir Bevil is thinking of establishing here, to be made on the premises in some wonderful way. And even lamps at that time were very different from what they are now, when every time my lady goes up to town she brings back some beautiful new invention for turning night into day. I was glad, I remember, June though it was, to see a bright fire in the nursery grate--Mrs. Brent was always thoughtful--and the tea laid out nice and tidy on the table. Miss Baby brightened up at sight of it, and the others gathered round to see what good things the housekeeper had provided for them by way of welcome home. 'I hope there's some clotted cream,' said Miss Bess; 'yes, that's right! Nurse has never seen it before, I'm sure. Fancy, Mrs. Brent, mamma says the silly people in London call it Devonshire cream, and I'm sure it's far more Cornish. And honey and some of your own little scones and saffron cakes, that is nice! Mayn't we have tea immediately?' 'I must wash my hands,' said Master Francis, 'they did get so black in the carriage.' 'And mine too,' said Miss Lally. 'Oh, nurse, mayn't Francis wash his for once in the night nursery, to be quick?' 'Why didn't you both keep your gloves on, you dirty children?' said Miss Bess in her masterful way. 'My hands are as clean as clean, and of course Francis mustn't begin muddling in the nursery. You'd never have asked Sharp that, Lally. It's just the sort of thing mamma doesn't like. I shall take my things off in my own room at once.' And she marched to the door as she spoke, stopping for a moment on the way to say to me--'Heatherdale, you'll come into my room, won't you, as soon as ever you can, to talk about the new chair-covers?' 'I won't forget about them, Miss Bess,' I said quietly; 'but for a few days I am sure to be busy, unpacking and looking over the things that were left here.' The child said nothing more, but I saw by the lift of her head that she was not altogether pleased. 'Now Master Francis,' I went on, 'perhaps you had better run off to your own room to wash your hands. It's always best to keep to regular ways.' The boy obeyed at once. I had, to tell the truth, been on the point of letting him do as Miss Lally had wanted, but Miss Bess's speech had given me a hint, though I was not sorry for her not to have seen it. I should be showing Master Francis no true kindness to begin by any look of spoiling him, and I saw by a little smile on Mrs. Brent's face that she thought me wise, even though it was not till later in the evening that I had the long talk with her that I have already mentioned. Our tea was bright and cheery, Miss Baby's spirits returned, and she kept us all laughing by her funny little speeches. My lady came in when we had nearly finished, just to see how all the children were--perhaps too, for she was full of kind thoughtfulness, to make me feel myself more at home. She sat down in the chair by the fire, with a little sigh, and I was sorry to see the anxious, harassed look on her beautiful face. 'You all look very comfortable,' she said; 'please give me a cup of tea, nurse. I found such a lot of things to do immediately, that I've not had time to think of tea yet, and poor Sir Hulbert is off in the rain to see about some broken fences. Oh dear! what a contrary world it seems,' she added half laughingly. 'How did the fences get broken, mamma?' said Miss Bess; 'and why didn't Garth get them mended at once without waiting to tease papa the moment he got home?' 'Some cattle got wild and broke them, and if they are not put right at once, more damage may be done. But all these repairs are expensive. It only happened two days ago; poor Garth was obliged to tell papa before doing it. Dear me,' she said again, 'it really does seem sometimes as if money would put everything in life right.' 'Oh! my lady,' I exclaimed hastily, and then I got red with shame at my forwardness and stopped short. I felt very sorry for her; the one thought seemed never out of her mind, and bid fair to poison her happy home. I felt too that it was scarcely the sort of talk for the children to hear, Miss Bess being already in some ways so old for her years, and the two others scarce as light-hearted as they should have been. My lady smiled at me. 'Say on, Heatherdale; I'd like to hear what you think about it.' I felt my face getting still redder, but I had brought it on myself. 'It was only, my lady,' I began, 'that it seems to me that there are so many troubles worse than want of money. There's my last lady's sister, for instance, Mrs. Vernon,--everything in the world has she that money can give, but she's lost all her babies, one after the other, and she's just heart-broken. Then there's young Lady Mildred Parry, whose parents own the finest place near my home, and she's their only child; but she had a fall from her horse two years ago and her back is injured for life; she often drives past our cottage, lying all stretched-out-like, in a carriage made on purpose.' My lady was silent. Suddenly, to my surprise, Master Francis looked up quickly. 'I don't think I'd mind that so very much,' he said, 'not if my back didn't hurt badly. I think it would be better than walking with your leg always aching, and I daresay everybody loves that girl dreadfully.' He stopped as suddenly as he had begun, giving a quick frightened glance round, and growing not red but still paler than usual, as was his way. 'Poor little Francie,' said Miss Lally, stretching her little hand out to him and looking half ready to cry. 'Don't be silly, Lally; if Francis's leg hurts him he has only to say so, and it will be attended to as it has always been. If everybody loves that young Lady Mildred, no doubt it is because she is sweet and loving _to_ everybody.' Then she grew silent again and seemed to be thinking. 'You are right, nurse,' she said. 'I am very grateful when I see my dear children all well and happy.' 'And _good_,' added Miss Bess with her little toss of the head. 'Well, yes, of course,' said her mother smiling. It was seldom, if ever, Miss Bess was pulled up for anything she took it into her head to say, whether called for or not. 'But,' my lady went on in a lower voice, turning to me, as if she hardly wished the children to hear, 'want of money isn't my only, nor indeed my worst trouble.--I must go,' and she got up as she spoke; 'there are twenty things waiting for me to attend to downstairs. Good-night, children dear; I'll come up and peep at you in bed if I possibly can, but I'm not sure if I shall be able. If not, nurse must do instead of me for to-night,' and she turned towards the door, moving in the quick graceful way she always did. 'Franz!' said Miss Bess reprovingly; the poor boy was already getting off his chair, but he was too late to open the door. I doubt if his aunt noticed his moving at all. 'You're always so slow and clumsy,' said his eldest cousin. The words sounded unkind, but it was greatly that Miss Bess wanted him to please her mamma, for the child had an excellent heart. There was plenty to do after that first evening for all of us. I got sleepy Miss Baby to bed as soon as might be. The poor dear, she _was_ sleepy! I remember how, when she knelt down in her little white nightgown to say her prayers, she could only just get out, 'T'ank God for b'inging us safe home;' as she had evidently been taught to say after a journey. 'Baby thinks that's enough, when she's been ter-a-velling,' explained Miss Lally. Then I set to work to unpack, and it was quite surprising how handy the two elder girls--and not they only, but Master Francis too--were in helping me, and explaining where their things were kept and all the nursery ways. Then I had to be shown Miss Bess's room, and nearly offended her little ladyship by saying I hadn't time just then to settle about the new covers. For I was determined to give some attention to Master Francis also. His room was very plain, not to say bare; not that I hold with pampering boys, but he being delicate, it did seem to me he might have had a couch or easy-chair to rest his poor leg. He was very eager to make the best of things, telling me I had no idea what a beautiful view there was from his windows, of which there were three. 'I love the tower,' he said. 'I wouldn't change my room here for any other in the house.' And I must say I thought it was very nice of him to put things in that way, considering too the sharp tone in which I had heard his aunt speak to him that very evening. When I woke the next morning I found that Mrs. Brent's words had come true, for the sun was pouring in at the window, and when I drew up the blind and looked out I would scarce have known the place to be the same. The outlook was bare, to be sure, compared with the well-wooded country about my home; but the grounds just around the house were carefully kept, though in a plain way, no bedding-out plants or rare foreign shrubs, such as I had been used to see at Mr. Wyngate's country place. But all about Treluan there was the charm which no money will buy--the charm of age, very difficult to put into words, though I felt it strongly. A little voice just then came across the room. 'Nurse, dear.' It was Miss Lalage. 'It's a very fine day, isn't it? I have been watching the sun getting up ever so long. When I first wokened, it was nearly quite dark.' I looked at the child. She was sitting up in her cot; her face looked tired, and her large gray eyes had dark lines beneath them, as if she had not slept well. Miss Baby was still slumbering away in happy content--she was a child to sleep, to be sure! A round of the clock was nothing for her. 'My dear Miss Lally,' I said, 'you have never been awake since dawn, surely. Is your head aching, or is something the matter?' She gave a little sigh. 'No, fank you, it's nothing but finking, I mean th-inking. Oh! I wish I could speak quite right, Bess says it's so babyish.' 'Thinking! and what have you been thinking about, dearie? You should have none but happy thoughts. Isn't it nice to be at home again? and this beautiful summer weather! We can go such nice walks. You've got to show me all the pretty places about.' 'Yes,' said Miss Lally. 'I'd like that, but we'll be having lessons next week,--not all day long, we can go beautiful walks in the afternoons.' 'Was it about lessons you were troubling your little head?' 'No,' she said, though not very heartily. 'I don't like them much, at least not those _very_ high up sums--up you know to the _very_ top of the slate--that won't never come right. But I wasn't finking of them; it was about poor mamma, having such ter-oubles. Francie and I do fink such a lot about it. Bess does too, but she's so clever, she's sure she'll do something when she's big to get a lot of money for papa and mamma. But I'm not clever, and Francie has got his sore leg; we can't fink of anything we could do, unless we could find some fairies; but Francie's sure there aren't any, and he's past ten, so he must know.' 'You can do a great deal, dear Miss Lally,' I said. 'Don't get it into your head you can't. Rich or poor, there's nothing helps papas and mammas so much as their children being good, and loving, and obedient; and who knows but what Master Francis may be a very clever man some day, whether his poor leg gets better or not.' The little girl seemed pleased. It needed but a kind word or two to cheer her up at any time. 'Oh! I am so glad Sharp has gone away and you comed,' she said. She was rather silent while I was dressing her, but when she had had her bath, and I was putting on her shoes and stockings, she began again. 'Nurse,' she asked, 'do stockings cost a lot of money to buy?' 'Pretty well,' I said. 'At my home, mother always taught us to knit our own. I could show you a pair I knitted before I was much bigger than you.' How the child's face did light up! 'I've seen a little girl knitting who's not much bigger than me. Couldn't you show me how to make some stockings, and then mamma wouldn't have to buy so many?' 'Certainly I could; I have plenty of needles with me, and I daresay we could get some wool,' I replied. 'I'll tell you what, Miss Lally; you might knit some for Master Francis; that would be pleasing him as well as your mamma. There's a village not far off, I suppose--you can generally buy wool at a village shop.' 'There's our village across the park, and there's two shops. I'll ask Bess; she'll know if we could get wool. Oh! nurse, how pleased I am; I wonder if we could go to-day. I've got some pennies and a shilling. I do like to have nice things to think of. I wish Francie would be quick, I do so want to tell him, or do you think I should keep it a surprise for him?' And she danced about in her eager delight, which at last woke Miss Baby, who opened her eyes and stared about her, with a sleepy smile of content on her plump rosy face. She was a picture of a child, and so easy minded. It is wonderful, to be sure, how children brought up like little birds in one nest yet differ from each other. I began to feel very satisfied that I should never regret having come to Treluan. CHAPTER V THE SHOP IN THE VILLAGE Before many days had passed I felt quite settled down. The weather was most lovely for some time just then, and this I think always helps to make one feel more at home in a strange place. That first day, and for two or three following, we could not go long walks, as I had really so much to see to indoors. Miss Bess had to make up her mind to wait as patiently as she could, till other things were attended to, for the doing up of her room, and, what I was more sorry for, poor Miss Lally had also to wait about beginning the knitting she had so set her heart on. I think it was the fourth day after our arrival that I began at last to feel pretty clear. All the nursery drawers and cupboards tidied up and neatly arranged; the children's clothes looked over and planned about for the rest of the summer. My lady went over them with me, and I could see that it was a comfort to her to feel assured that I understood the need for economy, and prided myself, thanks to my good old mother, on neat patches and darns quite as much as on skill on making new things. My poor lady--it went to my heart to see how often she would have liked to get fresh and pretty frocks and hats for the young ladies, for she had good taste and great love of order. But after all there is often a good deal of pleasure in contriving and making the best of what one has. 'You must take nurse a good walk to-day, children,' said my lady as she left the room. 'I shall be busy with your papa, but you might get as far as the sea, I think, if you took old Jacob and the little cart for Baby if she gets tired, and for Francis if his leg hurts him. How has it been, by the by, for the last day or two, Francis?' Her tone was rather cold, but still I could see a little flush of pleasure come over the boy's face. 'Oh! much better, thank you, auntie,' he said eagerly. 'It's only just after the day in the railway that it seems to hurt more.' 'Then try to be bright and cheerful,' she said. 'Remember you are not the only one in the world that has troubles to bear.' The boy didn't answer, but I could see his thin little face grow pale again, and I just wished that my lady had stopped at her first kindly inquiry. A deal of mischief is done, it seems to me, by people not knowing when it is best to stop. Jacob, the donkey, was old and no mistake. Larkins's 'Peter' was young compared to him, and the cart was nothing but a cart such as light luggage might be carried in. It had no seats, but we took a couple of footstools with us, which served the purpose, and many a pleasant ramble we had with the shabby little old cart and poor Jacob. 'Which way shall we go?' said Miss Bess, as we started down the drive. 'You know, nurse, there's ever so many ways to the sea here. It's all divided into separate little bays. You can't get from one to the other except at low tide, and with a lot of scrambling over the rocks, so we generally fix before we start which bay we'll go to.' 'Oh! do let's go to Polwithan Bay!' said Miss Lally. 'It's not nearly so pretty as Trewan,' said Miss Bess, 'and there are the smugglers' caves at Trewan. We often call it the Smugglers' Bay because of that. We've got names of our own for the bays as well as the proper ones.' 'There's one we call Picnic Bay,' said Master Francis, 'because there are such beautiful big flat stones for picnic tables. But I think the Smugglers' Bay is the most curious of all. I'm sure nurse would like to see it. Why do you want to go to Polwithan, Lally? It is rather a stupid little bay.' 'Can we go to the Smugglers' Bay by the village?' asked Miss Lally, and then I understood her, though I did not know that tightly clutched in her hot little hand were the shilling and the three or four pennies she had taken out of her money box on the chance of buying the wool for her stockings. 'It would be ever such a round,' said Miss Bess; but then she added politely--she was very particular about politeness, when she wasn't put out--'but of course if nurse wants to see the village that wouldn't matter. We've plenty of time. Would you like to see it, nurse?' A glance at Miss Lally's anxious little face decided me. 'Well, I won't say but what it would interest me to see the village,' I replied. 'Of course it's just as well and might be handy for me to know my way about, so as to be able to find the post-office or fetch any little thing from the shop if it were wanted.' This was quite true, though I won't deny but that another reason was strongest and Miss Lally knew it, for she crept up to me and slid her little hand into mine gratefully. 'Very well, then,' said Miss Bess, 'we'll go round by the village. But remember if you're tired, Lally, you mustn't grumble, for it was you that first spoke of going that way.' 'There's the cart if Miss Lally's tired,' I said. 'Three could easily get into it, and Jacob can't be knocked up if only Miss Baby goes in it all the way there.' 'Nurse,' said Miss Lally suddenly--I don't think she had heard what we were saying--'there's two shops in the village.' 'Are there, my dear,' I said; 'and is one the post-office? And what do they sell?' 'Yes, one is the post-office, but they sell other things 'aside stamps,' Miss Lally replied. 'They are both _everything_ shops.' 'But the _not_ the post-office one is much the nicest,' said Master Francis. 'It's kept by old Prideaux--he's an old sailor and----' Here the boy looked round, but there was no one in sight. Still he lowered his voice. 'People do say that after he left off being a proper sailor he was a smuggler. It runs in the family, Mrs. Brent says,' he went on in the old-fashioned way I noticed in all the children. 'His father was a regular smuggler. Brent says she's seen some queer transactions when she was a girl in the kitchen behind the shop.' 'I thought Mrs. Brent was a stranger in these parts by her birth and upbringing,' I said. 'So she is,' said Master Francis, 'but she came here on a visit when she was a girl to her uncle at the High Meadows Farm, and that's how she came first to Treluan. Grandfather was alive then, and papa and Uncle Hulbert were boys. Even then Prideaux was an old man. Uncle Hulbert says he knows lots of queer stories--he does tell them sometimes, but not as if they had happened here, and you have to pretend to think he and his father had nothing to do with them themselves.' 'It was he that told us first about the smugglers' caves, wasn't it?' said Miss Bess. 'Fancy, nurse, some treasures were found in one of the caves, not so very long ago, hid away in a dark corner far in. There was lace and some beautiful fine silk stockings and some bottles of brandy----' 'And a lot of cigars and tobacco, but they had gone all bad, and some of the brandy hadn't any taste in it, though some was quite good. But grandpapa was a dreadfully honest man; he would send all the things up to London, just as they were found, for he said they belonged to the Queen.' 'I wonder if the Queen wored the silk stockings her own self?' said Miss Lally. 'If _we_ found some treasures,' said Miss Bess, 'do you think we'd have to send them to the Queen too? It would be very greedy of her to keep them, when she has such lots and lots of everything.' 'That's just because she's queen; she can't help it. It's part of being a queen, and I daresay she gives away lots too. Besides, you wouldn't care for brandy or cigars, Bess?' said Master Francis. 'We could sell them,' answered Miss Bess, 'if they were good.' 'P'raps the Queen would send us a nice present back,' said Miss Lally. 'Fancy, if she sent us a whole pound, what beautiful things we could buy.' 'It would be great fun to find treasures, whatever they were,' said Miss Bess. 'If we see old Prideaux to-day, I'll ask him if he thinks possibly there's still some in the caves. Only it wouldn't do to go into his shop on purpose to ask him--he'd think it funny.' 'And you'll have to be very careful how you ask him,' said Master Francis. 'Besides, I'm quite sure if there were any to be found, he'd have found them before this.' 'Does he sell wool in his shop, do you think, Miss Bess?' I inquired, and I felt Miss Lally's hand squeeze mine. 'Wool, or worsted for knitting stockings, I mean. I want to get some, and that would be a reason for speaking to him.' 'I daresay he does; at least his daughter's always knitting, and she must get wool somewhere. Anyway we can ask,' answered Miss Bess, quite pleased with the idea. 'Now, nurse,' said Master Francis suddenly, 'keep your eyes open. When we turn into the field at the end of this little lane--we've come by a short-cut to the village, for the cart can go through the field quite well--you'll have your first good view of the sea. We can see it from some of the windows at Treluan and from the end of the terrace, but nothing like as well.' I was glad he had prepared me, for we had been interested in our talking, and I hadn't paid much attention to the way we were going. Now I did keep my eyes open, and I was well rewarded. The field was a sloping one--sloping upwards, I mean, as we entered it--and till we got to the top of the rising ground we saw nothing but the clear sky above the grass, but then there burst upon the view a wonderful surprise. The coast-line lay before us for a considerable distance at each side. Just below us were the rocky bays or creeks the children had told me of, the sand gleaming yellow and white in the sunshine, for the tide was half way out, though near enough still for us to see the glisten of the foam and the edge of the little waves, as they rippled in sleepily. And farther out the deep purple-blue of the ocean, softening into a misty gray, there, where the sky and the water met or melted into each other. A little to the right rose the smoke of several houses--lazily, for it was a very still day. These houses lay nestled in together, on the way to the shore, and seemed scarcely enough to be called a village; but as we left the field again to rejoin the road, I saw that these few houses were only the centre of it, so to speak, as others straggled along the road in both directions for some way, the church being one of the buildings the nearest to Treluan house. [Illustration: Then there burst upon the view a wonderful surprise.] 'It is a beautiful view,' said I, after a moment's silence, as we all stood still at the top of the slope, the children glancing at me, as if to see what I thought of it. 'I've never seen anything approaching to it before, and yet it's a bare sort of country--many wouldn't believe it could be so beautiful with so few trees, but I suppose the sea makes up for a good deal.' 'And it's such a lovely day,' said Master Francis. 'I should say the sun makes up for a good deal. We've lots of days here when it's so gray and dull that the sea and the sky seem all muddled up together. I'm not so very fond of the sea myself. People say it's so beautiful in a storm, and I suppose it is, but I don't care for that kind of beauty, there's something so furious and wild about it. I don't think raging should be counted beautiful. Shouldn't we only call good things beautiful?' He looked up with a puzzle in his eyes. Master Francis always had thoughts beyond his age and far beyond me to answer. 'I can't say, I'm sure,' I replied. 'It would take very clever people indeed to explain things like that, though there's verses in the Bible that do seem to bear upon it, especially in the Psalms.' 'I know there are, but when it tells of Heaven, it says "there shall be no more sea,"' said Master Francis very gravely. 'And I think I like that best.' 'Dear Francie,' said Miss Lally, taking his hand, as she always did when she saw him looking extra grave, though of course she could not understand what he had been saying. We were out of the field by this time, and Miss Bess caught hold of Jacob's reins, for up till now the old fellow had been droning along at his own pace. 'Come along, Jacob, waken up,' she said, as she tugged at him, 'or we'll not get to Polwithan Bay to-day, specially if we're going to gossip with old Prideaux on the way.' We passed the church in a moment, and close beside it the Vicarage. 'That's where Miss Kirstin lives,' said Miss Bess. 'Come along quick, I don't want her to see us.' 'Don't you like her, my dear?' I said, a little surprised. 'Oh yes! we like her very well, but she makes us think of lessons, and while it is holidays we may as well forget them,' and by the way in which Master Francis and Miss Lally joined her in hurrying past Mr. Kirstin's house, I could see they were of the same mind. Miss Kirstin, when I came to know her, I found to be a good well-meaning young lady, but she hadn't the knack of making lessons very interesting. It wasn't perhaps altogether her fault; in those days books for young people, both for lessons and amusement, were very different from what they are now. School-books were certainly very dry and dull, and there was a sort of feeling that making lessons pleasant or taking to children would have been weak indulgence. The church was a beautiful old building. I am not learned enough to describe it, and perhaps after all it was more beautiful from age than from anything remarkable in itself. I came to love it well; it was a real grief to me and to others besides me when it had to be partly pulled down a few years ago, and all the wonderful growth of ivy spoilt. Though I won't say but what our new vicar--the third from Mr. Kirstin our present one is--is well fitted for his work, both with rich and poor, and one whom it is impossible not to respect as well as love, though Mr. Kirstin was a worthy and kind old man in his way. A bit farther along the road we passed the post-office, which the children pointed out to me. The mistress came to the door when she saw us, and curtsied to the little ladies, with a smile and a word of 'Welcome home again, Miss Penrose!' She took a good look at me out of the corner of her eye, I could see. For having lived so much in small country places, I knew how even a fresh servant at the big house will set all the village talking. Miss Lally glanced in at the shop window as we passed. There was indeed, as she had said, a mixture of 'everything,' from tin pails and mother-of-pearl buttons to red herrings and tallow-candles. 'Nurse,' she whispered, '_in case_ we can't get the wool at Prideaux', we might come back here, but I'm afraid Bess wouldn't like to turn back. Oh! I do hope'--with one of her little sighs--'they'll have it at the other shop.' And so they had, though when we got there a little difficulty arose. The two elder children both wanted to come in, having got their heads full of asking the old man about the smugglers' caves, and thinking it was for myself I wanted the wool. Never a word said poor Miss Lally, when her sister told her to stay outside with Miss Baby and the cart; but I was getting to know the look of her little face too well by this time not to understand the puckers about her eyes, and the droop at the corners of her mouth. 'We may as well all go in,' I said, lifting Miss Baby out of the cart. 'There's no one else in the shop, and I want Miss Lally's opinion about the wool.' '_Lally's!_' said Miss Bess rather scornfully; 'she doesn't know anything about wool, or knitting stockings, nurse.' 'Ah! well, but perhaps she's going to know something about it,' I said. 'It's a little secret we've got, Miss Bess; you shall hear about it all in good time.' 'Oh, well, if it's a secret,' said Miss Bess good-naturedly--she was a nice-minded child, as they all were--'Franz and I will keep out of the way while you and Lally get your wool. We'll talk to old Prideaux.' He was in the shop, as well as his daughter, who was knitting away as the children had described her, and the old wife came hurrying out of the kitchen, when she heard it was the little gentry from Treluan that were in the shop. They did make a fuss over the children, to be sure; it wasn't easy for Miss Lally and me to get our bit of business done. But Sally Prideaux found us just what we wanted--the same wool that she was knitting stockings of herself, only she had not much of it in stock, and might be some little time before she could get more. But I told Miss Lally there'd be enough for a short pair of socks for her cousin--boys didn't wear knickerbockers and long stockings in those days--adding that it was best not to undertake too big a piece of work for the first. The wool cost one-and-sixpence. It was touching to see the little creature counting over the money she had been holding tightly in her hand all the way, and her look of distress when she found it only came up to one and fourpence halfpenny. 'Don't you trouble, my dear,' I said, 'I have some coppers in my pocket.' She thanked me as if I had given her three pounds instead of three halfpence, saying in a whisper--'I'll pay you back, nursie, when I get my twopence next Saturday;' and then as happy as a little queen she clambered down off the high stool, her precious parcel in her hand. 'Won't Francie be pleased?' she said. 'They must be ready for his birthday, nurse. And won't mamma be pleased when she finds I can knit stockings, and that she won't have to buy any more?' CHAPTER VI THE SMUGGLERS' CAVES The others seemed to have been very well entertained while Miss Lally and I were busy. Mrs. Prideaux had set Miss Baby on the counter, where she was admiring her to her heart's content--Miss Baby smiling and chattering, apparently very well pleased. Miss Bess and Master Francis were talking eagerly with old Prideaux; they turned to us as we came near. [Illustration: Miss Bess and Master Francis were talking eagerly with old Prideaux.] 'Oh, nurse!' said Miss Bess, 'Mr. Prideaux says that he shouldn't wonder if there were treasures hidden away in the smugglers' caves, though it wouldn't be safe for us to look for them. He says they'd be so very far in, where it's quite, quite dark.' 'And one or two of the caves really go a tremendous way underground. Didn't you say there's one they've never got to the end of?' asked Master Francis. 'So they say,' replied the old man, with his queer Cornish accent. It did sound strange to me then, their talk--though I've got so used to it now that I scarce notice it at all. 'But I wouldn't advise you to begin searching for treasures, Master Francis. If there's any there, you'd have to dig to get at them. I remember when I was a boy a deal of talk about the caves, and some of us wasted our time seeking and digging. But the only one that could have told for sure where to look was gone. He met his death some distance from here, one terrible stormy winter, and took his secret with him. I have heard tell as he "walks" in one of the caves, when the weather's quite beyond the common stormy. But it's not much use, for at such times folk are fain to stay at home, so there's not much chance of any one ever meeting him.' 'Then how has he ever been seen?' asked Miss Bess in her quick way; 'and who was he, Mr. Prideaux? do tell us.' But the old man didn't seem inclined to say much more. Perhaps indeed Miss Bess was too sharp for him, and he did not know how to answer her first question. 'Such things is best not said much about,' he replied mysteriously; 'and talking of treasures, by all accounts you'd have a better chance of finding some nearer home.' He smiled, as if he could have said more had he chosen to do so. The children opened their eyes in bewilderment. 'What do you mean?' exclaimed the two elder ones. Miss Lally's mind was running too much on her stockings for her to pay much attention. Prideaux did not seem at all embarrassed. 'Well, sir, it's no secret hereabouts,' he said, addressing Master Francis in particular, 'that the old, old Squire, Sir David, the last of that name--there were several David Penroses before him, but never one since--it's no secret, as I was saying, that a deal of money or property of some kind disappeared in his last years, and it stands to reason that, being as great a miser as was ever heard tell of, he couldn't have spent it. Why, more than half of the lands changed hands in his time, and what did he do with what he got for them?' 'That was our great, great grand-uncle,' said Master Francis to me; 'you remember I told you about him, but I never thought----' he stopped short. 'It _is_ very queer,' he went on again, as if speaking to himself. But just then, Miss Baby having had enough of Mrs. Prideaux' pettings, set up a shout. 'Nurse, nurse,' she said, 'Baby wants to go back to Jacob. Poor Jacob so tired waiting. Dood-bye, Mrs. Pideaux,' and she began wriggling to get off the counter, so that I had to hurry forward to lift her down. 'We'd best be going on,' I said, 'or we'll be losing the finest part of the afternoon.' I didn't feel quite sure that Prideaux' talk was quite what my lady would approve of for the children. They had a way of taking things up more seriously than is common with such young creatures, and certainly they had got in the way--and I couldn't but feel but what my lady was to blame for this--of thinking too much of the family troubles, especially the want of wealth, which seemed to them a greater misfortune than it need have done. Still, being quite a stranger, and them seeming at liberty to talk to the people about as they did, I didn't feel that it would have been my place to begin making new rules or putting a stop to things, as likely as not quite harmless. I resolved, however, to find out my lady's wishes in such matters at the first opportunity. Another half hour brought us close to the shore; the road was a good one, being used for carting gravel and sea-weed in large quantities to the village and round about from the little bay--Treluan Bay, that is to say--it led directly to. But as we were bound for Polwithan Bay, where the smugglers' caves were, and had made a round for the sake of coming through the village, we had to cross several fields and follow a rough track instead of going straight down to the sands. Jacob didn't seem to mind, I must say, nor Miss Baby neither, though she must have been pretty well jolted, but it was worth the trouble. 'Isn't it lovely, nurse?' said Miss Bess, when at last we found ourselves in the bay on the smooth firm sand, the sea in front of us, and so encircled on three sides by the rocks that even the path by which we had come was hidden. 'This bay is so beautifully shut in,' said Master Francis. 'You could really fancy that there was no one in the world but us ourselves. I think it's such a nice feeling.' 'It's nice when we're all together,' said Miss Lally; 'it would be rather frightening if anybody was alone.' 'Alone or not,' said Miss Bess, 'it wouldn't be at all nice when tea-time came if we had nothing to eat. And fancy, what _should_ we do at night--we couldn't sleep out on the sand?' 'We'd have to go into the caves,' said Master Francis. 'It would be rather fun, with a good fire and with lots of blankets.' 'And where would you get blankets from, or wood for a fire, you silly boy?' said Miss Bess. 'Can we see the caves?' I asked, for having heard so much talk about them, I felt curious to see them. 'Of course,' said Master Francis. 'We always explore them every time we come to this bay. Do you see those two or three dark holes over there among the rocks, nurse? Those are the caves; come along and I'll show them to you.' I was a little disappointed. I had never seen a cave in my life, but I had a confused remembrance of pictures in an old book at home of some caves--'The Mammoth Caves of Kentucky,' I afterwards found they were--which looked very large and wonderful, and somehow I suppose I had all the time been picturing to myself that these ones were something of the same kind. I didn't say anything to the children though, as they took great pride in showing me all the sights. And after all, when we got to the caves, they turned out much more curious and interesting than I expected from the outside. The largest one, though its entrance was so small, was really as big as a fair-sized church, and narrowing again far back into a dark mysterious-looking passage, from which Master Francis told me two or three smaller chambers opened out. 'And then,' he said, 'after that the passage goes on again--ever so far. In the old days the smugglers blocked it up with pieces of rock, and it isn't so very long ago that this was found out. It was somewhere down along that passage that they found the things I told you of.' We went a few yards along the passage, but it soon grew almost quite dark, and we turned back again. 'I can quite see it wouldn't be safe to try exploring down there,' I said. 'Yes, I suppose so,' said Master Francis, with a sigh. 'I wish I could find some treasure, all the same. I wonder----' he went on, then stopped short. 'Nurse,' he began again, 'did you hear what old Prideaux said of our great grand-uncle the miser? Could it really be true, do you think, that he hid away money or treasures of some kind?' and he lowered his voice mysteriously. 'I shouldn't think it was likely,' I replied. For I had a feeling that it would not be well for the children to get any such ideas into their heads. It sounded to me like a sort of fairy tale. I had never come across anything so romantic and strange in real life. Though for that matter, Treluan itself, and the kind of old-world feeling about the place, was quite unlike anything I had ever known before. We were outside the cave again by this time; the sunshine seemed deliciously warm and bright after the chill and gloom inside. Miss Bess had been listening eagerly to what Master Francis was saying. 'I can't see but what old Sir David _might_ have hidden treasures away, as he was a real miser,' she said. 'And you know that misers are so suspicious, that even when they're dying they won't trust anybody. I know I've read a story like that,' said the boy. 'Oh! Bess, just fancy if we could find a lot of money or diamonds! Wouldn't uncle and aunt be pleased?' His whole face lighted up at the very idea. 'I daresay he hid it all away in a stocking,' put in Miss Lally, whose head was still full of her knitting. 'I've heard a story of an old woman miser that did that.' 'And where would the stocking be hid?' said Miss Bess. 'Besides, if a stocking was ever so full, it couldn't hold enough money to be a real treasure.' 'It might be stuffed with bank notes,' said Master Francis. 'There's banknotes worth ever so much; aren't there, nurse?' 'I remember once seeing one of a thousand pounds,' I said. 'That was at my last place. Mr. Wyngate had to do with business in the city, and he once brought one home to show the young ladies.' 'Well, then, you see, Queen,' said Miss Lally, 'there might be a stocking with enough money to make papa and mamma as rich as rich.' 'I'm quite sure Sir David's money wasn't put in a stocking,' said Miss Bess decidedly. 'You've got rather silly ideas, Lally, considering you're getting on for six.' Miss Lally began to look rather doleful. She had been so bright and cheerful all day that I didn't like to see her little face overcast. We had left Jacob outside the cave, of course; there was one satisfaction with him--he was not likely to run away. 'Miss Baby, dear,' I said, 'aren't you getting hungry? Where's the basket you were holding in the cart?' 'Nice cakes in basket,' said the little girl. 'Baby looked, but Baby didn't eaten them.' The basket was still in the cart, and I think they were all very pleased when they saw what I had brought for them. Some of Mrs. Brent's nice little saffron buns and a bottle of milk. I remember that I didn't like the taste of the saffron buns at first, and now I might be Cornish born and bred, I think it such an improvement to cakes! 'Another time,' I said, 'we might bring our tea with us. I daresay my lady wouldn't object.' 'I'm sure she wouldn't mind,' said Miss Bess. 'We used to have picnic teas sometimes, when our _quite_, quite old nurse was with us--the one that's married over to St. Iwalds.' 'Bess,' said Master Francis, 'you should say "over at," not "over to."' 'Thank you,' said Miss Bess, 'I don't want you to teach me grammar. _That_ isn't parson's business.' Master Francis grew very red. 'Did you know, nurse,' said Miss Lally, 'Francie's going to be a clergy-gentleman?' They couldn't help laughing at her, and the laugh brought back good humour. 'I want to be one,' said Master Francis, 'but I'm afraid it costs a great lot to go to college.' Poor children, through all their talk and plans the one trouble seemed always to keep coming up. 'I fancy that's according a good deal to how young gentlemen take it. There's some that spend a fortune at college, I've heard, but some that are very careful; and I expect you'd be that kind, Master Francis.' 'Yes,' he said, in his grave way. 'I wouldn't want to cost Uncle Hulbert more than I can help. I wish one could be a clergyman without going to college though.' 'You've got to go to school first,' said Miss Bess. 'You needn't bother about college for a long time yet.' Miss Lally sighed. 'I don't like Francie having to go to school,' she said. 'And the boys are so rough there; I hope they won't hurt your poor leg, Francie.' 'It isn't _that_ I mind,' said Master Francie--the boy had a fine spirit of his own though he was so delicate--'what I mind is the going alone and being so far away from everybody.' 'It's a pity,' I said without thinking, 'but what one of you young ladies had been a young gentleman, to have been a companion for Master Francis, and to have gone to school together, maybe.' 'Oh!' said Miss Bess quickly, 'you must never say that to mamma, nurse. You don't know what a trouble it is to her not to have a boy. She'd have liked Lally to be a boy most of all. She wanted her to be a boy; she always says so.' Here Master Francis gave a deep sigh in his turn. 'Oh! how I wish,' he said, 'that I could turn myself into a girl and Lally into a boy. I wouldn't _like_ to be a girl at all, and I daresay Lally wouldn't like to be a boy. But to please Aunt Helen I'd do it.' 'No,' said Miss Lally, 'I don't think I would--not even to please mamma. I couldn't bear to be a boy.' I was rather sorry I had led to this talk. 'Isn't it best,' I said, 'to take things as they are? Master Francis is just like your brother--the same name and everything.' 'I'd like it that way,' said Master Francis, with a pleased look in his eyes. But I heard Miss Bess, who was walking close beside me, say in a low voice, 'Mamma will never think of it that way!' This talk made some things clearer to me than before, and that evening, after the children were in bed, I went down to the housekeeper's room and eased my mind by telling her about it, I felt so afraid of having said anything uncalled for. But Mrs. Brent comforted me. 'It's best for you to know,' she said, 'that my lady does make a great trouble, too great a trouble, to my thinking, of not having a son. And no doubt it has to do with her coldness to Master Francis, though I doubt if she really knows this herself, for she's a lady that means to do right and justly to all about her; I will say that for her.' It was really something to be thankful for to have such a good and sensible woman to ask advice from, for a stranger, as I still was. The more I knew her, the more she reminded me of my good mother. Plain and homely in her ways, with no love of gossip about her, yet not afraid to speak out her mind when she saw it right to do so. Many things would have been harder at Treluan, the poor dear children would have had less pleasure in their lives, but for Mrs. Brent's kind thought for them. That very evening I had had a reason, so to say, for paying a special visit to the housekeeper's room; for when we had got in from our long walk, rather tired and certainly very hungry, a nice surprise was waiting for us in the nursery. The tea-table was already set out most carefully. There was a pile of Mrs. Brent's hot scones and a beautiful dish of strawberries. 'Oh, nurse!' cried Miss Bess, who had run on first, 'quick, quick, look what a nice tea. I'm sure it's Mrs. Brent! Isn't it good of her?' 'It's like a birfday,' said Miss Lally. And Miss Baby, who had been grumbling a good deal and crying, 'I want my tea,' nearly jumped out of my arms--I had had to carry her upstairs--at the sight of it. For I'm afraid there's no denying that in those days breakfast, dinner, and tea filled a large place in Miss Augusta's thoughts. I hope she'll forgive me for saying so, if she ever sees this. CHAPTER VII A RAINY DAY That lovely weather lasted on for about a fortnight without a break, and many a pleasant ramble we had, for though lessons began again, Miss Kirstin always left immediately after luncheon, which was the children's dinner, for the three elder ones always joined Sir Hulbert and my lady in the dining-room. Two afternoons in the week, as I think I have said, Master Francis and Miss Bess had Latin lessons from Sir Hulbert. Miss Bess, by all accounts, did not take very kindly to the Latin grammar, and but for Master Francis helping her--many a time indeed sitting up after his own lessons were done to set hers right--she would often have got into trouble with her papa. For indulgent as he was, Sir Hulbert could be strict when strictness was called for. Miss Bess was a curious mixture; to see her and hear her talk you'd have thought her twice as clever as Miss Lally, and so in some ways she was. But when it came to book learning, it was a different story. Teaching Miss Lally--and I had something to do with her in this way, for I used to hear over the lessons she was getting ready for Miss Kirstin--was really like running along a smooth road, the child was so eager and attentive, never losing a word of what was said to her. Miss Bess used to say that her sister had a splendid memory by nature. But in my long life I've watched and thought about some things a great deal, and it seems to me that a good memory has to do with our own trying, more than some people would say,--above all, with the habit of really giving attention to whatever you're doing. And this habit Miss Bess had not been taught to train herself to; and being a lively impulsive child, no doubt it came a little harder to her. A dear child she was, all the same. Looking back upon those days, I would find it hard to say which of them all seemed nearest my heart. The days of the Latin lessons we generally had a short walk in the morning, as well as one after tea, so as to suit Sir Hulbert's time in the afternoon; and those afternoons were Miss Lally's great time for her knitting, which she was determined to keep a secret till she had made some progress in it and finished her first pair of socks. How she did work at it, poor dear! Her little face all puckered up with earnestness, her little hot hands grasping the needles, as if she would never let them go. And she mastered it really wonderfully, considering she was not yet six years old! She had more time for it after a bit, for the beautiful hot summer weather changed, as it often does, about the middle of July, and we had two or three weeks of almost constant rain. Thanks to her knitting, Miss Lally took this quite cheerfully, and if poor Master Francis had been left in peace, we should have had no grumbling from him either. A book and a quiet corner was all he asked, and though he said nothing about it, I think he was glad now and then of a rest from the long walks which my lady thought the right thing, whenever the weather was at all fit for going out. But dear, dear! how Miss Bess did tease and worry sometimes! She was a strong child, and needed plenty of exercise to keep her content. I remember one day, when things really came to a point with her, and, strangely enough,--it is curious on looking back to see the thread, like a road winding along a hill, sometimes lost to view and sometimes clear again, unbroken through all, leading from little things to big, in a way one could never have pictured,--strangely enough, as I was saying, the trifling events of that very afternoon were the beginning of much that changed the whole life at Treluan. It was raining that afternoon, not so very heavily, but in a steady hopeless way, rather depressing to the spirits, I must allow. It was not a Latin day--I think some of us wished it had been! 'Now, Bess!' said Master Francis, when the three children came up from their dinner, 'before we do anything else'--there had been a talk of a game of 'hide-and-seek,' or 'I spy,' to cheer them up a bit--'before we do anything else, let's get our Latin done, or part of it, any way, as long as we remember what uncle corrected yesterday, and then we'll feel comfortable for the afternoon.' 'Very well,' said Miss Bess, though her voice was not very encouraging. She was standing by the window, staring out at the close-falling rain, and as she spoke she moved slowly towards the table, where Master Francis was already spreading out the books. 'I don't think it's a good plan to begin lessons the very moment we've finished our dinner,' she added. 'It isn't the very minute after,' put in Miss Lally, not very wisely. 'You forget, Queen, we went into the 'servatory with mamma, while she cut some flowers, for ever so long.' Being put in the wrong didn't sweeten Miss Bess's temper. ''Servatory--you baby!' said she. 'Nurse, can't you teach Lally to spell "Constantinople"?' Miss Lally's face puckered up, and she came close to me. 'Nursie,' she whispered, 'may I go into the other room with my knitting; I'm sure Queen is going to tease me.' I nodded my head. I used to give her leave sometimes to go into the night nursery by herself, when she was likely to be disturbed at her work, and that generally by Miss Bess. For though Master Francis couldn't have but seen she had some secret from him, he was far too kind and sensible to seem to notice it. Whereas Miss Bess, who had been taken into her confidence, never got into a contrary humour without teasing the poor child by hints about stockings, or wool, or something. And the contrary humour was on her this afternoon, I saw well. 'Now, Bess, begin, do!' said Master Francis. 'These are the words we have to copy out and learn. I'll read them over, and then we can write them out and hear each other.' He did as he said, but it was precious little attention he got from his cousin, though it was some time before he found it out. Looking up, he saw that she had dressed up one hand in her handkerchief, like an old man in a nightcap, and at every word poor Master Francis said, made him gravely bow. It was all I could do to keep from laughing, though I pretended not to see. 'O Bess!' said the boy reproachfully, 'I don't believe you've been listening a bit.' 'Well, never mind if I haven't. I'd forget it all by to-morrow morning anyway. Show me the words, and I'll write them out.' She leant across him to get the book, and in so doing upset the ink. The bottle was not very full, so not much damage would have been done if Master Francis's exercise-book had not been lying open just in the way. 'Oh! Bess,' he cried in great distress. 'Just look. It was such a long exercise and I had copied it out so neatly, and you know uncle hates blots and untidiness.' Miss Bess looked very sorry. 'I'll tell papa it was my fault,' she said. But Master Francis shook his head. 'I must copy it out again,' I heard him say in a low voice, with a sigh, as he pushed it away and gave his attention to his cousin and the words she had to learn. She was quieter after that, for a while, and in half an hour or so Master Francis let her go. He set to work at his unlucky exercise again, and seeing this, should really have sobered Miss Bess. But she was in a queer humour that afternoon, it only seemed to make her more fidgety. 'You really needn't do it,' she said to Master Francis crossly. 'I told you I'd explain it to papa.' But the boy shook his head. He'd have taken any amount of trouble rather than risk vexing his uncle. 'It was partly my own fault for leaving it about,' he said gently, which only seemed to provoke Miss Bess more. 'You do so like to make yourself a martyr. It's quite true what mamma says,' she added in a lower voice, which I did think unkind. But in some humours children are best left alone for the time, so I took no notice. Miss Bess returned to her former place in the window. Miss Baby was contentedly setting out her doll's tea-things on the rug in front of the fire,--at Treluan even in the summer one needs a little fire when there comes a spell of rainy weather. Miss Bess glanced at her, but didn't seem to think she'd find any amusement there. Miss Baby was too young to be fair game for teasing. 'What's Lally doing?' she said suddenly, turning to me. 'Has she hidden herself as usual? I hate secrets. They make people so tiresome. I'll just go and tell her she'd better come in here.' She turned, as she spoke, to the night nursery. 'Now, Miss Bess, my dear,' I couldn't help saying, 'do not tease the poor child. I'll tell you what you might do. Get one of your pretty books and read aloud a nice story to Miss Lally in the other room, till Master Francis is ready for a game.' 'I've read all our books hundreds of times. I'll tell her a story instead!' she replied. 'That would be very nice,' I could not but say, though something in her way of speaking made me feel a little doubtful, as Miss Bess opened the night nursery door and closed it behind her carefully. For a few minutes we were at peace. No sound to be heard, except the scratching of Master Francis's busy pen and Miss Augusta's pressing invitations to the dollies to have--'thome more tea'--or--'a bit of this bootiful cake,' and I began to hope that in her quiet way Miss Lally had smoothed down her elder sister, when suddenly--dear, dear! my heart did leap into my mouth--there came from the next room the most terrible screams and roars that ever I have heard all the long years I have been in the nursery! 'Goodness gracious!' I cried, 'what can be the matter. There's no fire in there!' and I rushed towards the door. To my surprise Master Francis and Miss Baby remained quite composed. 'It's only Lally,' said the boy. 'She does scream like that sometimes, though she hasn't done it for a good while now. I daresay it's only Bess pulling her hair a little.' It was not even that. When I opened the door, Miss Bess, who was standing by her sister--Miss Lally still roaring, though not quite so loudly--looked up quietly. 'I've been telling her stories, nurse,' she said. 'But she doesn't like them at all.' Miss Lally ran to me sobbing. I couldn't but feel sorry for her, as she clung to me, and yet I was provoked, thinking it really too bad to have had such a fright for nothing at all. 'Queen has been telling me such _howid_ things,' she said among her tears, as she calmed down a little. 'She said it was going to be such a pretty story and it was all about a little girl, who wasn't a little girl, weally. They tied her sleeves with green ribbons, afore she was christened, and so the naughty fairies stealed her away and left a howid squealing pertence little girl instead. And it was just, _just_ like me, and, Queen says, they _did_ tie me in green ribbons. She knows they did, she can 'amember;' and here her cries began again. 'And Queen says 'praps I'll never come right again, and I can't bear to be a pertence little girl. Queen told it me once before, but I'd forgot, and now it's all come back.' She buried her face on my shoulder. I had sat down and taken her on my knees, and I could feel her all shaking and quivering, though through it all she still clutched her knitting and the four needles. 'Miss Bess,' I said, in a voice I don't think I had yet used since I had been with them, 'I _am_ surprised at you! Come away with me, my dear,' I said to Miss Lally. 'Come into the other room. Miss Bess will stay here till such time as she can promise to behave better, both to you and Master Francis.' Miss Bess had turned away when I began to speak, and I think she had felt ashamed. But my word about Master Francis had been a mistake. 'You needn't scold me about spilling the ink on Francis's book!' she said angrily. 'You know that was an accident.' 'There's accidents and accidents,' I replied, which I know wasn't wise; but the child had tried my temper too, I won't deny. I took Miss Lally into a corner of the day nursery and talked to her in a low voice, not to disturb Master Francis, who was still busy writing. 'My dear,' I said, 'so far as I can put a stop to it, I won't have Miss Bess teasing you, but all the same I can't have you screaming in that terrible way for really nothing at all. Your own sense might tell you that there's no such things as fairies changing babies in that way. Miss Bess only said it to tease.' She was still sobbing, but all the same she had not forgotten to wrap up her precious knitting in her little apron, so that her cousin shouldn't catch sight of it, and her heart was already softening to her sister. 'Queen didn't mean to make me cry,' she said. 'But I can't bear that story; nobody would love me if I was only a pertence little girl.' 'But you're not that, my dear; you're a very real little girl,' I said. 'You're your papa's and mamma's dear little daughter and God's own child. That's what your christening meant.' Miss Lally's sobs stopped. 'I forgot about that,' she said very gravely, seeming to find great comfort in the thought. 'If I had been a pertence little girl, I couldn't have been took to church like Baby was. Could I? And I know I was, for I have got godfather and godmother and a silver mug wif my name on.' 'And better things than that, thank God, as you'll soon begin to understand, my dear Miss Lally,' I answered, as she held up her little face to be kissed. 'May I go back to Queen now?' she asked, but I don't think she was altogether sorry when I shook my head. 'Not just yet, my dear, I think,' I replied. 'Only where am I to do my knitting?' she whispered. 'I can't do it here; Francie would be sure to see,' and the corners of her mouth began to go down again. 'Oh! I know,' she went on in another moment, brightening up. 'I could work so nicely in the attic, there's a little seat in the corner, by the window, where Francie and I used to go sometimes when Sharp told us to get out of the way.' 'Wouldn't you be cold, my dear,' I said doubtfully. But I was anxious to please her, so I fetched a little shawl for her and we went up together to the attic. It did not feel chilly, and the corner by the window--the kind they call a 'storm window,' with a sort of little separate roof of its own--was very cosy. You have a peep of the sea from that window too. 'Isn't it a good plan?' said Miss Lally joyfully. 'I can knit here _so_ nicely, and I have been getting on so well this afternoon. There's no stitches dropped, not one, nursie. Mightn't I come here every day?' 'We'll see, my dear,' I said, thinking to myself that it might really be good for her--being a nervous child, and excitable too, for all she seemed so quiet--to be at peace and undisturbed now and then by herself. 'We'll see, only you must come downstairs at once if you feel cold or chilly.' I looked round me as I was leaving the attic. There was a big cupboard, or closet rather, at the end near the door. Miss Lally's window was at this end too. The closet door stood half open, but it seemed empty. 'That's where we wait when we're playing "I spy" up here,' said Miss Lally. 'Mouses live in that cupboard. We've seen them running out of their holes; but I like mouses, they've such dear bright eyes and long tails.' I can't say that I agreed with Miss Lally's tastes. Mice are creatures I've never been able to take to, still they'd do her no harm, that was certain, so seeing her quite happy at her work I went down to the nursery again. CHAPTER VIII THE OLD LATIN GRAMMAR Master Francis was still writing busily when I went back to the nursery. He looked pale and tired, and once or twice I heard him sigh. I knew it was not good for him to be stooping so long over his lessons, especially as the children had not been out all that day. 'Really,' I said, half to myself, but his ears were quick and he heard me, 'Miss Bess has done nothing but mischief this afternoon. I feel sometimes as if I couldn't manage her.' The boy looked up quickly. 'O nurse!' he said, 'please don't speak like that. I mean I wouldn't for anything have uncle or auntie think I had put her out, or that there had been any trouble. It just comes over her sometimes like that, and she's very sorry afterwards. I suppose Lally and I haven't spirits enough for her, she is so clever and bright, and it must be dull for her, now and then.' 'I'm sure, Master Francis, my dear,' I said, 'no one could be kinder and nicer with Miss Bess than you; and as for cleverness, she may be quick and bright, but I'd like to know where she'd be for her lessons but for you helping her many a time.' I was still feeling a bit provoked with Miss Bess, I must allow. 'I'm nearly three years older, you know,' replied Master Francis, though all the same I could see a pleased look on his face. It wasn't that he cared for praise--boy or man, I have never in my life known any human being so out and out humble as Mr. Francis; it's that that gives him his wonderful power over others, I've often thought,--but he did love to think he was of the least use to any of those he was so devoted to. 'I'm so glad to help her,' he said softly. 'Nurse,' he added after a little silence, 'I do feel so sad about things sometimes. If I had been big and strong, I might have looked forward to doing all sorts of things for them all, but now I often feel I can never be anything but a trouble, and such an expense to uncle and aunt. You really don't know what my leg costs,' he added in a way that made me inclined both to laugh and cry at once. 'Dear Master Francis,' I said, 'you shouldn't take it so.' I should have liked to say more, but I felt I could scarcely do so without hinting at blame where I had no right to do so. He didn't seem to notice me. 'If it had to be,' he went on in the same voice, 'why couldn't I have been a girl, or why couldn't one of them have been a boy? That would have stopped it being quite so bad for poor auntie.' 'Whys and wherefores are not for us to answer, my dear, though things often clear themselves up when least expected,' I said. 'And now I must see what Miss Bess is after, that's to say if you've got your writing finished.' 'It's just about done,' he said, 'and I'm sure Bess won't tease any more. Do fetch her in, nurse. Why, baby! what is it, my pet?' he added, for there was Miss Augusta standing beside him, having deserted her toys on the hearthrug. For, though without understanding anything we had been saying, she had noticed the melancholy tone of her cousin's voice. 'Poor F'ancie,' she said pitifully. 'So tired, Baby wants to kiss thoo.' [Illustration: 'Poor F'ancie,' she said pitifully. 'So tired, Baby wants to kiss thoo.'] The boy picked her up in his arms, and I saw the fair shaggy head and fat dimpled cheeks clasped close and near to his thin white face, and if there were tears in Master Francis's eyes I am sure it wasn't anything to be ashamed of. Never was a braver spirit, and no one that knows him now could think him less a hero could they look back over the whole of his life. I found Miss Bess sitting quietly with the pincushion on her lap, by the window, making patterns with the pins, apparently quite content. She had not been crying, indeed it took a great deal to get a tear from that child, she had such a spirit of her own. Still she was sorry for what she had done, and she bore no malice, that I could see by the clear look in her pretty eyes as she glanced up at me. 'Nurse,' she said, though more with the air of a little queen granting a favour than a tiresome child asking to be forgiven, 'I'm not going to tease any more. It's gone now, and I'm going to be good. I'm very sorry for making Lally cry, though she is a little silly--of course I wouldn't care to do it if she wasn't,--and I'm _dreadfully_ sorry for poor old Franz's exercise. Look what I have been doing to make me remember,' and I saw that she had marked the words 'Bess sorry' with the pins. 'If you leave it there for a few days, and just say "pincushion" if you see me beginning again, it'll remind me.' It wasn't very easy for me to keep as grave as I wished, but I answered quietly-- 'Very well, Miss Bess, I hope you'll keep to what you say,' and we went back, quite friendly again, to the other room. Master Francis and she began settling what games they would play, and I took the opportunity of slipping upstairs to the attic to call Miss Lally down. She came running out, as bright as could be, and gave me her knitting to hide away for her. 'Nursie,' she said, 'I really think there's good fairies in the attic. I've got on so well. Four whole rows all round and none stitches dropped.' So that rainy day ended more cheerfully than it had begun. Unluckily, however, the worst of the mischief caused by Miss Bess's heedlessness didn't show for some little time to come. The next Latin lesson passed off by all accounts very well, especially for Miss Bess. For, thanks to her new resolutions, she was in a most biddable mood, and quite ready to take her cousin's advice as to learning her list of words again, giving up half an hour of her playtime on purpose. She came dancing upstairs in the highest spirits. 'Nursie,' she said,--and when she called me so I knew I was in high favour,--'I'm getting so good, I'm quite frightened at myself. Papa said I had never known my lessons so well.' 'I am very glad, I am sure, my love; and I hope,' I couldn't help adding, 'that Master Francis got some of the praise of it.' For Master Francis was following her into the room, looking not quite so joyful. Miss Bess seemed a little taken aback. 'Do you know,' she said, 'I never thought of it. I was so pleased at being praised.' And as the child was honesty itself, I was certain it was just as she said. 'I'll run down now,' she went on, 'and tell papa that it was Franz who helped me.' 'No, please don't,' said the boy, catching hold of her. 'I am as pleased as I can be, Bess, that you got praised, and it's harder for you than for me, or even for Lally, to try hard at lessons, for you've always got such a lot of other things taking you up; and I wouldn't like,' he added slowly, 'for uncle to think I wanted to be praised. You see I'm older than you.' 'I'm sure you don't get too much praise ever, poor Franz!' said Miss Bess. 'Your exercise was as neat as neat, and yet papa wasn't pleased with it.' Then I understood better why Master Francis looked a little sad. 'It was the one I had to copy over,' he said. All the same he wouldn't let Miss Bess go down to her papa. Sir Hulbert was busy, he knew; he had several letters to write, he had heard him say, so Miss Bess had to give in. 'I'll tell you what it is,' she said. 'People who are generally rather naughty, like me,'--Miss Bess was in a humble mood!--'get made a great fuss about when they're good. But people who are always good, like Franz, never get any praise for it, and if ever they do the least bit wrong, they are far worse scolded.' This made Master Francis laugh. It was something, as Miss Bess said, among the children themselves. Miss Lally, who was always loving and gentle to her cousin, he just counted upon in a quiet steady sort of way. But a word of approval from flighty Miss Bess would set him up as if she'd been the Queen herself. That was a Friday. The next Latin day was Tuesday. Of course I don't know much about such things myself, but the lessons were taken in turns. One day they'd words and writing exercises out of a book on purpose, and another day they'd have regular Latin grammar, out of a thick old book, which had been Sir Hulbert's own when he was a boy, and which he thought a great deal of. Lesson-books were still expensive too, and even in small things money was considered at Treluan. It was on that Tuesday then that, to my distress, I saw that Master Francis had been crying when he came back to the nursery. It was the first time I had seen his eyes red, and he had been trying to make them right again, I'm sure, for he hadn't come straight up from the library. Miss Bess was not with him; it was a fine day and she had gone out driving with her mamma, having been dressed all ready and her lesson shortened for once on purpose. I didn't seem to notice Master Francis, sorry though I felt, but Miss Lally burst out at once. 'Francie, darling,' she said, running up to him and throwing her arms round him. 'What's the matter? It isn't your leg, is it?' 'I wouldn't mind that, you know, Lally,' he said. 'But sometimes, when the pain's been dreadful bad, it squeezes the tears out, and you can't help it,' she said. 'No,' he answered, 'it isn't my leg. I think I'd better not tell you, Lally, for you might tell it to Bess, and I just won't have her know. Everything's been so nice with her lately, and it just would seem as if I'd got her into trouble.' 'Was papa vexed with you for something?' the child went on. 'You'd better tell me, Francie, I really won't tell Bess if you don't want me, and I'm sure nursie won't. I'm becustomed to keeping secrets now. Sometimes secrets are quite right, nursie says.' I could scarcely help smiling at her funny little air. 'It wasn't anything _very_ much, after all,' said Master Francis. 'It was only that uncle said----,' and here his voice quivered and he stopped short. 'Tell it from the beginning,' said Miss Lally in her motherly way, 'and then when you get up to the bad part it won't seem so hard to tell.' It was a relief to him to have her sympathy, I could see, and I think he cared a little for mine too. 'Well,' he began, 'it's all about that Latin grammar--no, not the lesson,' seeing that Miss Lally was going to interrupt him, 'but the book. Uncle's fat old Latin grammar, you know, Lally. We didn't use it last Friday, it wasn't the day, and we hadn't needed to look at it ourselves since last Wednesday--that was the ink-spilling day. So it was not found out till to-day; and--and uncle was--so--so vexed when he saw how spoilt it was, and the worst of it was I began something about it having been Bess, and that she hadn't told me, and that made uncle much worse----.' Here Master Francis stopped, he seemed on the point of crying again, and he was a boy to feel very ashamed of tears, as I have said. 'I don't think Miss Bess could have known the book had got inked,' I said. 'And I scarce see how it happened, unless the ink got spilt on the table, and it may have been lying open--I've seen Miss Bess fling her books down open on their faces, so to speak, many a time,--and it may have dried in and been shut up when all the books were cleared away, and no one noticed.' 'Yes,' said Master Francis eagerly, 'that's how it must have been. I never meant that Bess had done it and hidden it. I said it in a hurry because I was so sorry for uncle to think I hadn't taken care of his book, and I was very sorry about the book too. But I made it far worse. Uncle said it was mean of me to try to put my carelessness upon another, a younger child, and a girl; O Lally! you never heard him speak like that; it was _dreadful_.' 'Was it worse than that time when big Jem put the blame on little Pat about the dogs not being fed?' asked Miss Lally very solemnly. Master Francis flushed all over. 'You needn't have said that, Lally,' he said turning away. 'I'm not so bad as that, any way.' It was very seldom he spoke in that voice to Miss Lally, and she hadn't meant to vex him, poor child, though her speech had been a mistake. 'Come, come, Master Francis,' I said, 'you're taking the whole thing too much to heart, I think. Perhaps Sir Hulbert was worried this morning.' 'No, no,' said Master Francis, 'he spoke quite quietly. A sort of cold, kind way, that's much worse than scolding. He said whatever Bess's faults were, she was quite, quite open and honest, and of course I know she is; but he said that this sort of thing made him a little afraid that my being delicate and not--not like other boys, was spoiling me, and that I must never try to make up for not being strong and manly by getting into mean and cunning ways to defend myself.' Young as she was, Miss Lally quite understood; she quite forgot all about his having been vexed with her a moment before. 'O Francie!' she cried, running to him and flinging her arms round him, in a way she sometimes did, as if he needed her protection; 'how could papa say so to you? Nobody could think you mean or cunning. It's only that you're too good. I'll tell Bess as soon as she comes in, and she'll tell papa all about it, then he'll see.' 'No, dear,' said Master Francis, 'that's just what you mustn't do. Don't you remember you promised?' Miss Lally's face fell. 'Don't you see,' Master Francis went on, 'that _would_ look mean? As if I had made Bess tell on herself to put the blame off me. And I do want everything to be happy with Bess and me ourselves as long as I am here. It won't be for so very long,' he added. 'Uncle says it will be a very good thing indeed for me to go to school.' This was too much for Miss Lally, she burst out crying, and hugged Master Francis tighter than before. I had got to understand more of her ways by now, and I knew that once she was started on a regular sobbing fit, it soon got beyond her own power to stop. So I whispered to Master Francis that he must help to cheer her up, and between us we managed to calm her down. That was just one of the things so nice about the dear boy, he was always ready to forget about himself if there was anything to do for another. Miss Bess came back from her drive brimming over with spirits, and though it would have been wrong to bear her any grudge, it vexed me rather to see the other two so pale and extra quiet, though Master Francis did his best, I will say, to seem as cheerful as usual. Miss Bess's quick eyes soon saw there had been something amiss. But I passed it off by saying Miss Lally had been troubled about something, but we weren't going to think about it any more. Think about it I did, however, so far as it concerned Master Francis, especially. Till now I had been always pleased to see that his uncle was really much attached to the boy, and ready to do him justice. But this notion, which seemed to have begun in Sir Hulbert's mind, that just because the poor child was delicate and in a sense infirm, he must be mean spirited and unmanly in mind, seemed to me a very sad one, and likely to bring much unhappiness. Nor could I feel sure that my lady was not to blame for it. She was frank and generous herself, but inclined to take up prejudices, and not always careful enough in her way of speaking of those she had any feeling against. I did what I could, whenever I had any opportunity, to stand up for the boy in a quiet way, and with all respect to those who were his natural guardians. But, on the whole, much as I knew we should miss him in the nursery, I was scarcely sorry to hear not many weeks after the little events I have been telling about, that Master Francis's going to school was decided upon. It was to be immediately after the Christmas holidays, and we were now in the month of October. CHAPTER IX UPSET PLANS But, as everybody knows, things in this world seldom turn out as they are planned. There was a great deal of writing and considering about Master Francis's school, and I could see that both Sir Hulbert and my lady had it much on their minds. They would never have thought of sending him anywhere but of the best, but in those days schools, even for little boys, cost, I fancy, quite as much or more than now. And I can't say but what I think that the worry and the difficulty about it rather added to his aunt's prejudice against the boy. However, before long, all was settled, the school was chosen and the very day fixed, and in our different ways we began to get accustomed to the idea. Master Francis, I could see, had two quite opposite ways of looking at it: he was bitterly sorry to go, to leave the home and those in it whom he loved so dearly, more dearly, I think, than any one understood. And he took much to heart also the fresh expenses for his uncle. But, on the other hand, he was eager to get on with his learning; he liked it for its own sake, and, as he used to say to me sometimes when we were talking alone-- 'It's only by my mind, you know, nurse, that I can hope to be good for anything. If I had been strong and my leg all right, I'd have been a soldier like papa, I suppose.' 'There's soldiers and soldiers, you must remember, Master Francis,' I would reply. 'There's victories to be won far greater than those on the battlefield. And many a one who's done the best work in this world has been but feeble and weakly in health.' His eyes used to brighten up when I spoke like that. Sometimes, too, I would try to cheer him by reminding him there was no saying but what he might turn out a fairly strong man yet. Many a delicate boy got improved at school, I had heard. But alas!--or 'alas' at least it seemed at the time--everything was changed by what happened that winter. It was cold, colder than is usual in this part of the world, and I think Master Francis had got it in his head to try and harden himself by way of preparing for school life. My lady used to say little things sometimes, with a good motive, I daresay, about not minding the cold and plucking up a spirit, and what her brothers used to do when they were young, all of which Master Francis took to heart in a way she would not then have believed if she had been told it. Dear me! it is strange to think of it, when I remember how perfectly in later years those two came to understand each other, and how nobody--after she lost her good husband--was such a staff and support to her, such a counsellor and comfort, as the nephew she had so little known--her 'more than son,' as I had often heard her call him. But I am wandering away from my story. I was just getting to Master Francis's illness. How it came about no one could really tell. It is not often one can trace back illnesses to their cause. Most often I fancy there are more than one. But just after Christmas Master Francis began with rheumatic fever. We couldn't at first believe it was going to be anything so bad. For my lady's sake, and indeed for everybody's, I tried to cheer up and be hopeful, in spite of the doctor's gloomy looks. It was a real disappointment to myself and took down my pride a bit, for I had done my best by the child, hoping to start him for school as strong and well as was possible for him. And any one less just and fair than my lady might have had back thoughts, such as damp feet, or sheets not aired enough, or chills of some kind, that a little care might have avoided. It was my belief that he had been feeling worse than usual for some time, but never a complaint had he made, perhaps he wouldn't own it to himself. It wasn't till two nights after Christmas that, sitting by the nursery fire, just after Miss Augusta had been put to bed, he said to me-- 'Nurse, I can't help it, my leg is so dreadfully bad, and not my leg only, the pain of it seems all over. I'm _all_ bad legs to-night,' and he tried to smile. 'May I go to bed now, and perhaps it will be all right in the morning?' I _was_ frightened! Sir Hulbert and my lady were dining out that evening, which but seldom happened, and when I got over my start a little I wasn't sorry for it, hoping that a good night might show it was nothing serious. We got him to bed as fast as we could. There was no going down to dessert that evening, so Miss Bess and Miss Lalage set to work to help me, like the womanly little ladies they were; one of them running downstairs to see about plenty of hot water for a good bath and hot bottles, and the other fetching the under housemaid to see to a fire in his room. I doubt if he had ever had one before. Bedroom fires were not in my lady's rule, and I don't hold with them myself, except in illness or extra cold weather. He cheered up a little, and even laughed at the fuss we made. And before his uncle and aunt returned he was sound asleep, looking quiet and comfortable, so that I didn't think it needful to say anything to them that night. But long before morning, for I crept upstairs to his room every hour or two, I saw that it was not going off as I had hoped. He started and moaned in his sleep, and once or twice when I found him awake, he seemed almost lightheaded, and as if he hardly knew me. Once I heard him whisper: 'Oh! it hurts so,' as if he could scarcely bear it. About five o'clock I dressed myself and took up my watch beside him. My lady was an early riser; by eight o'clock, in answer to a message from me, she was with us herself in her dressing-gown. Master Francis was awake. 'O my lady!' I said, 'I'd no thought of bringing you up so early, and you were late last night too.' For they had had a long drive. 'It was only that I dursn't take upon me to send for the doctor without asking.' 'No, no, of course not,' she said. And indeed that was a liberty my lady would not have been pleased with any one's taking. 'Do you really think it necessary?' The poor child was looking a little better just then, the pain was not so bad. He seemed quiet and dreamy-like, though his face was flushed and his eyes very bright. 'Auntie!' he said, smiling a very little; 'how pretty you look!' [Illustration: 'Auntie!' he said, smiling a very little; 'how pretty you look!'] And so she did in her long white dressing-gown, with her lovely fair hair hanging about, for all the world like Miss Lally's. I think myself the fever was on his brain a little already, else he would scarce have dared speak so to his aunt. She took no notice, but drew me out of the room. 'What in the world's the matter with him?' she said, anxious and yet irritated at the same time. 'Has he been doing anything foolish that can have made him ill?' I shook my head. 'It's seldom one can tell how illness comes, but I feel sure the doctor should see him,' I replied. So he was sent for, and before the day was many hours older, there was little doubt left--though, as I said before, I tried for a bit to hope it was only a bad cold--that Master Francis was in for something very serious. Almost from the first the doctor spoke of rheumatic fever. There was a sort of comfort in this, bad as it was--the comfort of knowing there was no infection to fear. It was a great comfort to Master Francis himself, whenever he felt the least bit easier, now and then to see his cousins for a minute or two at a time, without any risk to them. For one of his first questions to the doctor was whether his illness was anything the others could catch. After that for a few days he was so bad that he could really think of nothing but how to bear the pain patiently. Then when he grew a shade better, he began thinking about going to school. 'What was the day of the month? Would he be well, _quite_ well, by the 20th, or whatever day school began? Uncle would be _so_ disappointed if it had to be put off'--and so on, over and over again, till at last I had to speak, not only to the doctor, but to Sir Hulbert himself, about the way the boy was worrying in his mind. The doctor tried to put him off by saying he was getting on famously, and such-like speeches. A few quiet words from Sir Hulbert had far more effect. 'My dear boy,' he said gravely, 'what you have to do is to try to get well and not fret yourself. If it is God's will that your going to school should be put off, you must not take it to heart. You're not in such a hurry to leave us as all that, are you?' The last few words were spoken very kindly and he smiled as he said them. I was glad of it, for I had not thought his uncle quite as tender of the boy as he had used to be. They pleased Master Francis, I could see, and another thought came into his mind which helped to quiet him. 'Anyway, nurse,' he said to me one day, 'there'll be a good deal of expense saved if I don't go to school till Easter.' It never struck him that there are few things more expensive than illness, and as I had no idea till my lady told me that the term had to be paid for, whether he went to school or not, I was able to agree with him. I was deeply sorry for my lady in those days. Some might be hard upon her, for not forgetting all else in thankfulness that the child's life was spared, and I know she tried to do so, but it was difficult. And when she spoke out to me one day, and told me about the schooling having to be paid all the same, I really did feel for her; knowing through Mrs. Brent, as I have mentioned, all the past history of the troubles brought about by poor Master Francis's father. 'I hope he'll live to be a comfort to you yet, if I may say so, my lady, and I've a strong feeling that he will,' I said (she reminded me of those words long after), 'and in the meantime you may trust to Mrs. Brent and me to keep all expense down as much as possible, while seeing that Master Francis has all he needs. I'm sure we can manage without a sick-nurse now.' For there had been some talk of having one sent for from London, though in those days it was less done than seems the case now. And after a while things began to mend. It was not a _very_ bad attack, less so than we had feared at first. In about ten days' time Mrs. Brent and Susan the housemaid and I, who had taken it in turns to sit up all night, were able to go to bed as usual, only seeing to it that the fire was made up once in the night, so as to last on till morning, and the day's work grew steadily lighter. Once they had finished their lessons, the little girls were always eager to keep their cousin company. He was only allowed to have them one at a time. Miss Bess used to take the first turn, but it was hard work for her, poor child, to keep still, though it grew easier for her when it got the length of his being able for reading aloud. But Miss Lally from the first was a perfect model of a little sick-nurse. Mouse was no word for her, so still and noiseless and yet so watchful was she, and if ever she was left in charge of giving him his medicine at a certain time, I could feel as sure as sure that it wouldn't be forgotten. When he was inclined to talk a little, she knew just how to manage him--how to amuse him without exciting him at all, and always to cheer him up. The weather was unusually bad just then, though we did our best to prevent Master Francis feeling it, by keeping his room always at an even heat, but there were many days on which the young ladies couldn't get out. Altogether it was a trying time, and for no one more than for my lady. I couldn't help thinking sometimes how different it would have been if Master Francis had been her own child, when the joy of his recovering would have made all other troubles seem nothing. I felt it both for her and for him, though I don't think he noticed it himself; and after all, now that I can look back on things having come so perfectly right, perhaps it is foolish to recall those shadows. Only it makes the picture of their lives more true. Through it all I could see my lady was trying her best to have none but kind and nice feelings. 'The doctor says that though Francis will really be almost as well as usual in three or four weeks from now, there can be no question of his going to school for ever so long--perhaps not at all this year.' 'Dear, dear,' I said. 'But you won't have to go on paying for it all the same, my lady?' She smiled at this. 'No, no, not quite so bad as that, only this one term, which is paid already. Sir Hulbert might have got off paying it if he had really explained how difficult it was. But that's just the sort of thing it would really be lowering for him to do,' and she sighed. 'The doctor says too,' she went on again, 'that by rights the boy should have a course of German baths, that might do him good for all his life; but how we _could_ manage that I can't see, though Sir Hulbert is actually thinking of it. I doubt if he would think of it as much if it were for one of our own children,' she added rather bitterly. 'He feels Master Francis a sort of charge, I suppose,' I said, meaning to show my sympathy. 'He is a charge indeed,' said his aunt. 'And to think that all this time he might have been really improving at school.' I could say nothing more, but I did grieve that she couldn't take things in a different spirit. 'It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.' Miss Lally had a fine time for her knitting just then, with Master Francis out of the way. Of course if he had been at school there would have been no difficulty, and she had planned to have his socks ready to send him on his birthday, the end of March. Now she had got on so fast--one sock finished and the heel of the other turned, though not without many sighs and even a few tears--that she hoped to have them as a surprise the first day he came down to the nursery. 'I'll have to begin working in the attic again, after that,' she said to me, 'for I'm going to make a pair for baby.' 'That's to say if the weather gets warmer,' I said to her. 'You certainly couldn't have sat up in the attic these last few weeks, Miss Lally.' CHAPTER X THE NEW BABY The weather did improve. The winter having been so unusually severe was made up for, as I think often happens, by a bright and early spring. By the beginning of April Master Francis was able to be out again, though of course only for a little in the middle of the day, and we had to be very careful lest he should catch the least cold. I was exceedingly glad, really more glad than I can say, that his getting well went through without any backcasts. For himself he was really better than the doctor had dared to hope, but as he began to move about more freely I was grieved to see that the stiffness of his leg seemed worse than before his illness. I don't think it pained him much, at least he didn't complain. In the meantime I thought it would be best to say nothing about it, half hoping that he didn't notice it himself, but I heard no talk of his going to school. I shall never forget one morning in April--it was towards the end of the month, a most lovely sunny morning it was, as I went up the winding staircase leading to Master Francis's room in the tower. The sunshine came pouring in through the narrow windows as brilliant as if it had been midsummer, and the songs of the birds outside seemed to tell how they were enjoying it, yet it was only half-past six! The little ladies below were all sleeping soundly, but Master Francis, I knew, always woke very early, and somehow I had a feeling that he must be the first to hear the good news. As I knocked at the door I heard him moving inside. He had got up to open the window; the room seemed flooded with light as I went in. Master Francis was sitting up in bed reading, or learning some of his lessons more likely, for he was well enough now to have gone back to regular ways. He looked up very brightly. 'Isn't it a most beautiful morning, nurse?' he said. 'The sunshine woke me even earlier than usual, so I'm looking over my Latin. Auntie doesn't mind my reading in bed in the morning. It isn't like at night with candles.' 'No, of course not,' I said. 'But, Master Francis, I want you to leave off thinking about your lessons for a minute. I rather fancy you'll have a holiday to-day. I've got a piece of news for you! I wonder if you can guess what has happened?' He opened his eyes wide in surprise. 'It must be something good,' he said, 'or you wouldn't look so pleased. What _can_ it be? It can't be that Uncle Hulbert's got a lot of money.' 'There are some things better than money,' I said. 'What would you think if a dear little baby boy had come in the night?' His whole face flushed pink with pleasure. 'Nurse!' he said. 'Is it really true? Oh! how pleased I am. Just the very thing auntie has wanted so--a little boy of her own. I may count him like a brother, mayn't I? Won't Bess and Lally be pleased! Do they know? Mayn't I get up at once, and when do you think I may see him?' 'Some time to-day, I hope,' I answered. 'No, the young ladies don't know yet. They're fast asleep. But I thought you'd like to know.' 'How good of you!' he said. 'I'm just _so_ pleased that I don't know what to do.' What a morning of excitement it was, to be sure! The children were all half off their heads with delight. All, that is to say, except Miss Baby, who burst out crying in the middle of her breakfast, sobbing that she 'wouldn't have no--something----' We couldn't make out what for ever so long, till we found it was her name she was crying about, as of course we were all talking of the new little brother as 'the baby.' We comforted her by saying that anyway he would not be 'Miss Baby'; and perhaps from that it came about that her old name clung to her till she was quite a big girl, and almost from the first Master Bevil got his real name. He was a great darling--so strong and hearty too--and so handsome even as an infant. Everything seemed to go right with him from the very beginning. 'Surely,' I often said to myself, 'he will bring a blessing with him. And now that my lady's great wish has been granted, I do hope she will feel more trustful and less anxious.' I hoped too that she would now have happier feelings to poor Master Francis, especially when she saw his devotion to the baby boy. For of all the children I must say he was the one who loved the little creature the most. And for a while all seemed tending in the right way, but when the baby was a few weeks old, I began to fear that something of the old trouble was in the air again. Fresh money difficulties happened about that time, though of course I didn't know exactly what they were. But it was easy to see that my lady was fretted, she was not one to hide anything she was feeling. One day, it was in June, as far as I remember, my lady was in the nursery with Miss Lally and Miss Baby and the real baby. The two elder children were downstairs at their lessons with Sir Hulbert. Master Bevil was looking beautiful that afternoon. We had laid him down on a rug on the floor, and he was kicking and crowing as if he had been six months old, his little sisters chattering and laughing to him, while my lady sat by in the rocking-chair, looking for once as if she had thrown all her cares aside. 'He really is getting on beautifully,' she said to me. 'Doesn't he look a great big boy?' I was rather glad of the remark, for it gave me a chance to say something that had been on my mind. 'We'll have to be thinking of short-coating him, before we know where we are, my lady,' I said with a smile. 'And there's another thing I've been thinking of. He's such a heavy boy to carry already, and as time gets on it would be a pity for our walks to be shortened in the fine weather. We had a beautiful basket for the donkey at Mrs. Wyngate's, it was made so that even a little baby could lie quite comfortably in it.' 'That would be very nice,' my lady answered. 'I'll speak to Sir Hulbert about it. Only----,' and again a rather worried look came into her face. I could see that she had got back to the old thought, 'everything costs money.' 'We must do something about it before long,' she added. Just then Miss Bess ran into the room, followed more slowly by her cousin. 'What are you talking about?' she said. 'About how dear fat baby is to go walks with us when he gets still fatter and heavier,' said Miss Lally. 'Poor nurse couldn't carry him so very far, you know, and mamma says perhaps----' 'Oh! nonsense,' interrupted Miss Bess; 'we'd carry him in turns, the darling.' My lady looked up quickly at this. 'Don't talk so foolishly, child,' she said sharply. For, fond as she was of Miss Bess, she could put her down sometimes, and just now the little girl scarcely deserved it, it seemed to me. 'I won't allow anything of that kind,' she went on. 'You are far too young, all of you--Francis especially, must never attempt to carry baby. Do you hear, children? Nurse, you must be strict about this.' 'Certainly, my lady,' I replied. 'Master Francis and the young ladies have never done more than just hold Master Bevil in their arms for a moment, me standing close by.' Then they went on to talk about getting a basket for the donkey, which they were very much taken up about. I didn't notice at the time that Master Francis had only looked in for an instant and gone off again; but that evening at tea time, when Miss Bess and Miss Lally said something about old Jacob, Master Francis asked what they meant, which I remembered afterwards as showing that he had not heard his aunt's strict orders. It was a week or two after that, that one lovely afternoon we all set out on a walk together. We had planned to go rather farther than we had yet been with the baby, resting here and there on the way, it was so warm and sunny and he was not _yet_ so very heavy, of course. All went well, and we found ourselves close to home again in nice time. For of course I knew that if we stayed out too long it would be only natural for my lady to be anxious. 'It's rather too soon to go in and it's such a beautiful afternoon,' said Miss Bess as we were coming up the drive. 'Do let us go into the little wood, for half an hour or so, nurse, and you might tell us a story.' The little wood skirts the drive at one side. It is a sweet place, in the early summer especially, so many wild flowers and ferns, and lots of squirrels overhead among the branches, and little rabbits scudding about down below. We found a cosy nook, where we settled ourselves. The little brother was fast asleep, the three elder ones sat round me, while Miss Baby toddled off a little way, busy about some of her own funny little plays by herself, though well within sight. I was in the middle of a long story of having been lost in the firwoods at home as a child, when a loud scream made us all start, and looking up I saw to my alarm that Miss Baby was no longer to be seen. 'Dear, dear,' I cried, jumping up in a fright. 'She must have hurt herself. Here, Master Francis, hold the baby for a moment, don't get up;' and I put his little cousin down safely in his arms. I meant him not to stir till I came back, but he didn't understand this. Miss Bess was already off after her little sister, and after a minute or two we found her, not hurt at all, but crying loudly at having fallen down and dirtied her frock in running away from what _she_ called a 'bear,' coming out of the wood--most likely only a branch of a tree swaying about. It took a little time to quiet her and to set her to rights again, and when we got back to the other children I was surprised to see that the baby was now in Miss Lally's arms, Master Francis kneeling beside them wiping something with his handkerchief. 'There's nothing wrong, I hope,' I said, rather startled again. 'Oh no!' said Miss Lally. 'It's only that little brother cried and Francie walked him up and down and somefing caught Francie's foot and he felled, but baby didn't fall. Francie held him tight, only a twig scratched baby's nose a tiny little bit. But he doesn't mind, he's laughing.' So he was, though sure enough there was a thin red line right across his plump little nose, and the least little mark of blood on the handkerchief with which his cousin had been tenderly dabbing it. Master Francis himself was so pale that I hadn't the heart to say more to him than just a word. 'I had meant you to sit still with him, my dear.' 'But he cried so,' said the boy. However, there was no harm done, though I thought to myself I'd be more careful than ever, but unluckily just as we were within a few steps of the house whom should we see but my lady coming to meet us. I'm never one for hiding things, but I did wish she had not happened to come just then. She noticed the scratch in a moment, as she stooped to kiss the baby, though really there was nothing to mind, seeing the dear child so rosy and happy looking. 'What's the matter with his nose?' she said quickly. 'You haven't any pins about you, nurse, surely?' Pins were not in my way, certainly, but I could have found it in my heart to wish I could own to one just then, for Master Francis started forward. 'Oh no! Aunt Helen,' he said, 'it was my fault. I was walking him about for a minute or two, while nurse went after Baby, and my foot slipt, but I only came down on my knees and _he_ didn't fall. It was only a twig scratched his nose, a tiny bit.' My lady grew first red then white. 'He might have been killed,' she said; and she caught the baby from me and kissed him over and over again. Then she turned to Master Francis, and I could see that she was doing her best to keep in her anger. 'Francis, how dared you, after what I said the other day so very strongly about your _never_ carrying the baby? Your own sense might have told you you are not able to carry him, but besides that, what I said makes it distinct disobedience. Nurse, did you _know_ of it?' 'It was I myself gave Master Bevil to Master Francis to hold,' I said, flurried like at my lady's displeasure. 'I hadn't meant him to walk about with him.' 'Of course not,' said my lady. 'There now, you see, Francis, double disobedience! I must speak to your uncle. Take back baby, nurse, he must have some _pomade divine_ on his nose when he gets in;' and before any of us had time to speak again she had turned and hurried back to the house. My lady had always a quick way with her, pleased or displeased. 'She's gone to tell papa,' said the young ladies, looking very distressed. Master Francis was quite white and shaking like. 'Nurse,' he said at last, when he had got voice enough to speak, 'I really don't know what auntie meant about something she said the other day.' 'O Franz! you can't have forgotten,' said Miss Bess, who often spoke sharply when she was really very sorry. 'Mamma did say most plainly that none of us were to carry baby about.' But the boy still looked quite puzzled, and when we talked it over, we were all satisfied that he hadn't been in the room at the time. 'I must try to put it right with my lady,' I said, feeling that if any one had been to blame in the matter it was certainly me much more than Master Francis, for not having kept my eye better on Miss Baby in the wood. But we were a very silent and rather sad party as we made our way back slowly to the house. I couldn't see my lady till late that evening, and then, though I did my best, I didn't altogether succeed. She had already spoken to Sir Hulbert, and nothing would convince her that Master Francis had not heard at least some part of what she said. Sir Hulbert was always calm and just; he sent for the boy the next morning, and had a long talk with him. Master Francis came back to the nursery looking pale and grave, but more thoughtful than unhappy. 'Uncle has been very good and kind,' was all he said. 'And I will try never to vex him and auntie again.' Later that evening, when he happened to be alone with me, after the young ladies had gone to bed, he said a little more. I was sitting by the fire with Master Bevil on my knee. Master Francis knelt down beside me and kissed the little creature tenderly. Then he stroked his tiny nose--the mark of the scratch had almost gone already. 'You darling!' he said. 'Oh! how glad I am you weren't really hurt. Nurse,' he went on, 'I'd do anything for this baby, I do _love_ him so. I only wish I could say it to auntie the way I can to you. If only I were big and strong, or very clever, and could work for him, to get him everything he should have, and then it would make up a little for all the trouble I've been always to them.' He spoke quite simply. There wasn't a thought of himself--as if he had anything to complain of, or put up with, I mean--in what he said. But all the more it touched me very much, and I felt the tears come into my eye, but I wouldn't have Master Francis see it, and I began laughing and playing with the baby. 'See his dear little feet,' I said. 'They're almost the prettiest part of him. He kicks so, he wears out his little boots in no time. It would be nice if Miss Lally could knit some for him.' Master Francis looked surprised. 'Why,' he said, 'do you call those little white things boots? And are they made the same way as my socks? I've got them on now; aren't they splendid? I really think it was very clever of Lally.' CHAPTER XI IN DISGRACE AGAIN He held out one foot to be admired. 'Yes,' I said, 'they are very nice indeed, and Miss Lally was so patient about them. I'll have to think of some other knitting for her.' 'O nurse!' said Master Francis quickly, then he stopped. 'I must ask Lally first,' he went on; and I heard him say, as if speaking to himself--'it would be nice to please auntie.' For a day or two after that I saw there was some mystery going on. Master Francis and Miss Lally were whispering together and looking very important, and one fine afternoon the secret was confided to me. Miss Bess was out with her mamma, and Master Francis had disappeared when we came in from our walk, a rather short one that day. Suddenly, just as we were sitting down to tea, and I was wondering what had become of him, he hurried in, and threw a small soft white packet on to Miss Lally's lap. 'O Francie!' she said, 'have you really got it?' Then she undid the parcel and showed it to me; it was white wool. 'Francie has bought it with his own money,' she said, 'for me to knit a pair of boots for baby, and oh! nursie, will you show me how? They're to be a present from Francie and me; me the knitting and Francie the wool, and we want it to be quite a secret till they're ready. It's so warm now I can knit up in the attic. Won't mamma be pleased?' 'Certainly, my dear,' I said. 'I'll do my best to teach you. They'll be rather difficult, for we'll have to put in some fancy stitches, but I think you can manage it now.' Master Francis stood by, looking as interested and pleased as Miss Lally herself. 'That was all the wool Prideaux' daughter had,' he said. 'Do you think there'll be enough, nurse? She'll have some more in a few days.' 'I doubt if there'll be enough,' I said, 'but I can tell better when we've got them begun.' Begun they were, that very evening. Miss Lally and Master Francis set to work to wind the wool, having first spent some time at an extra washing of their hands, for fear of soiling it in the very least. 'It's so beautifully white,' said Miss Lally, 'like it says in the Bible, isn't it, nursie? It would be a pity to dirty it.' Dear me! how happy those two were over their innocent secret, and how little I thought what would come of Master Bevil's white wool bootikins! The knitting got on nicely, though there were some difficulties in the way. The weather was getting warmer, and it is not easy for even little ladies to keep their hands quite spotlessly clean. The ball of wool had to be tied up in a little bag, as it would keep falling on the floor, and besides this, Miss Lally spread out a clean towel in the corner where she sat to work in the attic. I gave Miss Bess a hint that there was a new secret and got her to promise not to tease the children, and she was really good about it, as was her way if she felt she was trusted. Altogether, for some little time things seemed to be going smoothly. Master Francis was most particular to do nothing that could in the least annoy his uncle and aunt, or could seem like disobedience to them. After the long spell of fine weather, July set in with heavy rain. I had now been a whole year with the dear children. I remember saying so to them one morning when we were all at breakfast. It was about a week since the baby's boots had been in hand. One was already finished, in great part by Miss Lally herself, though I had had to do a little to it in the evenings after they were all in bed, setting it right for her to go on with the next day. With the wet weather there was less walking out, of course, and all the more time for the knitting. On the day I am speaking of the children came down from the attic in the afternoon with rather doleful faces. 'Nursie,' said Miss Lally, 'I have been getting on so nicely,' and indeed I had not required to do more than glance at her work for two or three days. 'I thought I would have had it ready for you to begin the lace part round the top, only, just fancy the wool's done!' 'They'll have more at the shop by now,' said Master Francis. 'If only it would clear up I could go to the village for it.' 'It may be finer to-morrow,' I said, 'but there's no chance of you going out to-day; even if it left off raining, the ground's far too wet for you with your rheumatism. Now, Miss Lally, my dear, don't you begin looking so doleful about it; you've got on far quicker than you could have expected.' She did look rather doleful all the same, and the worst of it was that though Master Francis would have given up anything for himself, he never could bear Miss Lally to be disappointed. 'I'm so much better now, nurse,' he said. 'I don't believe even going out in the rain would hurt me.' 'It's _possible_ it mightn't hurt you, but----' I was beginning, when I heard Master Bevil crying out in the other room. Miss Lally had now a little room of her own on the other side of the nursery, and we had saved enough of Miss Bess's chintz to smarten it up. This had been done some months ago. I hadn't too much time now, and the young girl who helped me was no hand at sewing at all. Off I hurried to the baby without finishing what I was saying to Master Francis, and indeed I never gave another thought to what he'd said about fetching the wool till tea-time came, and he didn't answer when we called him, thinking he was in his own room. Just then, unluckily, my lady came up to the nursery to say good-bye to the children, or good-night rather, for she and Sir Hulbert were going to dine at Carris Court, which is a long drive from Treluan, and the roads were just then very heavy with the rain. She came in looking quite bright and cheery. I can see her now in her black lace dress--it was far from new--it was seldom my lady spent anything on herself--but it suited her beautifully, showing off her lovely hair and fair complexion. One little diamond star was her only ornament. I forget if I mentioned that as well as the strange disappearance of money at the death of old Sir David, a great many valuable family jewels, worth thousands of pounds, were also missing, so it was but little that Sir Hulbert had been able to give his wife, and what money she had of her own she wouldn't have spent in such ways, knowing from the first how things were with him. She came in, as I said, looking so beautiful and bright that I felt grieved when almost in a moment her look changed. 'Where is Francis?' she asked quickly. 'He must be somewhere downstairs, my lady,' I said. 'He's not in his room, but no doubt he'll be coming directly.' Esther, the nursery-maid, was just then coming in with some tea-cakes Mrs. Brent had sent us up. 'Go and look for Master Francis, and tell him to come at once,' said my lady. 'Surely he can't have gone out anywhere,' she added to me; 'it's pouring, besides he isn't allowed to go out without leave.' 'He'd never think of such a thing,' I said quickly, 'after being so ill too.' But even as I spoke the words, there came into my mind what the boy had said that afternoon, and I began to feel a little anxious, though of course I didn't let my lady see it, and I did my best to smooth things when Esther came back to say that he was nowhere to be found. It was little use, however, my lady began to be thoroughly put out. She hurried off to Sir Hulbert, feeling both anxious and angry, and a good half-hour was spent in looking for the boy before Sir Hulbert could persuade her to start. He was vexed too, and no wonder, just when my lady had been looking so happy. 'Really,' I thought to myself, 'Master Francis is tiresome after all.' And I was thankful when they at last drove off, there being no real cause for anxiety. No sooner had the sound of the carriage-wheels died away than the nursery door opened and Master Francis burst in, looking for once like a regular pickle of a boy. His eyes bright and his cheeks rosy, though he was covered with mud from head to foot, his boots really not to be thought of as fit to come up a tidy staircase. 'Hurrah!' he cried, shaking a little parcel over his head. 'I've got it, Lally. And I'm not a bit wet after all, nurse!' 'Oh no!' said Miss Bess, who did love to put in her word, 'not at all. Quite nice and dry and tidy and fit to sit down to tea, after worrying mamma out of her wits and nearly stopping papa and her going to Carris.' Master Francis's face fell at once. I was sorry for him and yet that provoked I couldn't but join in with Miss Bess. 'Go upstairs to your room at once, Master Francis, and undress and get straight into your bed. I'll come up in a few minutes with some hot tea for you. How you could do such a thing close upon getting better of rheumatic fever, and the trouble and worry it gave, passes me! And considering, too, what I said to you this very afternoon.' 'You didn't actually say I wasn't to go,' he said quickly. 'You know quite well why I went, and I'm not a _bit_ wet really. I'm all muffled up in things to keep me dry. I'm nearly suffocating.' 'All the worse,' I said. 'If you're overheated all the more certain you'll get a chill. Don't stand talking, go at once.' He went off, and I was beginning to pour out the tea, which had been kept back all this time, when, as I lifted the teapot in my hand I almost dropped it, nearly scalding Miss Baby who was sitting close by me, so startled was I by a sudden terrible scream from Miss Lally; and, as I have said before, anything like Miss Lally's screams I never did hear in any nursery. Besides which, once she was started, there was never any saying when she'd leave off. 'Now, whatever's the matter with you, my dear?' I said, but it was little use talking quietly to her. She only sobbed something about 'poor Francie and nursie scolding him,' and then went on with her screaming till I was obliged to put her in the other room by herself to get quiet. Of all the party Miss Bess and Miss Baby were the only ones who did justice to Mrs. Brent's tea-cakes that evening. They did take Miss Lally's screaming fits quietly, I must say, which was a good thing, and even Master Bevil had strong nerves, I suppose, for he slept on sweetly through it all, poor dear. For myself, I was out and out upset for once, provoked and yet sorry too. I went up to Master Francis and did the best I could for him to prevent his taking cold. He was as sorry as could be by this time, and he had really not meant to be disobedient, but though I was ready to believe him, I felt much afraid that this new scrape wouldn't be passed over very lightly by his uncle and aunt. After a while Miss Lally quieted down, partly, I think, because I promised her she might go up to her cousin if she would leave off crying, and the two passed the evening together very soberly and sadly, winding the fresh skein of white wool which had been the cause of all the trouble. After all Master Francis did not take cold. He came down to breakfast the next morning looking pretty much as usual, though I could see he was uneasy in his mind. Miss Lally too was feeling rather ashamed of her screaming fit the night before, for she was growing a big girl now, old enough to understand that she should have more self-command. Altogether it was a rather silent nursery that morning, for Miss Bess was concerned for her cousin too. I had quite meant to try to see my lady before anything was said to Master Francis. But she was tired and later of getting up than usual, and I didn't like to disturb her. Sir Hulbert, I found, had gone out early and would not be in till luncheon-time, so I hoped I would still have my chance. I hardly saw the elder children till their dinner time. It was an extra long morning of lessons with Miss Kirstin, for it was still raining, and on wet days she sometimes helped them with what they had to learn by themselves. The three hurried up together to make themselves tidy before going down to the dining-room, and I just saw them for a moment. Master Bevil was rather fractious, and I was feeling a little worried about him, so that what had happened the night before was not quite so fresh in my mind as it had been; but I did ask Miss Lally, who came to me to have her hair brushed, if she had seen her mamma, and if my lady was feeling rested. 'She's getting up for luncheon,' was the child's answer, 'but I haven't seen her. Mrs. Brent told us she was very tired last night. Mrs. Brent waited up to tell mamma Francie had come in.' After luncheon the two young ladies came up together. I looked past them anxiously for Master Francis. 'No,' said Miss Lally, understanding my look, 'he's not coming. He's gone to papa's room, and papa and mamma are both there.' My heart sank at the words. 'Mamma's coming up to see baby in a little while,' said Miss Bess. 'She was so tired, poor little mamma, she only woke in time to dress for luncheon, and papa said he was very glad.' Miss Lally came round and whispered to me. 'Nurse,' she said, 'may I go up to the attic? I want to knit a great lot to-day, and if I stayed down here mamma would see.' 'Very well, my dear,' I said. 'Only be sure to come downstairs if you feel chilly.' There was really no reason, now that she had a room of her own, for her ever to sit in the attic, but she had taken a fancy to it, I suppose, and off she went. Miss Bess stood looking out of the window, in a rather idle way she had. 'Oh dear!' she said impatiently; 'is it _never_ going to leave off raining? I am so tired of not getting out.' 'Get something to do, my dear,' I said. 'Then the time will pass more quickly. It won't stop raining for you watching it, you know. Weren't you saying something about the schoolroom books needing arranging, and that you hadn't had time to do them?' Miss Bess was in a very giving-in mood. 'Very well,' she said, moving off slowly. 'I suppose I may as well do them. But I need somebody to help me; where's Lally?' 'Don't disturb her yet awhile, poor dear,' I said. 'She does so want to get on with the work I've told you about.' Miss Bess stood looking uncertain. Suddenly an idea struck her. 'May I have Baby then?' she asked. 'She could hold up the books to me, and that's about all the help I need, really.' I saw no objection, and Miss Baby trotted off very proud, Miss Bess leading her by the hand. The nursery seemed very quiet the next half-hour or so, or maybe longer. I was beginning to wonder when my lady would be coming, and feeling glad that Master Bevil, who had just wakened up from a nice sleep, was looking quite like himself again before she saw him, when suddenly the door burst open and Master Francis looked in. He was not crying, but his face had the strained white look I could not bear to see on it. 'Is there no one here?' he said. Somehow I didn't like to question him, grieved though I felt at things going wrong again. 'No,' I replied. 'Miss Bess is in the schoolroom with----,' then it suddenly struck me that my lady might be coming in at any moment, and that it might be better for Master Francis not to be there. 'Miss Lally,' I went on quickly, 'is at her knitting in the attic, if you like to go to her there.' He turned and went. Afterwards he told me that he caught sight of my lady coming along the passage as he left the room, and that he hurried upstairs to avoid her. He didn't find Miss Lally in the attic as he expected, but her knitting was there lying on the floor, thrown down hurriedly, and though she had not forgotten to spread out the clean towel as usual, in her haste she hadn't noticed that the newly-wound ball of white wool had rolled some distance away from the half-finished boot and the pins. Afterwards I will tell what happened to Master Francis, up there by himself in the attic. To make all clear, I may here explain why he had not found Miss Lally in her nook. The book-tidying in the schoolroom had gone on pretty well, but after a bit, though Miss Baby did her best, Miss Bess found the want of some one who could read the titles, and she ran upstairs to beg Miss Lally to come for a few minutes. The few minutes turned into an hour or more, for the young ladies, just like children as they were, came across some old favourites in their tidying, and began reading out bits here and there to each other. And then to please Miss Baby they made houses and castles of the books on the floor, which she thought a beautiful new game, so that Miss Lally forgot about her knitting, while feeling, so to say, at the back of her mind quite easy about it, thinking she had left it safely lying on the clean cloth. They were both so much taken up with what they were about, that it never struck them to wonder what Master Francis was doing with himself all the afternoon. My lady and I meanwhile were having a long talk in the nursery. It had been as I feared, Sir Hulbert having spoken most severely to the boy, and my lady having said some bitter things, which already she was repenting, more especially when I was able to explain that Master Francis had really not been so distinctly disobedient as had seemed the case. 'We must try and put it right again, I suppose,' she said rather sadly, as she was leaving the room. 'I wish I didn't take up things so hotly at the time, but I was really frightened as well as angry. Still Sir Hulbert would not have spoken so strongly if it hadn't been for me.' This was a great deal for my lady to say, and I felt honoured by her confidence. I began to be more hopeful again, and tried to set out the tea rather nicer than usual to cheer them up a little. CHAPTER XII LOST The three young ladies came in together, Miss Baby looking very important, but calling out for her tea. 'It's quite ready, my dear,' I said. 'But where's Master Francis?' '_I_ don't know,' said Miss Bess. 'I haven't seen him all the afternoon.' I turned to Miss Lally. 'He went up to sit with you, my dear, in the attic,' I said. 'I didn't see him,' said Miss Lally, and then she explained how Miss Bess had fetched her down ever so long ago. 'I daresay Francie's in his own room,' she went on. 'I'll run up and see, and I'll look in the attic too, for I left my work lying about.' She ran off. 'Nurse,' said Miss Bess, 'do you think Francis got a very bad scolding? You saw him, didn't you? Did he seem very unhappy?' 'I'm afraid so, my dear, but I think it will come all right again. I've seen your mamma since, and she quite sees now that he didn't really mean to be disobedient.' 'I wish you had told mamma that before they spoke to Francis,' said Miss Bess, who I must say was rather a Job's comforter sometimes. We waited anxiously till we heard Miss Lally's footsteps returning. She ran in alone, looking rather troubled. 'He's not there, not in his own room, or the attic, or nowhere, but he must have been in the attic, for my work's gone.' A great fear came over me. Could the poor boy have run away in his misery at having again angered his uncle and aunt? for the look on his face had been strange, when he glanced in at the nursery door, asking for Miss Lally. Was he meaning perhaps to bid her good-bye before setting off in some wild way? And what she said of the knitting having gone made me still more uneasy. Had he perhaps taken it with him as a remembrance? for of all the queer mixtures of old-fashionedness and childishness that ever I came across, Master Francis was the strangest, though, as I have said, there was a good deal of this in all the children. I got up at Miss Lally's words. Master Bevil was asleep, luckily. 'You go on with your tea, my dears, there's good children,' I said. 'I must see about Master Francis, he must be somewhere about the house. He'd never have thought of going out again in such weather,' for it was pouring in torrents. I went downstairs, asking everybody I met if they had seen him, but they all shook their heads, and at last, after searching through the library and the big drawing-rooms, and even more unlikely places, I got so frightened that I made bold to knock at Sir Hulbert's study door, where he was busy writing, my lady working beside him. They had been talking of Master Francis just before I went in, and they were far more distressed than annoyed at my news, my lady growing quite pale. 'O Hulbert!' she exclaimed, 'if he has run away it is my fault.' 'Nonsense, Helen,' he said, meaning to cheer her. 'The boy has got sense and good feeling, he'd never risk making himself ill again. And where would he run away to? He couldn't go to sea. But certainly the sooner we find him the better.' He went off to speak to some of the men, while my lady and I, Mrs. Brent and some of the others, started again to search through the house. We did search, looking in really impossible corners, where he couldn't have squeezed himself in. Then the baby awoke, and I had to go to him, and Miss Bess and Miss Lally took their turn at this melancholy game of hide-and-seek, but it was all no use. The dull gray afternoon darkened into night, the rain still pouring down, and nothing was heard of the missing boy. Sir Hulbert at last left off pretending not to be anxious. He had his strongest horse put into the dog-cart, and drove away to the town to give notice to the police, stopping on the way at every place where it was the least likely the boy could have been seen. He didn't get back till eleven o'clock. My lady and Mrs. Brent and me were waiting up for him, for Master Bevil was sleeping sweetly, and I had put the nursery-maid to watch beside him. The young ladies, poor dears, were in bed too, and, as is happily the way with children, had fallen asleep in spite of their tears and sad distress. We knew the moment we saw Sir Hulbert that he had no good tidings to give us. His sunburnt face looked almost white, as he came into the hall soaking wet and shook his head. 'I have done everything, Nelly,' he said, 'everything that can be done, and now we must try to be patient till some news comes. It is impossible, everybody says, that a boy like him, so well known in the neighbourhood too, could disappear without some one seeing him, or that he could remain in hiding for long. It is perfectly extraordinary that we have not found him already, and somehow I can scarcely believe he is doing it on purpose. He has such good feeling, and must know how anxious we should be.' Sir Hulbert was standing by the fire, which my lady had had lighted in the hall, as he spoke. He seemed almost thinking aloud. My lady crept up to him with a look on her face I could not bear to see. 'Hulbert,' she said in a low voice, 'I said things to him enough to make him doubt our caring at all.' And then she broke down into bitter though silent weeping. We got her to bed with difficulty. There was really no use whatever in sitting up, and who knew what need for strength the next day might bring? Then there were the other poor children to think of. So by midnight the house was all quiet as usual. I was thankful that the wind had fallen, for all through the evening there had been sounds of wailing and sobbing, such as stormy weather always brings at Treluan, enough to make you miserable if there was nothing the matter--the rain pattering against the window like cold tiny hands, tapping and praying to be let in. Sad as I was, and though I could scarcely have believed it of myself, I had scarcely laid my head down before I too, like the children, fell fast asleep. I was dreaming, a strange confused dream, which I never was able to remember clearly; but it was something about searching in the smugglers' caves for Master Francis, followed by an old man, who I somehow fancied was the miser baronet, Sir David. His hair was snow white, and there was a confusion in my mind of thinking it like Miss Lally's wool. Anyhow, I had got the idea of whiteness in my head, so that, when something woke me--afterwards I knew it was the sound of my own name--and I opened my eyes to see by the glimmer of the night-light what seemed at first a shining figure by my bed-side, I did not feel surprised. And the first words I said were 'white as wool.' 'No, no,' said Miss Lally, for it was she, in her little night-dress, her fair hair all tumbling over her shoulders, 'it isn't about my wool, nurse, please wake up quite. It's something so strange--such a queer noise. Please get up and come to my room to see what it is.' Miss Lally's room was a tiny place at the side of the nursery nearest the tower, though not opening on to the tower stair. I got up at once and crossed the day nursery with her, lighting a candle on the way. But when we got into her room all was perfectly silent. 'What was it you heard, my dear?' I asked. 'A sort of knocking,' she said, 'and a queer kind of little cry, like a rabbit caught in a trap when you hear it a long way off.' 'It must have been the wind and rain again,' I was beginning to say, but she stopped me. 'Hush, listen!' she said, holding up her little hand, 'there it is again.' It was just as she had said, and it seemed to come from the direction of the tower. 'Isn't it like as if it was from Francie's room?' said Miss Lally, shivering a little; 'and yet we know he's not there, nursie.' But something was there, or close by, and something _living_, I seemed to feel. 'Put on your dressing-gown,' I said to the little girl, 'and your slippers, and we'll go up and see. You're not frightened, dear?' 'Oh no!' she said. 'If only it was Francie!' But she clung to my hand as we went up the stair, leaving the nursery door wide open, so as to hear Master Bevil if he woke up. Master Francis's room was all dark, of course, and it struck very chill as we went in, the candle flickering as we pushed the door open. It seemed so strange to see the empty bed, and everything unused about the room, just as if he was really quite away. We stood perfectly still. All was silent. We were just about leaving the room to go to the attic when the faintest breath of a sound seemed to come again, I couldn't tell from where. It was more like a sigh in the air. 'Stop,' said Miss Lally, squeezing my hand, and then again we heard the muffled taps, much more clearly than downstairs. Miss Lally's ears were very sharp. 'I hear talking,' she whispered, and before I knew what she was about she had laid herself down on the floor and put her ear to the ground, at a part where there was no carpet. 'Nursie,' she went on, looking up with a very white face and shining eyes, 'it is Francie. He must have felled through the floor. I can hear him saying, "O Lally! O Bess! Oh, somebody come."' I stooped down as she had done. It was silent again; but after a moment began the knocking and a sort of sobbing cry; my ears weren't sharp enough to make it into words, but I seized the first thing that came to hand, I think it was the candlestick, and thumped it on the floor as hard as ever I could, calling out, close down through the boarding, 'Master Francie, we hear you.' But there was nothing we could do by ourselves, and we were losing precious time. 'Miss Lally,' I said, 'you won't be frightened to stay here alone; I'll leave you the candle. Go on knocking and calling to him, to keep up his heart, in case he can hear, while I go for your papa.' In less time than it takes to tell it, I had roused Sir Hulbert and brought him back with me, my lady following after. Nothing would have kept her behind. We were met by eager words from Miss Lally. 'Papa, nursie,' she cried, 'I've made him hear, and I can make out that he says something about the window.' Without speaking Sir Hulbert strode across the room and flung it open. Oh, how thankful we were that the wind had fallen and all was still. 'Francis, my boy,' we heard Sir Hulbert shout--he was leaning out as far as ever he could--'Francis, my boy, can you hear me?' Something answered, but we inside the room couldn't distinguish what it said, but in another moment Sir Hulbert turned towards us. 'He says something about the cupboard in the attic,' he said. 'What can he mean? But come at once.' He caught up my lady's little hand-lamp and led the way, we three following. When we reached the attic he went straight to the big cupboard I have spoken of. The doors were standing wide open. Sir Hulbert went in, but came out again, looking rather blank. 'I can see nothing,' he said. 'I fancied he said the word "mouse," but his voice had got so faint.' 'If you knock on the floor,' I began, but Miss Lally stopped me by darting into the closet. 'Papa,' she said, 'hold the light here. I know where the mouse-hole is.' What they had thought a mouse-hole was really a hole with jagged edges cut out in one of the boards, which you could thrust your hand into. Sir Hulbert did so, beginning to see what it was meant for, and pulled. A trap-door, cleverly made, for all that it looked so roughly done, gave way, and by the light of the lamp we saw a kind of ladder leading downwards into the dark. Sir Hulbert stooped down and leaned over the edge. 'Francis,' he called, and a very faint voice--we couldn't have heard it till the door was opened--answered-- 'Yes, I'm here. Take care, the ladder's broken.' Luckily there was another ladder in the attic. Sir Hulbert and I dragged it out, and managed to slip it down the hole, in the same direction as the other. We were so afraid it would be too short, but it wasn't. My lady and I held it steady at the top, while Sir Hulbert went down with the lamp, Miss Lally holding a candle beside us. Sir Hulbert went down very slowly, not knowing how or in what state Master Francis might be lying at the foot. Our hearts were beating like hammers, for all we were so quiet. First we heard an exclamation of surprise. I rather think it was 'by Jove!' though Sir Hulbert was a most particular gentleman in his way of speaking--then came a hearty shout-- 'All right, he's here, no bones broken.' 'Shall I come down?' cried my lady. 'I think you may,' Sir Hulbert answered, 'if you're very careful. I'll bring the light to the foot of the ladder again.' When my lady got down, Miss Lally and I strained our ears to hear. I knew the child was quivering to go down herself, and it was like her to be so patient. Strange were the words that first reached us. 'Auntie, auntie!' we heard Master Francis say, in his poor weak voice. 'It's old Sir David's treasure! You won't be poor any more. Oh! I'm so glad now I fell down the hole, but I thought I'd die before I could tell any one.' Miss Lally and I stared at each other. Could it be true? or was Master Francis off his head? We had not long to wait. They managed to get him up--after all it was not so very far to climb,--my lady coming first with the lamp, and Sir Hulbert, holding Master Francis with one arm and the side of the ladder with the other, followed, for the boy had revived wonderfully, once he knew he was safe. [Illustration: Sir Hulbert, holding Master Francis with one arm and the side of the ladder with the other, followed.] My lady was crying, I saw it the moment the light fell on her face, and as soon as Master Francis was up beside us, she threw her arms round him and kissed him as never before. 'Oh! my poor dear boy,' she said, 'I am so thankful, but do tell us how it all happened.' She must have heard, and indeed seen something of the strange discovery that had been made, but for the moment I don't think there was a thought in her heart except thankfulness that he was safe. Before Master Francis could answer, Sir Hulbert interrupted. 'Better not ask him anything for a minute or two,' he said. 'Nurse, you will find my brandy-flask downstairs in the study. He'd better have a little mixed with water; and ring the bell as you pass to waken Crooks, and some one must light the fire in Francis's room.' I was back in five minutes with what was wanted; and then I found Miss Lally having her turn at petting her cousin. As soon as he had had a little brandy and water we took him down to the nursery, where the fire was still smouldering, Sir Hulbert carefully closing the trap-door as it had been before, and then following us downstairs. Once in the nursery, anxious though we were to get him to bed, it was impossible not to let him tell something of what had happened. It began by a cry from Miss Lally. 'Why, Francie, you've got my knitting sticking out of your pocket. But two of the needles have dropped out,' she went on rather dolefully. 'They'll be lying down in that room,' said Master Francis. 'I was carrying it in my hand when I went down the ladder after the ball of wool, and when I fell I dropped it, and I found it afterwards. It was the ball of wool that did it all,' and then he went on to explain. He had not found Miss Lally in the attic, for Miss Bess had already called her down, but seeing her knitting lying on the floor, he had sat down to wait for her, thinking she'd be sure to come back. Then he noticed that the ball of wool must have rolled away as she threw her work down, and disappeared into the cupboard. The door was wide open, and he traced it by the thread in his hand to the 'mouse-hole' in the corner, down which it had dropped, and putting his hand through to see if he could feel it, to his surprise the board yielded. Pulling a little more, the trap-door opened, and he saw the steps leading downwards. It was not dark in the secret room in the day-time, for it had two narrow slits of windows hardly to be noticed from the outside, so, with a boy's natural curiosity, he determined to go down. He hadn't strength to lift the trap-door fully back, but he managed to stick it open enough to let him pass through; he had not got down many steps, however, before he heard it bang to above him. The shock may have jarred the ladder, which was a roughly-made rotten old thing. Anyway, the next moment Master Francis felt it give way, and he fell several feet on to the floor below. He was bruised, and a little stunned for a few minutes, but he soon came quite to himself, and, still full of curiosity, began to look about him. The place where he was was only a sort of entrance to a larger room, which was really under his own bedroom, and lighted, as I have said, by narrow deep windows, without glass. And though there was no door between the two, the large room was on a much lower level, and another ladder led down to it. This time he was very careful, and got to the bottom without any accident. Looking about him, he saw standing along one side of the room a collection of the queerest-shaped objects of all sizes that could be imagined, all wrapped up in some kind of linen or canvas, grown gray with age and dust. CHAPTER XIII 'OLD SIR DAVID'S' SECRET At first he thought the queer-looking things he saw must be odd-shaped pieces of stone, or petrifactions, such as you see in old-fashioned rockeries in gardens sometimes. But when he went close up to them and touched one, he found that the covering was soft, though whatever was inside it was hard. He pulled the cloth off it, and saw to his surprise that it was a heavy silver tea-urn, though so black and discoloured that it looked more like copper or iron. He examined two or three other things, standing by near it; they also proved to be large pieces of plate--great heavy dinner-table centres, candelabra, and such things,--and, child though he was, Master Francis could see they must be of considerable value. But this was not what struck him the most. Like a flash of lightning it darted into his mind that there must be still more valuable things in this queer store-room. 'I do believe,' he said to himself, 'that this is old Sir David's treasure!' He was right. It would take too long to describe how he went on examining into all these strange objects. Several, that looked like well-stuffed sacks, were tied up so tightly that he couldn't undo the cord. He made a little hole in one of them with his pocket-knife, and out rolled, to his delight, ever so many gold pieces! 'Then,' said Master Francis to us, 'I really felt as if I could have jumped with joy; but I thought I'd better fetch Uncle Hulbert before I poked about any more, and I went up the short ladder again, meaning to go back the way I'd come. I had never thought till that minute that I couldn't manage it, but the long ladder was broken away so high above my head that I couldn't possibly reach up to it, and the bits of it that had fallen on to the floor were quite rotten. And the trap-door seemed so close shut, that I was afraid no one would hear me however I shouted.' He did shout though, poor boy; it was the only thing he could do. The short ladder was a fixture and he couldn't move it from its place, even if it had been long enough to be of any use. After a while he got so tired of calling out, that he seemed to have no voice left, and I think he must have fallen into a sort of doze, for the next thing he remembered was waking up to find that it was quite dark. Then he began to feel terribly frightened, and to think that perhaps he would be left there to die of hunger. 'And the worst of it was,' he said in his simple way, 'that nobody would ever have known of the treasure.' He called out again from time to time, and then a new idea struck him. He felt about for a bit of wood on the floor and set to work, knocking as hard as he could. Most likely he fell asleep by fits and starts, waking up every now and then to knock and call out again, and when the house was all shut up and silent for the night, of course the sound he made seemed much louder, only unluckily we were all asleep and might never have heard it except for dear little Miss Lally. It was not till after Master Francis caught the sound of our knocking back in reply that it came into his head to make his way close up to the windows--luckily it was not a very dark night--and call through them, for there was no glass in them, as I have said. If he had done that before it is just possible we might have heard him sooner, as in our searching we had been in and out of his room, above where he was, several times. There is not much more for me to tell. Master Francis was ill enough to have to stay in bed for a day or two, and at first we were a little afraid that the cold and the terror, and the strange excitement altogether, might bring on another illness. But it was not so. I think he was really too happy to fall ill again! In a day or two Sir Hulbert was able to tell him all about the discovery. It was kept quite secret till the family lawyer could be sent for, and then he and my lady and Sir Hulbert all went down through the trap-door again with Mr. Crooks, the butler, to help them, and everything was opened out and examined. It was a real miser's hoard. Besides the plate, which was really the least valuable, for it was so clumsy and heavy that a good deal of it was only fit to be melted down, there were five or six sacks filled with gold and some with silver coin. Of course something was lost upon it with its being so old, but taking it all in all, a very large sum was realised, for a great many of the Penrose diamonds had been hidden away also, _some_ of which--the most valuable, though not the most beautiful--were sold. Altogether, though it didn't make Sir Hulbert into a millionaire, it made him a rich man, as rich, I think, as he cared to be. And, strangely enough, as the old proverb has it, 'it never rains but it pours,' only two or three years after, money came to my lady which she had never expected. So that to any one visiting Treluan, as it now is, and seeing all that has been done by the family, not only for themselves, but for those about them,--the church, the schools, the cottages on the estate being perfect models of their kind--it would be difficult to believe there had ever been want of money to be wisely and generously spent. Dear, dear, how many years ago it all is now! There's not many living, if any, to remember the ins and outs as I do, which is indeed my excuse for having put it down in my own way. Miss Bess,--Miss Penrose, as I should say,--Miss Lalage, and even Miss Augusta have been married this many a day; and Lady Helen, Miss Bess's eldest daughter, is sixteen past, and it is she that has promised to look over my writing and correct it. Master Bevil, Sir Bevil now, for Sir Hulbert did not live to be an old man, has two fine boys of his own, whom I took care of from their babyhood, as I did their father, and I'm feeling quite lost since Master Ramsey has gone to school. And of dear Master Francis. What words can I say that would be enough? He is the only one of the flock that has not married, and yet who could be happier than he is? He never thinks of himself, his whole life has been given to the noblest work. His writings, I am told, though they're too learned for my old head, have made him a name far and wide. And all this he has done in spite of delicate health and frequent suffering. He seems older than his years, and Sir Bevil is in hopes that before long he may persuade his cousin to give up his hard London parish and make his regular home where he is so longed for, in Treluan itself, as our vicar, and indeed I pray that it may be so while I am still here to see it. Above all, for my dear lady's sake, I scarcely like to own to myself that she is beginning to fail, for though I speak of myself as an old woman and feel it is true, yet I can't bear to think that her years are running near to the appointed threescore and ten, for she is nine years older than I. She has certainly never been the same, and no wonder, since Sir Hulbert's death, but she has had many comforts, and almost the greatest of them has been, as I think I have said before, Master Francis. * * * * * Mother and my aunts want me to add on a few words of my own to dear old nurse's story. She gave it me to read and correct here and there, more than a year ago, and I meant to have done so at once. But for some months past I hardly felt as if I had the heart to undertake it, especially as I didn't like bringing back the remembrance of their old childish days to mother and my aunts, or to Uncle Bevil and Uncle Francis, as we always call him, just in the first freshness of their grief at dear grandmamma's death. And I needed to ask them a few things to make the narrative quite clear for any who may ever care to read it. But now that the spring has come back again, making us all feel bright and hopeful (we have all been at Treluan together for Uncle Bevil's birthday), I have enjoyed doing it, and they all tell me that they have enjoyed hearing about the story and answering my questions. Dear grandmamma loved the spring so! She was so gentle and sweet, though she never lost her quick eager way either. And though she died last year, just before the daffodils and primroses were coming out, somehow this spring the sight of them again has not made us feel sad about her, but _happy_ in the best way of all. Perhaps I should have said before that I am 'Nelly,' 'Miss Bess's' eldest daughter. Aunt Lalage has only one daughter, who is named after mother, and _I_ think very like what mother must have been at her age. There are five of _us_, and Aunt Augusta has two boys, like Uncle Bevil. What used to be 'the secret room,' where our miser ancestor kept the hoard so strangely discovered, has been joined, by taking down the ceiling, to what in the old days was Uncle Francis's room, and enters from a door lower down the tower stair, and Uncle Bevil's boys have made it into what they call their 'Museum.' We are all very fond of showing it to visitors, and explaining how it used to be, and telling the whole story. Uncle Francis always maintains that Aunt Lally saved his life, and though she gets very red when he says so, I do think it is true. She really was very brave for such a little girl. If I heard knockings in the night, I am afraid I should hide my head under the clothes, and put my fingers in my ears. Uncle Francis and Aunt Lally always do seem almost more brother and sister to each other than any of the rest; and her husband, Uncle Geoffrey, whom next to Uncle Francis I think I like best of all my uncles, was one of _his_--I mean Uncle Francis's; what a confusion I'm getting into--best friends at college. When I began this, after correcting nurse's manuscript, I thought nothing would be easier than to write a story in the most beautiful language, but I find it so much harder than I expected that I am not sorry to think that there is really nothing more of importance to tell. And I must say my admiration for the way in which nurse has performed _her_ task has increased exceedingly! THE END 
44780	----	BESSIE AT THE SEA-SIDE _BOOKS BY JOANNA H. MATHEWS._ I. THE BESSIE BOOKS. 6 vols. In a box. $7.50. SEASIDE $1.25 CITY 1.25 FRIENDS 1.25 MOUNTAINS 1.25 SCHOOL 1.25 TRAVELS 1.25 II. THE FLOWERETS A SERIES OF STORIES ON THE COMMANDMENTS. 6 vols. In a box. $3.60. VIOLET'S IDOL. DAISY'S WORK. ROSE'S TEMPTATION. LILY'S LESSON. HYACINTHE AND HER BROTHERS. PINKIE AND THE RABBITS. III. LITTLE SUNBEAMS. 6 vols. In a box. $6.00. BELLE POWERS' LOCKET. DORA'S MOTTO. 16mo. LILY NORRIS' ENEMY. JESSIE'S PARROT. MAMIE'S WATCHWORD. NELLIE'S HOUSEKEEPING. IV. KITTY AND LULU BOOKS. 6 vols. In a box. $6.00. TOUTOU AND PUSSY. KITTY'S ROBINS. THE WHITE RABBIT. RUDIE'S GOAT. KITTY'S VISIT. KITTY'S SCRAP-BOOK. V. MISS ASHTON'S GIRLS. 1. FANNY'S BIRTHDAY $1.25 2. THE NEW SCHOLARS 1.25 3. ROSALIE'S PET 1.25 4. ELEANOR'S VISIT 1.25 5. MABEL WALTON 1.25 VI. HAPS AND MISHAPS. 6 vols. In a box. $7.50. 1. LITTLE FRIENDS $1.25 2. THE BROKEN MALLET 1.25 3. BLACKBERRY JAM 1.25 4. MILLY'S WHIMS 1.25 5. LILIES AND THISTLEDOWN 1.25 6. UNCLE JOE'S THANKSGIVING 1.25 ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, _New York_. [Illustration: FRONTISPIECE. Bessie at Sea Side.] _BESSIE AT THE SEA-SIDE._ _BY_ _JOANNA H. MATHEWS_ "And a Little Child shall lead them." _NEW YORK: Robert Carter & Brothers_, 530 BROADWAY. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. To my dear Mother, _Whose "children arise up and call her blessed,"_ IS THIS LITTLE VOLUME _Lovingly and gratefully dedicated_ CONTENTS. PAGE _I. The Sea-Shore_, 7 _II. Old Friends and New_, 21 _III. The Letter_, 34 _IV. The Quarrel_, 50 _V. Tom's Sunday-School_, 61 _VI. The Post-Office_, 75 _VII. A New Friend_, 96 _VIII. Bessie's Little Sermon_, 113 _IX. Faith_, 122 _X. The Sick Baby_, 135 _XI. The Happy Circumstance_, 147 _XII. Miss Adams_, 157 _XIII. Bessie's Repentance_, 167 _XIV. Who is a Lady?_ 180 _XV. Uncle John_, 194 _XVI. The Birthday Presents_, 209 _XVII. The Birthday Party_, 226 _XVIII. The Adventure_, 247 _XIX. Soul and Instinct_, 265 _XX. Nurse taken by Surprise_, 281 _XXI. The Colonel in Trouble_, 305 _XXII. The Broken Nose_, 320 _XXIII. Jesus' Soldier_, 335 _BESSIE AT THE SEA-SIDE._ I. _THE SEA-SHORE._ The hotel carriage rolled away from Mr. Bradford's door with papa and mamma, the two nurses and four little children inside, and such a lot of trunks and baskets on the top; all on their way to Quam Beach. Harry and Fred, the two elder boys, were to stay with grandmamma until their school was over; and then they also were to go to the sea-side. The great coach carried them across the ferry, and then they all jumped out and took their seats in the cars. It was a long, long ride, and after they left the cars there were still three or four miles to go in the stage, so that it was quite dark night when they reached Mrs. Jones's house. Poor little sick Bessie was tired out, and even Maggie, who had enjoyed the journey very much, thought that she should be glad to go to bed as soon as she had had her supper. It was so dark that the children could not see the ocean, of which they had talked and thought so much; but they could hear the sound of the waves as they rolled up on the beach. There was a large hotel at Quam, but Mrs. Bradford did not choose to go there with her little children; and so she had hired all the rooms that Mrs. Jones could spare in her house. The rooms were neat and clean, but very plain, and not very large, and so different from those at home that Maggie thought she should not like them at all. In that which was to be the nursery was a large, four-post bedstead in which nurse and Franky were to sleep; and beside it stood an old-fashioned trundle-bed, which was for Maggie and Bessie. Bessie was only too glad to be put into it at once, but Maggie looked at it with great displeasure. "I sha'n't sleep in that nasty bed," she said. "Bessie, don't do it." "Indeed," said nurse, "it's a very nice bed; and if you are going to be a naughty child, better than you deserve. That's a great way you have of calling every thing that don't just suit you, 'nasty.' I'd like to know where you mean to sleep, if you don't sleep there." "I'm going to ask mamma to make Mrs. Jones give us a better one," said Maggie; and away she ran to the other room where mamma was undressing the baby. "Mamma," she said, "won't you make Mrs. Jones give us a better bed? That's just a kind of make-believe bed that nurse pulled out of the big one, and I know I can't sleep a wink in it." "I do not believe that Mrs. Jones has another one to give us, dear," said her mother. "I know it is not so pretty as your little bed at home, but I think you will find it very comfortable. When I was a little girl, I always slept in a trundle-bed, and I never rested better. If you do not sleep a wink, we will see what Mrs. Jones can do for us to-morrow; but for to-night I think you must be contented with that bed; and if my little girl is as tired as her mother, she will be glad to lie down anywhere." Maggie had felt like fretting a little; but when she saw how pale and tired her dear mother looked, she thought she would not trouble her by being naughty, so she put up her face for another good-night kiss, and ran back to the nursery. "O, Maggie," said Bessie, "this bed is yeal nice and comf'able; come and feel it." So Maggie popped in between the clean white sheets, and in two minutes she had forgotten all about the trundle-bed and everything else. When Bessie woke up the next morning, she saw Maggie standing by the open window, in her night-gown, with no shoes or stockings on. "O, Maggie," she said, "mamma told us not to go bare-feeted, and you are." "I forgot," said Maggie; and she ran back to the bed and jumped in beside Bessie. "Bessie, there's such lots and lots of water out there! You never saw so much, not even in the reservoir at the Central Park." "I guess it's the sea," said Bessie; "don't you know mamma said we would see water and water ever so far, and we couldn't see the end of it?" "But I do see the end of it," said Maggie; "mamma was mistaken. I saw where the sky came down and stopped the sea; and, Bessie, I saw such a wonderful thing,--the sun came right up out of the water." "O, Maggie, it couldn't; _you_ was mistaken. If it went in the water it would be put out." "I don't care," said Maggie, "it _was_ the sun, and it is shining right there now. It isn't put out a bit. I woke up and I heard that noise mamma told us was the waves, and I wanted to see them, so I went to look, and over there in the sky was a beautiful red light; and in a minute I saw something bright coming out of the water away off; and it came higher and higher, and got so bright I could not look at it, and it was the sun, I know it was." "But, Maggie, how didn't it get put out if it went in the water?" "I don't know," said Maggie, "I'm going to ask papa." Just then nurse and Jane came in with water for the children's bath, and before they were dressed, there was papa at the door asking if there were any little girls ready to go on the beach and find an appetite for breakfast. After that, nurse could scarcely dress them fast enough, and in a few moments they were ready to run down to the front porch where papa was waiting for them. "O, papa, what a great, great water the sea is!" said Bessie. "Yes, dear; and what a great and wise God must He be who made this wide sea and holds it in its place, and lets it come no farther than He wills." "Papa," said Maggie, "I saw the wonderfulest thing this morning." "The most wonderful," said her father. "The most wonderful," repeated Maggie. "It was indeed, papa, and you need not think I was mistaken, for I am quite, quite sure I saw it." "And what was this most wonderful thing you are so very sure you saw, Maggie?" "It was the sun, papa, coming right up out of the water, and it was not put out a bit. It came up, up, away off there, where the sky touches the water. Mamma said we could not see the end of the ocean, but I see it quite well. Do not you see it, too, papa?" "I see what appears to be the end of the ocean, but these great waters stretch away for many hundred miles farther. If you were to get on a ship and sail away as far as you can see from here, you would still see just as much water before you, and the sea and the sky would still appear to touch each other: and however far you went it would always be so, until you came where the land bounds the ocean on the other side. The place where the sky and water seem to meet, is called the horizon; and it is because they do seem to touch, that the sun appeared to you to come out of the water. It is rather a difficult thing for such little girls as you and Bessie to understand, but I will try to make it plain to you. You know that the earth is round, like a ball, do you not, Maggie?" "Yes, papa." "And I suppose that you think that the sun is moving when it seems to come up in the morning, and goes on and on, till it is quite over our heads, and then goes down on the other side of the sky until we can see it no more, do you not?" "Yes, papa." "But it is really the earth on which we live, and not the sun, which is moving. Once in twenty-four hours, which makes one day and one night, the earth turns entirely round, so that a part of the time one side is turned to the sun, and a part of the time the other side. See if you can find me a small, round stone, Maggie." Maggie looked around till she found such a stone as her father wanted, and brought it to him. "Now," he said, "this stone shall be our earth, and this scratch the place where we live. We will take off Bessie's hat and have that for the sun. Now I will hold the mark which stands for our home, directly in front of our make-believe sun. If a bright light were coming from the sun and shining on our mark here, it would be the middle of the day or noon, while it would be dark on the other side. Then, as our earth moved slowly around in this way, and we turned from the sun it would become afternoon; and as we turned farther yet till we were quite away from the sun, it would be night. But we do not stay there in the dark, for we still go moving slowly round until our side of the earth comes towards the light again, and the darkness begins to pass away. The nearer we come to the sun the lighter it grows, until, if some little girl who lives on our scratch is up early enough and looks out at the horizon, or place where the earth and sky seem to meet, she sees the sun showing himself little by little; and it looks to her as if he were coming up out of the sea, while all the time the sun is standing still, and the earth on which we live is moving round so as to bring her once more opposite to him." "And is it night on the other side of the world?" asked Maggie. "Yes, there is no sun there now, and it is dark night for the little children who live there." "And are they going to have their supper while we have our brefix?" asked Bessie. "Just about so, I suppose," said papa. "But, papa," said Maggie with very wide open eyes, "do you mean that the world is going to turn way over on the other side tonight?" "Yes, dear." "Then we will fall off," said Maggie. "Did you fall off last night?" asked papa. "No, sir." "And you have been living for nearly seven years, and every day of your life the earth has turned around in the same way, and you have never yet fallen off, have you?" "No, papa." "Nor will you to-night, my little girl. The good and wise God who has made our earth to move in such a way as to give us both light and darkness as we need them, has also given to it a power to draw towards itself, all things that live or grow upon its surface. Do you know what surface means?" "Yes, papa,--the top." "Yes, or the outside. Suppose you were to fall off the top of the house, Maggie, where would you fall to?" "Down in the street and be killed," said Maggie. "Yes, down to the street or ground, and probably you would be killed. And it is because of this power which the earth has of drawing to itself all things that are upon it, that you would not fly off into the air and keep on falling, falling, for no one knows how many miles. It is too hard a thing for you to understand much about now, but when you are older you shall learn more. But we have had a long enough lesson for this morning. We will walk about a little, and see if we can find some shells before we go in to breakfast." They found a good many shells: some little black ones which Maggie called curlecues, and some white on the outside and pink inside. Then there were a few which were fluted, which the children said were the prettiest of all. They thought the beach was the best playground they had ever seen, and they were about right. First, there was the strip of smooth, white sand, on which the waves were breaking into beautiful snowy foam, with such a pleasant sound; then came another space full of pebbles and stones and sea-weed, with a few shells and here and there a great rock; then more rocks and stones with a coarse kind of grass growing between them; and beyond these, a few rough fir trees which looked as if they found it hard work to grow there. Last of all was a long, sloping bank, on top of which stood Mr. Jones's house and two or three others; and farther down the shore, the great hotel. And the air was so fresh and cool, with such a pleasant smell of the salt water. Maggie was full of fun and spirits, and raced about till her cheeks were as red as roses. There were several other people on the beach, and among them were some little boys and girls. Two or three of these, when they saw Maggie running about in such glee began to race with her, but the moment she noticed them she became shy and ran away from them to her father and Bessie who were walking quietly along. "Papa," said Bessie "isn't it delicious?" "Is not what delicious, my darling." "I don't know," said Bessie. "_It._ I like Quam Beach, papa. I wish New York was just like this." "It is this cool, fresh sea-breeze that you like so much, Bessie." "And I like to see the water, papa, and to hear the nice noise it makes." "Yes, it's so pleasant here," said Maggie. "Let's stay here always, papa, and never go home." "What! and sleep in the trundle-bed all your lives?" said papa. "Oh, no," said Maggie, "I hate that bed. I believe I _did_ sleep a little bit last night, because I was so tired; but I know I can't sleep in it to-night." "Well," said papa, "I think we will try it for a night or two longer." And then they all went in to breakfast. II. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. After breakfast they went out again. Mr. Bradford and his little girls were standing in the porch waiting for mamma who was going with them, when Mr. Jones came up from the shore. He had been fishing, and looked rather rough and dirty, but he had a pleasant, good-natured face. "Mornin' sir," he said to Mr. Bradford; "folks pretty spry?" "Pretty well, thank you," said Mr. Bradford; "you have been out early this morning." "Yes, I'm generally stirrin' round pretty early; been out since afore day-light. S'pose these are your little girls. How are you, Miss Bradford?" he said, holding out his hand. But shy Maggie hung her head and drew a little away behind her father. "Why, Maggie," said Mr. Bradford, "you are not polite; shake hands with Mr. Jones, my daughter." "Not if she hain't a mind to," said Mr. Jones. "I see she's a bashful puss, but she'll feel better acquainted one of these days." "Yes, she will;" said Bessie, "and then she won't be shy with you; but I'm not shy now, and I'll shake hands with you." Mr. Jones took the tiny little hand she offered him with a smile. "No, I see you ain't shy, and I don't want you to be; you, nor your sister neither. Goin' down to the shore, eh?" "Yes, when mamma comes," said Bessie. "Well, you see that big barn out there; when you come back you both come out there. You'll find me inside, and I'll show you something will soon cure all shyness; that is, if you like it as much as most young folks do." "What is it?" asked Bessie. "It's a scup." "Will it bite?" said Bessie. "Bite! Don't you know what a scup is?" "She knows it by the name of a swing," said Mr. Bradford. "Oh, yes! I know a swing; and I like it too. We'll come, Mr. Jones." "Is it quite safe for them?" asked Mr. Bradford. "Quite safe, sir. I put it up last Summer for some little people who were staying here; and Sam, he's my eldest son, he made a seat with back and arms, and a rung along the front to keep them in,--a fall on the barn floor wouldn't feel good, that's a fact; but it's as safe as strong ropes and good work can make it. I'll take care they don't get into no mischief with it; but come along with the little ones and see for yourself." And then with a nod to Maggie, who was peeping at him out of the corners of her eyes, Mr. Jones took up his basket of fish and walked away to the kitchen. "Bessie," said Maggie, as they went down to the beach, "do you like that man?" "Yes, I do," said Bessie; "don't you?" "No, not much. But, Bessie, did you hear what he called me?" "No," said Bessie, "I did not hear him call you anything." "He called me Miss Bradford," said Maggie, holding up her head and looking very grand. "Well," said Bessie, "I suppose he was mad because you wouldn't shake hands with him." "No," said Maggie, "it was before that; he said, 'how do you do, Miss Bradford;' and, Bessie, I like to be called Miss Bradford; and I guess I'll like him because he did it, even if he _does_ smell of fish. I think he only wanted to be _respectable_ to me." They found a good many people upon the beach now, and among them were some ladies and gentlemen whom Mr. and Mrs. Bradford knew, and while they stopped to speak to them, Maggie and Bessie wandered off a little way, picking up shells and sea-weed and putting them into a basket which their mother had given them. Presently a boy and girl came up to them. They were the children of one of the ladies who was talking to Mrs. Bradford, and their mother had sent them to make acquaintance with Maggie and Bessie. "What's your name," said the boy, coming right up to Maggie. Maggie looked at him without speaking, and, putting both hands behind her, began slowly backing away from him. "I say," said the boy, "what's your name? My mother sent us to make friends with you; but we can't do it, if you won't tell us what your name is." "Her name is Miss Bradford," said Bessie, who wanted to please her sister, and who herself thought it rather fine for Maggie to be called Miss Bradford. "Oh! and you're another Miss Bradford, I suppose," said the boy, laughing. "Why! so I am," said Bessie; "I didn't think about that before. Maggie we're two Miss Bradfords." "Well, two Miss Bradfords, I hope we find you pretty well this morning. My name is Mr. Stone, and my sister's is Miss Stone." "'Tain't," said the little girl, crossly, "it's nothing but Mary." "Sure enough," said her brother; "she's just Miss Mary, quite contrary; whatever you say, she'll say just the other thing; that's her way." "Now, Walter, you stop," said Mary in a whining, fretful voice. "Now, Mamie, you stop," mimicked her brother. "I think we wont be acquainted with you," said Bessie. "I am afraid you are not very good children." "What makes you think so," asked Walter. "'Cause you quarrel," said Bessie; "good children don't quarrel, and Jesus won't love you if you do." "What a funny little tot you are," said Walter. "I won't quarrel with you, but Mamie is so cross I can't help quarrelling with her. I like girls, and I want to play with you, and your sister, too, if she'll speak. I have a splendid wagon up at the hotel and I'll bring it and give you a first-rate ride if you like. Come, let us make friends, and tell me your first name, Miss Bradford, No. 2." "It's Bessie, and my sister's is Maggie." "And don't you and Maggie ever quarrel?" "Why, no," said Maggie, coming out of her shy fit when she heard this, "Bessie is my own little sister." "Well, and Mamie is my own sister, and you see we quarrel for all that. But never mind that now. I'll go for my wagon and give you a ride; will you like it?" "I will," said Bessie. In a few minutes Walter came back with his wagon. Maggie and Bessie thought he was quite right when he called it splendid. They told him it was the prettiest wagon they had ever seen. He said he would give Bessie the first ride, and he lifted her in and told Maggie and Mamie to push behind. "I sha'n't," said Mamie; "I want a ride, too; there's plenty of room, Bessie's so little." "No, it will make it too heavy," said Walter. "You shall ride when your turn comes." Mamie began to cry, and Bessie said she would get out and let her ride first; but Walter said she should not. "There comes Tom," said Mamie; "he'll help you pull." The children looked around, and there was a boy rather larger than Walter coming towards them. "Why, it's Tom Norris!" said Maggie; "do you know him?" And sure enough it was their own Tom Norris, whom they loved so much. He ran up to them and kissed Maggie and Bessie, as if he were very glad to see them. "Why, Tom," said Bessie, "I didn't know you came here." "I came night before last, with father," said Tom. "We came to take rooms at the hotel, and I wanted to stay; so father left me with Mrs. Stone, and he has gone home for mother and Lily, and the whole lot and scot of them; they're all coming to-morrow." "Oh! I am so glad," said Maggie. "Tom! can't I ride?" asked Mamie. "You must ask Walter," said Tom; "the wagon is his; what are you crying about, Mamie?" Walter told what the trouble was. "Come, now, Mamie, be good, and you shall ride with Bessie, and I will help Walter pull." Mamie was put into the seat by Bessie, and then Tom said they must find room for Maggie, too. So he made her sit on the bottom of the wagon, and off they started. Of course they were crowded, but the two children who were good-natured did not mind that at all, and would have been quite happy had it not been for Mamie. She fretted and complained so much that at last the boys were out of patience and took her out of the wagon. "You see," said Walter, as the cross, selfish child went off screaming to her mother, "Mamie is the only girl, and the youngest, and she has been so spoiled there is no living with her." They were all happier when she had gone, and had a nice long play together. Tom Norris was twelve years old, but he did not think himself too large to play with or amuse such little girls as Maggie and Bessie, who were only seven and five; and as he was always kind and good to them, they loved him dearly. Grown people liked him too, and said he was a perfect little gentleman. But Tom was better than that, for he was a true Christian; and it was this which made him so kind and polite to every one. When Mr. Bradford came to call his little girls to go home, he found them telling Tom and Walter about the swing which Mr. Jones had promised them, and he invited the boys to go with them and see it. So they all went back together. When they reached home Mr. Bradford told them they might go on to the barn while he went into the house for a few minutes. The great barn-doors were open, and Mr. Jones and his son, Sam, were busy inside. Just outside the door sat Mrs. Jones with a pan full of currants in her lap which she was stringing. There was a sheep skin on the ground beside her, and on it sat her fat baby, Susie. Two kittens were playing on the grass a little way off, and Susie wanted to catch them. She would roll herself over on her hands and knees, and creep to the edge of her sheep skin, but just as she reached it her mother's hand would take her by the waist and lift her back to the place from which she started. Susie would sit still for a moment, as if she was very much astonished, and then try again, always to be pulled back to the old spot. But when she saw Maggie and Bessie she forgot the kittens and sat quite still with her thumb in her mouth staring at them with her great blue eyes. "Mr. Jones," said Bessie, "these are our friends. One is an old friend, and his name is Tom; and one is a new friend, and his name is Walter. They have come to see that thing you don't call a swing." "They're both welcome if they're friends of yours," said Mr. Jones. "I'll show you the scup in a few minutes, as soon as I finish this job I'm about." "Mrs. Jones," said Bessie, "is that your baby?" "Yes," said Mrs. Jones, "what do you think of her?" "I think she is fat," answered Bessie. "May we help you do that, Mrs. Jones?" "I'm afraid you'll stain your frocks, and what would your ma say then?" "She'd say you oughtn't to let us do it." "Just so," said Mrs. Jones. "No, I can't let you help me, but I'll tell you what I'll do. I am going to make pies out of these currants and I'll make you each a turnover; sha'n't you like that?" "What is a turnover," asked Maggie. "Don't you know what a turnover is? You wait and see; you'll like 'em when you find out. You can play with Susie if you've a mind to." But Susie would not play, she only sat and stared at the children, and sucked her thumb. Pretty soon papa came, and when Mr. Jones was ready they all went into the barn. The swing was fastened up to a hook in the wall, but Mr. Jones soon had it down; and Mr. Bradford tried it and found it quite safe and strong. The seat was large enough to hold both the little girls, if they sat pretty close, so they were both put into it, and papa gave them a fine swing. Then the boys took their turn; and Mr. Jones told them they might come and swing as often as they liked. III. _THE LETTER._ You are not going to hear all that Maggie and Bessie did every day at the sea-shore, but only a few of the things that happened to them. They liked Quam Beach more and more. Maggie did not mind the trundle-bed so very much after a night or two, though she never seemed to grow quite used to it; and Bessie, who had been weak and sick when they left home, became stronger, and was soon able to run about more with the other children. After a few days they began to bathe in the sea. Maggie was afraid at first, and cried when she was carried into the water; but the second time she was braver, and she soon came to like it almost as well as Bessie, who never was ready to come out when it was thought she had been in long enough. She would beg her father or the bathing-woman to let her stay just one minute more; and she would laugh when the waves came dashing over her, so that sometimes the salt water would get into her little mouth. But she did not mind it, and begged for another and another wave, until papa would say that it was high time for her to come out. Mamma said she had never seen Bessie enjoy anything so much, and it made her feel very happy to see her little girl growing well and strong again. Bessie loved the sea very much, and often when her sister and little companions were playing, she would sit quietly on some rock, looking away out over the wide, beautiful waters, or watching and listening to the waves as they came rolling up on the beach. People who were passing used to turn and look at her, and smile when they saw the sweet little face, which looked so grave and wise. But if any stranger asked her what she was thinking about, she would only say, "Thoughts, ma'am." Maggie did not like to sit still as Bessie did. She was well and fat and rosy, and full of fun when she was with people she knew; and she liked to play better than to sit on the rocks and watch the water, but she seldom went far away from Bessie, and was always running to her with some pretty shell or sea-weed she had found. She and Bessie and Lily Norris would play in the sand and make little ponds or wells, and sand pies, or pop the air bags in the sea-weed; or have some other quiet play which did not tire Bessie. Very often Walter Stone and Tom Norris gave them a ride in the wagon; or Tom told them nice stories; and sometimes they all went out on the water in Mr. Jones's boat, or took a drive with papa and mamma. Before they had been at Quam Beach many days, they knew quite a number of the children who were staying there; and they liked almost all of them, except fretful Mamie Stone, who made herself so disagreeable that no one cared to play with her. In short, there were so many things to do, and so much to see, that the day was never long enough for them. Then they made friends with Toby, Mr. Jones' great white dog. He was an ugly old fellow, and rather gruff and unsociable; but, like some people, he was in reality better than he appeared. He would never allow any grown person but his master to pet him; and if any one tried to pat him or make him play, he would walk away and seat himself at a distance, with an offended air which seemed to say, "What a very silly person you are; do you not know that I am too grave and wise a dog to be pleased with such nonsense!" But he was not so with little children. Though he would not play, he let Susie and Franky pull his ears and tail, and roll and tumble over him as much as they liked without giving them one growl. Maggie and Bessie were rather afraid of him at first, but they soon found he was not as fierce as he looked, and after Mr. Jones had told them how he saved a little boy from drowning the last summer, they liked him better, and soon came to have no fear of him. This boy had been one of those who were boarding in the house last year, and was a disobedient, mischievous child. One day he wanted to go down on the beach, but it was not convenient for any one to go with him, and his mother told him he must wait. He watched till no one saw him, and then ran off followed by Toby, who seemed to know that he was in mischief. When the child reached the beach, he pulled off his shoes and stockings and went to the water's edge where the waves could dash over his feet. He went a little farther and a little farther, till at last a wave came which was too strong for him. It threw him down and carried him out into deeper water, and in another minute he would have been beyond help had not Toby dashed in and seized hold of him. It was hard work for Toby, for he was not a water-dog; but he held the boy till a man, who had seen it all, came running to his help and pulled the boy out. After this, Toby would never let the child go near the water all the time he staid at Quam Beach. If he tried to go, Toby would take hold of his clothes with his teeth, and no coaxings or scoldings would make him let go till the boy's face was turned the other way. Toby was of great use to Mrs. Jones; she said that he was as good as a nurse. Every day she used to put Susie to sleep in a room at the head of the garret stairs. Then she would call the dog, and leave him to take care of the baby while she went about her work; and it seemed as if Toby knew the right hour for Susie's nap, for he was never out of the way at that time. He would lie and watch her till she woke up, and then go to the head of the stairs and bark till Mrs. Jones came. Then he knew that his duty was done, and he would walk gravely down stairs. Sometimes Mrs. Jones put Susie on the kitchen floor, and left Toby to look after her. He would let her crawl all round unless she went near the fire, or the open door or kitchen stairs, when he would take her by the waist and lift her back to the place where her mother had left her. Susie would scold him as well as she knew how, and pound him with her little fist; but he did not care one bit for that. After a time Bessie grew quite fond of Toby. Maggie did not like him so much. She liked a dog who would romp and play with her, which Toby would never do. If his master or mistress did not want him, Toby was generally to be found lying on the porch or sitting on the edge of the bank above the beach, looking down on the people who were walking or driving there. Bessie would sit down beside him and pat his rough head, and talk to him in a sweet, coaxing voice, and he would blink his eyes at her and flap his heavy tail upon the ground in a way that he would do for no one else. "Bessie," said Maggie, one day, as her sister sat patting the great dog, "what makes you like Toby so much; do you think he is pretty?" "No," answered Bessie, "I don't think he is pretty, but I think he is very good and wise." "But he is not so wise as Jemmy Bent's Shock," said Maggie; "he does not know any funny tricks." Jemmy Bent was a poor lame boy, and Shock was his dog,--a little Scotch terrier with a black shaggy coat, and a pair of sharp, bright eyes peeping out from the long, wiry hair which hung about his face. He had been taught a great many tricks, and Maggie thought him a very wonderful dog, but Bessie had never seemed to take much of a fancy to him. "But he is very useful," said Bessie, "and I don't think Shock is pretty either; I think he is very ugly, Maggie." "So do I," said Maggie; "but then he looks so funny and smart: I think he looks a great deal nicer than Toby." "I don't," said Bessie, "I don't like the look of Shock; the first time I saw him I didn't think he was a dog." "What did you think he was?" "I thought he was _a animal_," said Bessie, "and I was afraid of him." "And are you afraid of him now?" "No, not much; but I had rather he'd stay under the bed when I go to see Jemmy." "I wouldn't," said Maggie, "and I can't like Toby so much as Shock. No, I can't, Toby, and you need not look at me so about it." Maggie's opinion did not seem to make the least difference to Toby; he only yawned and blinked his eyes at her. When Maggie and Bessie had been at Quam Beach about a week, they woke one morning to find it was raining hard, and Mr. Jones said he hoped it would keep on, for the rain was much needed. The little girls hoped it would not, for they did not like to stay in the house all day. About eleven o'clock they went to their mother and told her they had promised to write a letter to Grandpapa Duncan, and asked if they might do it now. Mamma was busy, and told them that she could not write it for them at that time. "But, mamma," said Maggie, "we don't want you to write it for us; grandpapa will like it better if we do it all ourselves. I can print it, and Bessie will help me make it up." So mamma gave them a sheet of paper and a pencil, and they went off in a corner to write their letter. They were very busy over it for a long while. When it was done they brought it to their mother to see if it was all right. There were a few mistakes in the spelling which Mrs. Bradford corrected; but it was very nicely printed for such a little girl as Maggie. This was the letter:-- "DEAR GRANDPAPA DUNCAN,-- "Maggie and Bessie are making up this letter, but I am printing, because Bessie is too little. We hope you are well, and Bessie is better and I am very well, thank you, and every body. It rains, and we have nothing to do, and so we are writing you a letter. We like this place; it is nice. There is a great deal of sea here. There are two kittens here. Mrs. Jones made us a turnover. The old cat is very cross. Mrs. Jones put currants in it, and she put it in the oven and the juice boiled out and made it sticky, and it was good and we eat it all up. Dear grandpa, we hope you are well. This is from us, Maggie and Bessie. Good-by, dear grandpa. P. S.--We can't think of anything else to say. My hand is tired, too. "Your beloved "MAGGIE AND BESSIE. "Another P. S.--God bless you." Mamma said it was a very nice letter, and she folded it and put it in an envelope. Then she directed it to Mr. Duncan, and put a postage stamp on it, so that it was all ready to go with the rest of the letters when Mr. Jones went to the post-office in the evening. But you must learn a little about the dear old gentleman to whom the children had been writing. His name was Duncan, and he lived at a beautiful place called Riverside, a short distance from New York. He was not really the children's grandfather, but his son, Mr. John Duncan, had married their Aunt Helen; and as they were as fond of him as he was of them, he had taught them to call him Grandpapa Duncan. A little way from Riverside lived a poor widow named Bent. She had a son, who a year or two since had fallen from a wall and hurt his back, so that the doctor said he would never walk or stand again. Day after day he lay upon his bed, sometimes suffering very much, but always gentle, patient, and uncomplaining. Jemmy was often alone, for hours at a time; for his mother had to work hard to get food and medicine for her sick boy; and his sister, Mary, carried radishes and cresses, and other green things to sell in the streets of the city. But Jemmy's Bible and Prayer-book were always at his side, and in these the poor helpless boy found comfort when he was tired and lonely. To buy a wheel chair, in which Jemmy might be out of doors, and be rolled from place to place without trouble or pain to himself, was the one great wish of Mrs. Bent and Mary; and they were trying to put by money enough for this. But such a chair cost a great deal; and though they saved every penny they could, the money came very slowly, and it seemed as if it would be a long while before Jemmy had his chair. Now Mrs. Bradford was one of Mary's customers; so it happened that the children had often seen her when she came with her basket of radishes. Bessie used to call her "yadishes," for she could not pronounce _r_: but neither she nor Maggie had ever heard of the poor lame boy, till one day when they were at Riverside. Playing in the garden, they saw Mary sitting outside the gate, counting over the money she had made by the sale of her radishes: and as they were talking to her, it came about that she told them of the sick brother lying on his bed, never able to go out and breathe the fresh air, or see the beautiful blue sky and green trees, in this lovely Summer weather; and how she and her mother were working and saving, that they might have enough to buy the easy chair. Our little girls were very much interested, and went back to the house very eager and anxious to help buy the chair for Jemmy; and finding Grandpapa Duncan on the piazza, they told him the whole story. Now our Maggie and Bessie had each a very troublesome fault. Bessie had a quick temper, and was apt to fly into a passion; while Maggie was exceedingly careless and forgetful, sometimes disobeying her parents from sheer heedlessness, and a moment's want of thought. When Mr. Duncan heard about Jemmy Bent, he proposed a little plan to the children, that pleased them very much. This was about a month before they were to leave the city for the sea-shore. Grandpapa Duncan promised that for each day, during the next three weeks, in which Bessie did not lose her temper and give way to one of her fits of passion, or in which Maggie did not fall into any great carelessness or disobedience, he would give twenty cents to each little girl. At the end of three weeks this would make eight dollars and forty cents. When they had earned this much he would add the rest of the money that was needed to buy the wheel chair, and they should have the pleasure of giving it to Jemmy themselves. The children were delighted, and promised to try hard, and they did do their best. But it was hard work, for they were but little girls,--Bessie only five, Maggie not quite seven. Bessie had some hard battles with her temper. Maggie had to watch carefully that she was not tempted into forgetfulness and disobedience. And one day Maggie failed miserably, for she had trusted to her own strength, and not looked for help from above. But Grandpapa Duncan gave her another trial; and, as even such young children may do much toward conquering their faults if they try with all their hearts, the money was all earned, the chair bought, and Maggie and Bessie carried it to lame Jemmy. Then it would have been hard to tell who were the most pleased, the givers or the receivers. Nor did Maggie and Bessie cease after this to struggle with their faults, for from this time there was a great improvement to be seen in both. IV. _THE QUARREL._ Mr. Jones had another errand to do when he went to the post-office, which was to go to the railway station for Harry and Fred, whose vacation had begun. Grandmamma and Aunt Annie came with them, but they went to the hotel, and Maggie and Bessie did not see them till the next morning. How glad the little girls were to have their brothers with them; and what a pleasure it was to take them round the next day and show them all that was to be seen! "Maggie and Bessie," said Harry, "I saw a great friend of yours on Saturday; guess who it was." "Grandpa Hall," said Maggie. "No; guess again. We went out to Riverside to spend the day, and it was there we saw him." "Oh, I know!" said Bessie, "it was lame Jemmy." "Yes, it was lame Jemmy, and he was as chirp as a grasshopper. He was sitting up in his chair out under the trees; and you never saw a fellow so happy, for all he is lame. Why, if I was like him, and couldn't go about, I should be as cross as a bear." "Oh, no, you wouldn't, Harry," said Bessie; "not if you knew it was God who made you lame." "Oh, but I should, though; I'm not half as good as he is." "But you could ask Jesus to make you good and patient like Jemmy, and then He would." "Well," said Harry, "he's mighty good, anyhow; and Fred and I gave him a first-rate ride in his chair ever so far up the road. He liked it, I can tell you; and he asked such lots of questions about you two. And what do you think he is learning to do?" "What?" asked both his little sisters. "To knit stockings for the soldiers." "What! a boy?" said Maggie. "Yes; Aunt Helen sent some yarn to his mother to knit socks; and Jemmy wanted to learn so that he could do something for his country, if he was a lame boy, he said. Aunt Helen pays Mrs. Bent for those she makes, but Jemmy told her if he might use some of her yarn he would like to do it without pay, and she gave him leave; so his mother is teaching him, and you would think he is a girl to see how nicely he takes to it. He is not a bit ashamed of it either, if it is girl's work." "And so he oughtn't," said Bessie. "Girl's work is very nice work." "So it is, Queen Bess; and girls are very nice things when they are like our Midget and Bess." "I don't think boys are half as nice as girls," said Maggie, "except you and Tom, Harry." "And I," said Fred. "Well, yes, Fred; when you don't tease I love you; but then you do tease, you know. But Mamie Stone is not nice if she is a girl; she is cross, and she did a shocking thing, Harry. She pinched Bessie's arm so it's all black and blue. But she was served right for it, 'cause I just gave her a good slap." "But that was naughty in you," said Tom, who was standing by; "you should return good for evil." "I sha'n't, if she evils my Bessie," said Maggie, stoutly. "If she hurts me I won't do anything to her, but if she hurts Bessie I will, and I don't believe it's any harm. I'm sure there's a verse in the Bible about it." "About what, Maggie?" "About, about,--why about my loving Bessie and not letting any one hurt her. I'll ask papa to find one for me. He can find a verse in the Bible about everything. Oh, now I remember one myself. It's--little children love each other." "And so you should," said Tom; "and it is very sweet to see two little sisters always so kind and loving to each other as you and Bessie are. But, Maggie, that verse does not mean that you should get into a quarrel with your other playmates for Bessie's sake; it means that you should love all little children. Of course you need not love Mamie as much as Bessie, but you ought to love her enough to make you kind to her. And there's another verse,--'blessed are the peace-makers.' You were not a peace-maker when you slapped Mamie." "I sha'n't be Mamie's peace-maker," said Maggie; "and, Tom, you ought to take my side and Bessie's; you are very unkind." "Now don't be vexed, Midget," said Tom, sitting down on a large stone, and pulling Maggie on his knee. "I only want to show you that it did not make things any better for you to slap Mamie when she pinched Bessie. What happened next after you slapped her?" "She slapped me," said Maggie; "and then I slapped her again, and Lily slapped her, too; it was just good enough for her." "And what then?" asked Tom. "Why Mamie screamed and ran and told her mother, and Mrs. Stone came and scolded us; and Jane showed her Bessie's arm, and she said she didn't believe Mamie meant to hurt Bessie." "What a jolly row!" said Fred. "I wish I had been there to see." "Nurse said she wished she had been there," said Maggie, "and she would have told Mrs. Stone--" "Never mind that," said Tom; "there were quite enough in the quarrel without nurse. Now, Maggie, would it not have been far better if you had taken Bessie quietly away when Mamie hurt her?" "No," said Maggie, "because then she wouldn't have been slapped, and she ought to be." "Well, I think with you that Mamie was a very naughty girl, and deserved to be punished; but then it was not your place to do it." "But her mother would not do it," said Maggie; "she is a weak, foolish woman, and is ruining that child." The boys laughed, when Maggie said this with such a grand air. "Who did you hear say that?" asked Harry. "Papa," said Maggie,--"so it's true. I guess he didn't mean me to hear it, but I did." "Oh, you little pitcher!" cried Harry; and Tom said, "Maggie dear, things may be quite right for your father to say, that would not be proper for us; because Mrs. Stone is a great deal older than we are; but since we all know that she does not take much pains to make Mamie a good and pleasant child, do you not think that this ought to make us more patient with her when she is fretful and quarrelsome?" "No," said Maggie; "if her mother don't make her behave, some one else ought to. I will hurt her if she hurts Bessie." "Maggie," said Tom, "when wicked men came to take Jesus Christ and carry him away to suffer a dreadful death on the cross, do you remember what one of the disciples did?" "No; tell me," said Maggie. "He drew his sword and cut off the ear of one of those wicked men; not because he was doing anything to him, but because he was ill-treating the dear Lord whom he loved." "I'm glad of it," said Maggie; "it was just good enough for that bad man, and I love that disciple." "But the Saviour was not glad," said Tom, "for he reproved the disciple, and told him to put up his sword; and he reached out his hand and healed the man's ear." "That was because he was Jesus," said Maggie. "I couldn't be so good as Jesus." "No, we cannot be as holy and good as Jesus, for he was without sin; but we can try to be like him, and then he will love us and be pleased with what he knows we wish to do. Maggie, the other day I heard you saying to your mother that pretty hymn, 'I am Jesus' Little Lamb;' now, if you are really one of Jesus' little lambs you will also be one of his blessed peace-makers. I think if you and Lily had not struck Mamie, she would have felt much more sorry and ashamed than she does now, when she thinks that you have hurt her as much as she hurt Bessie." "Do you want me to be a peace-maker with Mamie, now?" asked Maggie. "Yes, if you are not friends with her yet." "Oh, no, we are not friends at all," said Maggie; "for she runs away every time she sees Lily or me; and we make faces at her." "And do you like to have it so?" "Yes," said Maggie slowly, "I think I do; I like to see her run." "And do you think it is like Jesus' little lamb for you to feel so." "No, I suppose not; I guess it's pretty naughty, and I won't make faces at her anymore. What shall I do to make friends, Tom?" "Well," said Tom, "I cannot tell exactly; but suppose the next time that Mamie runs away from you, you call her to come and play with you; will not that show her that you wish to be at peace again?" "Yes," said Maggie; "and if you think Jesus would want me to, I'll do it; but, Tom, we'll be very sorry if she comes. You don't know what an uncomfortable child she is to play with; she's as cross as--as cross as--_nine_ sticks." "Perhaps you'll find some other way," said Tom, who could not help smiling. "If we wish for a chance to do good to a person we can generally find one. But I must go, for there is father beckoning to me to come out in the boat with him. You will think of what I have said, will you not, Maggie?" "Oh, yes I will, and I will do it too, Tom; and if Mamie pinches Bessie again, I won't slap her, but only give her a good push, and then we'll run away from her." Tom did not think that this was exactly the way to make friends, but he had not time to say anything more, for his father was waiting. V. _TOM'S SUNDAY-SCHOOL._ "There's Tom," said Maggie, on the next Sunday afternoon, as she looked out of the window; "he is talking to Mr. Jones, and now they are going to the barn. I wonder if he is going to swing on Sunday." "Why, Maggie," said Bessie; "Tom wouldn't do such a thing." "I thought maybe he forgot," said Maggie. "I forgot it was Sunday this morning, and I was just going to ask Mr. Jones to swing me. I wonder what they are doing. I can see in the door of the barn and they are busy with the hay. Come and look, Bessie." Tom and Mr. Jones seemed to be very busy in the barn for a few minutes, but the little girls could not make out what they were doing. At last Tom came out and walked over to the house. Maggie and Bessie ran to meet him. "Here you are," he said, "the very little people I wanted to see. I am going to have a Sunday-school class in the barn. Mr. Jones has given me leave, for I could find no place over at the hotel. We have been making seats in the hay. Will you come?" "Oh, yes, indeed we will," said Maggie, clapping her hands. Bessie shook her head sorrowfully. "Tom," she said, "mamma wont let me go to Sunday-school; she says I am too little." "I think she will let you go to mine," said Tom; "we'll go and ask her." They all went in together to the room where papa and mamma sat reading. "Mrs. Bradford," said Tom, when he had shaken hands with her, "I am going to hold a little Sunday-school class over in the barn; will you let Maggie and Bessie come?" "Certainly," said Mrs. Bradford. "Who are you to have, Tom?" "Only Lily, ma'am, and Mamie Stone, and a few more of the little ones from the hotel; they were running about and making a great noise in the hall and parlors, and I thought I could keep them quiet for a while if Mr. Jones would let me bring them over to his barn, and have a Sunday-school there. Walter is coming to help me." "A good plan, too," said Mr. Bradford; "you are a kind boy to think of it, Tom." "May I come?" asked Harry. "And I, too?" said Fred. "I don't know about you, Fred," said Tom; "I should like to have Harry, for neither Walter nor I can sing, and we want some one to set the tunes for the little ones. But I am afraid you will make mischief." "Indeed I won't, Tom. Let me come and I will be as quiet as a mouse, and give you leave to turn me out if I do the first thing." "Well, then, you may come, but I shall hold you to your word and send you away if you make the least disturbance. I don't mean this for play." "Honor bright," said Fred. They all went out and met Walter who was coming up the path with a troop of little ones after him. There were Lily and Eddie Norris, Gracie Howard, Mamie Stone, Julia and Charlie Bolton, and half a dozen more beside. Tom marched them into the barn, where he and Mr. Jones had arranged the school-room. And a fine school-room the children thought it; better than those in the city to which some of them went every Sunday. There were two long piles of hay with boards laid on top of them,--one covered with a buffalo robe, the other with a couple of sheep skins, making nice seats. In front of these was Tom's place,--an empty barrel turned upside-down for his desk, and Fred's velocipede for his seat. The children did not in the least care that hay was strewn all over the floor, or that the old horse who was in the other part of the barn, would now and then put his nose through the little opening above his manger, and look in at them as if he wondered what they were about. "Oh, isn't this splendid?" said Maggie. "It is better than our Infant school-room, in Dr. Hill's church." "So it is," said Lily. "I wish we always went to Sunday-school here, and had Tom for our teacher." Some of the little ones wanted to play, and began to throw hay at each other; but Tom put a stop to this; he had not brought them there to romp, he said, and those who wanted to be noisy must go away. Then he told them all to take their seats. Maggie had already taken hers on the end of one of the hay benches, with Bessie next to her, and Lily on the other side of Bessie. Gracie Howard sat down by Lily, and Mamie Stone was going to take her place next, when Gracie said, "You sha'n't sit by me, Mamie." "Nor by me," said Lily. "Nor me, nor me," said two or three of the others. Now Mamie saw how she had made the other children dislike her by her ill-humor and unkindness, and she did not find it at all pleasant to stand there and have them all saying they would not sit by her. "I want to go home," she said, while her face grew very red, and she looked as if she were going to cry. "Who is going to be kind, and sit by Mamie," asked Tom. "I should think none of them who know how she can pinch," said Fred. "Oh, we are going to forget all that," said Tom. "Come, children, make room for Mamie." "This bench is full," said Lily, "she can't come here." Mamie began to cry. "There is plenty of room on the other bench," said Tom; "sit there, Mamie." "I don't want to," answered Mamie; "there's nothing but boys there, and I want to go home." "Why," said Tom, "what a bad thing that would be, to begin our Sunday-school by having one of our little scholars go home because none of the rest will sit by her. That will never do." All this time Maggie had sat quite still, looking at Mamie. She was thinking of what Tom had said to her, and of being Jesus' little lamb. Here was a chance to show Mamie that she was ready to be friends with her, but it was hard work. She did not at all like to go away from her little sister whom she loved so much, to sit by Mamie whom she did not love at all, and who had been so unkind to Bessie. She rose up slowly from her seat, with cheeks as red as Mamie's and said,-- "Tom, I'll go on the other seat and sit by Mamie." "And just get pinched for it," said Lily: "stay with us, Maggie." Mamie took her hand down from her face and looked at Maggie with great surprise. "She wants some one to sit with her," said Maggie, "and I had better go." "Maggie is doing as she would be done by," said Tom. Then Maggie felt glad, for she knew she was doing right. "Come, Mamie," she said, and she took hold of Mamie's hand, and they sat down together on the other bench. "You are a good girl, Midget," said Harry, "and it's more than you deserve, Miss Mamie." "I don't care," said Mamie. "I love Maggie, and I don't love any of the rest of you, except only Tom." Here Tom called his school to order and said there must be no more talking, for he was going to read, and all must be quiet. He went behind his barrel-desk, and opening his Bible, read to them about the Saviour blessing little children. Then they sang, "I want to be an Angel." Harry and Fred, with their beautiful clear voices, started the tune, and all the children joined in, for every one of them knew the pretty hymn. [Illustration: Bessie at Sea Side. p. 68] Next, Tom read how Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in a rough stable and laid not in a pretty cradle such as their baby brothers and sisters slept in, but in a manger where the wise men of the east came and worshipped Him: and how after Joseph and Mary had been told by God to fly into the land of Egypt with the infant Saviour, the wicked king, Herod, killed all the dear little babies in the land, with the hope that Jesus might be among them. When he came to any thing which he thought the children would not understand, he stopped and explained it to them. "Now we will sing again," he said, when he had done reading, "and the girls shall choose the hymns. Maggie, dear, what shall we sing first?" Maggie knew what she would like, but she was too shy to tell, and she looked at Tom without speaking. Tom thought he knew, and said, "I'll choose for you, then. We will sing, 'Jesus, little lamb;' whoever knows it, hold up their hand." Half a dozen little hands went up, but Tom saw that all the children did not know it. "What shall we do?" he said. "Maggie would like that best, I think; but I suppose all want to sing, and some do not know the words." "Never mind," said Gracie Howard, who was one of those who had not held up her hand, "if Maggie wants it we'll sing it, because she was so good and went and sat by Mamie. If we don't know the words we can holler out the tune all the louder." Some of the children began to laugh when Gracie said this, but Tom said, "I have a better plan than that. I will say the first verse over three or four times, line by line, and you may repeat it after me; then we will sing it, and so go on with the next verse." This was done. Tom said the lines slowly and distinctly, and those who did not know the hymn repeated them. While they were learning the first verse in this way, Mamie whispered to Maggie, "Maggie, I love you." "Do you?" said Maggie, as if she could not quite believe it. "Yes, because you are good; don't you love me. Maggie?" "Well, no, not much," said Maggie, "but I'll try to." "I wish you would," said Mamie; "and I wont snatch your things, nor slap you, nor do anything." "I'll love you if you do a favor to me," said Maggie. "Yes, I will, if it is not to give you my new crying baby." "Oh, I don't want your crying baby, nor any of your toys," said Maggie. "I only want you to promise that you won't pinch my Bessie again. Why, Mamie, you ought to be more ashamed of yourself than any girl that ever lived; her arm is all black and blue yet." "I didn't mean to hurt her so much," said Mamie, "and I was sorry when Bessie cried so; but then you slapped me, and Lily slapped me, and Jane scolded me, and so I didn't care, but was glad I did it; but I am sorry, now, and I'll never do it again." "And I sha'n't slap you, if you do," said Maggie. "What will you do, then?" "I'll just take Bessie away, and leave you to your own 'flections." "I don't know what that means," said Mamie. "I don't, either," said Maggie; "but I heard papa say it, so I said it. I like to say words that big people say. Bessie won't say a word if she don't know what it means; but I'd just as lief. I guess it means conscience." "Oh, I guess it does, too," said Mamie, "for Walter said he should think I'd have a troubled conscience for hurting Bessie so; but I didn't. And Tom talked to me too; but I didn't care a bit, till you came to sit by me, Maggie, and now I am sorry. Did you tell Tom about it?" "I talked to him about it, but he knew before. Why, everybody knew, Mamie, because your mamma made such an awful fuss about those little slaps." Now Maggie made a mistake in saying this; she did not mean it to vex Mamie, but it did. "They were not little slaps," she said, "they were hard slaps, and they hurt; and you sha'n't say my mamma makes an awful fuss." Before Maggie had time to answer, Tom called upon the children to sing, and Maggie joined in with her whole heart. The first verse was sung over twice; and by the time this was done, Mamie felt good-natured again, for she remembered how Maggie had come to sit with her when none of the other little girls would do so. She had been quite surprised when Maggie had offered to do it, and had thought that she could not have been so good. "I'll never be cross with Maggie again," she said to herself. When Tom began to teach the second verse she whispered, "Maggie, will you kiss me and make up?" "Yes, by and by, when some of the other children are gone," said Maggie. "Why won't you do it, now?" "I don't like to do it before them; I'm afraid they'll think I want them to see." When Tom thought the children all knew the hymn pretty well, they sang it over two or three times, and then he told them a story. After they had sung once more, he dismissed the school; for he did not want to keep them too long, lest the little ones should be tired. He invited all those who liked it, to come again the next Sunday afternoon, for Mr. Jones had said that they might have Sunday-school in the barn as often as they liked. Every one of the children said that they would come. When most of them had left the barn, Maggie said, "Now I will kiss you, Mamie." "I want to kiss Bessie, too," said Mamie, as the little girl came running up to her sister; "will you kiss me, Bessie?" "Oh, yes," said Bessie; and Mamie kissed both of her little playmates, and so there was peace between them once more. VI. _THE POST-OFFICE_ On Monday Mr. Bradford went up to New York to attend to some business. He was to come back on Wednesday afternoon; and on the morning of that day, grandmamma sent over to know if Mrs. Bradford would like to have her carriage, and drive to the railway station to meet him. Mamma said yes; and told Maggie and Bessie they might go with her. She offered to take Harry and Fred, too; but they wanted to go clam-fishing with Mr. Jones; so she took Franky and baby instead, and carried baby herself, telling nurse and Jane that they might have a holiday for the afternoon. The little girls were delighted at the thought of going to meet their dear father; for he had been gone three days, and they had missed him very much. The first part of the ride was through the sand, where the wheels went in so deep that the horses had hard work to draw the carriage and went very slowly, but the children did not mind that at all. They liked to hear the sound of the wheels grating through the sand, and to watch how they took it up and threw it off again as they moved round and round. At last the carriage turned off to the right, and now the road was firmer and harder, and, after a time, ran through the woods. This was delightful, it was so cool and shady. Baby seemed to think this was a good place for a nap, for she began to shut her eyes and nod her little head about, till mamma laid her down in her lap, where she went fast asleep. James took Franky in front with him and let him hold the end of the reins, and Franky thought he was driving quite as much as the good-natured coachman, and kept calling out "Get up," and "Whoa," which the horses did not care for in the least. There was a little stream which ran along by the side of the road, and at last bent itself right across it, so that the carriage had to go over a small bridge. Just beyond the bridge the stream widened into quite a large pool. James drove his horses into it, and stopped to let them take a drink. It was a lovely, shady spot. The trees grew close around the pool and met overhead, and there were a number of small purple flowers growing all around. James tried to reach some of them with his whip, but they were too far away, so the children were disappointed. When the horses had stopped drinking, there was not a sound to be heard but the twittering of the birds in the branches, and the little ripple of the water as it flowed over the stones. "Let's stay here a great while, mamma," said Bessie, "it is so pleasant." "And what would papa do when he came and found no one waiting for him?" said Mrs. Bradford. "Oh, yes! let us make haste then," said Bessie; "we mustn't make him disappointed for a million waters." But mamma said there was time enough; so they staid a few moments longer, and then drove on. At last they passed from the beautiful green wood into a space where there was no shade. There were bushes and very small trees to be sure, but they were low and scrubby and grew close together in a kind of tangled thicket. These reached as far as they could see on either side, and came so near to the edge of the road, that once, when James had to make way for a heavy hay wagon, and drew in his horses to let it pass, Maggie stretched her hand out of the carriage and pulled some sprigs from one of the bushes. "Mamma, do you know that funny old man?" asked Bessie, as the driver of the hay wagon nodded to her mother, and Mrs. Bradford smiled and nodded pleasantly in return. "No, dear; but in these lonely country places it is the custom for people to nod when they pass each other." "Why, we don't do that in New York," said Maggie. "No, it would be too troublesome to speak to every one whom we met in the streets of a great city; and people there would think it very strange and impertinent if you bowed to them when you did not know them." "Mamma," said Maggie, "I don't like the kind of country there is here, at all. What makes all these bushes grow here?" Then mamma told how all this ground was once covered with just such beautiful woods as they had passed through, and how they were set on fire by the sparks from a train of cars, how the fire spread for miles and miles, and burned for many days; and the people could do nothing to stop it, until God sent a change of wind and a heavy rain which put it out. She told them how many poor people were burnt out of their houses, and how the little birds and squirrels and other animals were driven from their cosy homes in the woods, and many of them scorched to death by this terrible fire. Then for a long time the ground where these woods had grown was only covered with ashes and charred logs, till at last these tangled bushes had sprung up. Mamma said she supposed that by and by the people would cut down the underbrush, and then the young trees would have space to grow. By the time she had finished her long story they reached the Station and found that they had a few moments to wait, for it was not yet quite time for the train. There was a locomotive standing on the track, and when the horses saw it they began to prick up their ears and to dance a little; so James turned their heads and drove them up by the side of the depot, where they could not see it. On the other side of the road was a small, white building, and over the door was a sign with large black letters upon it. "P-O-S-T, porst," spelled Maggie. "Post," said mamma. "Post, O double F." "O-F, of," said mamma again. "O-F, of, F-I-C-E; oh, it's the post-office. I wonder if there is a letter there for us from Grandpapa Duncan." "Perhaps there may be," said Mrs. Bradford. "I told Mr. Jones we would inquire for the letters. James, will it do for you to leave the horses?" "I think not, ma'am," said James. "They are a little onasy yet, and if she squales they'll run." "And I cannot go because of baby," said mamma; "we must wait till papa comes." "I wish we could get our letter if it is there," said Maggie; "we could read it while we are waiting for papa." "There's a nice civil man there, Mrs. Bradford," said James, "and if you didn't mind Miss Maggie going over, I could lift her out, and he'll wait on her as if it was yourself." "Oh, James," said Maggie; "I couldn't do it, not for anything. I couldn't indeed, mamma." "Well, dear, you need not, if you are afraid." "But I would like to have our letter so much, mamma." "So would I," said Bessie. "And when dear papa comes we will want to talk to him and not to yead our letter." "Maybe it is not there," said Maggie. "But we would like to know," said Bessie. "Could I go, mamma?" "You are almost too little I think, dear." "Well," said Maggie, slowly, "I guess I'll go. Mamma, will you look at me all the time?" "Yes, dear, and there is nothing to hurt you. Just walk in at that door, and you will see a man there. Ask him if there are any letters to go to Mr. Jones's house." "Yes, mamma, and be very sure you watch all the time." James came down from his seat and lifted Maggie from the carriage. She walked very slowly across the road, every step or two looking back to see if her mother was watching her. Mrs. Bradford smiled and nodded to her, and at last Maggie went in at the door. But the moment she was inside, her mother saw her turn round and fly out of the post-office as if she thought something terrible was after her. She tore back across the road and came up to the carriage looking very much frightened. "Why, Maggie, what is it, dear?" asked her mother. "Oh, mamma, there is a hole there, and a man put his face in it; please put me in the carriage, James." "Oh, foolish little Maggie," said mamma; "that man was the post-master, and he came to the hole as you call it, to see what you wanted. If you had waited and told him, he would have looked to see if there were any letters for us." "He had such queer spectacles on," said Maggie. "I wish I could go," said Bessie; "I wouldn't be afraid of him. I do want to know if Grandpapa Duncan's letter is there." "Then you may try," said her mother; "take her out, James." So Bessie was lifted out of the carriage, and went across the road as Maggie had done. She walked into the post-office and saw the hole Maggie had spoken of, but no one was looking out of it. It was a square opening cut in a wooden partition which divided the post-office. On one side was the place where Bessie stood, and where people came to ask for their letters; on the other was the postmaster's room, where he kept the letters and papers till they were called for. Bessie looked around and saw no one. She always moved very gently, and she had come in so quietly that the post-master had not heard her. There was a chair standing in front of "the hole." Bessie pushed it closer, and climbing upon it, put her little face through, and looked into the post-master's side of the room. He was sitting there reading. He was an ugly old man, and wore green goggles, which Maggie had called "such queer spectacles." But Bessie was not afraid of him. "How do you do, Mr. Post Officer?" she said. "I came for our letter." The post-master looked up. "Well, you're a big one to send after a letter," he said. "Who is it for?" "For Maggie and me, and it is from Grandpapa Duncan; has it come?" "Where are you from?" asked the post-master, laughing. "From Mr. Jones's house. Oh, I forgot, mamma said I was to ask if any letters had come for Mr. Jones's house." "Then I suppose you are Mr. Bradford's daughter?" "Yes, I am," said Bessie. "And are you the little girl who came in here just now, and ran right out again?" "Oh, no, sir; that was Maggie. Poor Maggie is shy, and she said you looked out of a hole at her." "And you looked in a hole at me, but I did not run away. If I was to run away you could not get your letter." "Is it here, sir?" asked Bessie. "Well, I reckon it may be," said the post-master; "what's your name?" "My name is Bessie, and my sister's is Maggie." "Here is one apiece then," said the post-master, taking up some letters. "Here is one for Miss Bessie Bradford; that's you, is it? and one for Miss Maggie Bradford, that's your sister, I reckon." "What! one for myself, and one for Maggie's self," said Bessie. "Are they from Grandpapa Duncan?" "I don't know," said the post-master. "You will have to open them to find that out." "Oh, how nice; please let me have them, sir; I am very much obliged to you." "Stop, stop," cried the post-master, as Bessie jumped down from the chair, and was running off with her prizes. "Here are some more papers and letters for your folks." But Bessie did not hear him; she was already out of the door, running over to the carriage with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, holding up a letter in each hand. "Oh, Maggie, Maggie," she called, "that nice post-officer gave me two letters, one for you, and one for me; wasn't he kind?" "I think it was a kind Grandpapa Duncan, who took the trouble to write two letters," said Mrs. Bradford. "So it was," said Maggie. "Mamma, will you read them for us?" "In a moment," said Mrs. Bradford; and then she turned to speak to the post-master, who had followed Bessie to the carriage with the papers and letters which she had been in too great a hurry to wait for. She thanked him, and he went back and stood at the door watching the eager little girls while their mother read to them. She opened Maggie's letter first. It said, "MY DEAR LITTLE MAGGIE:-- "I cannot tell you how pleased I was to receive the very nice letter which you and Bessie sent me. I have put it in a safe place in my writing desk, and shall keep it as long as I live. As you wrote it together, perhaps you expected that I would make one answer do for both; but I thought you would be better pleased if I sent a letter for each one. "I am glad to hear that you like Quam Beach so much; but you must not let it make you forget dear old Riverside. I am fond of the sea myself, and do not know but I may take a run down to see you some day this summer. Do you think you could give a welcome to the old man? and would Mrs. Jones make him such a famous turnover as she made for you? "I went this morning to see your friend Jemmy, for I thought you would like to hear something about him. He was out in the little garden, on the shady side of the house, sitting in his chair with his books beside him, and a happier or more contented boy I never saw. He was alone, except for his dog and rabbits, for his mother was washing, and Mary was out. Mrs. Bent brought me a chair, and I sat and talked to Jemmy for some time. I asked him which of all his books he liked best. 'Oh, my Bible, sir,' he said. 'I think it is with the Bible and other books, just like it is with people, Mr. Duncan.' 'How so?' I asked. 'Why, sir,' he answered, 'when Mary and mother are away, the neighbors often come in to sit with me and talk a bit. They are very kind, and I like to have them tell me about things; but no matter how much they make me laugh or amuse me, 'tain't like mother's voice; and if I am sick, or tired, or uncomfortable, or even glad, there ain't nobody that seems to have just the right thing to say, so well as her. And it's just so with the Bible, I think; it always has just the very thing I want: whether it's comfort and help, or words to say how happy and thankful I feel. The other books I like just as I do the neighbors; but the Bible I love just as I do mother. I suppose the reason is that the Bible is God's own words, and he loved and pitied us so that he knew what we would want him to say, just as mother loves and pities me, and so knows what I like her to say.' Happy Jemmy! he knows how to love and value God's holy book, that most precious gift, in which all may find what their souls need. May my little Maggie learn its worth as the poor lame boy has done. "I really think your chair has done Jemmy good. He looks brighter, and has a better color and appetite since he has been able to be out of doors so much. I do not suppose he will ever be able to walk again, but he does not fret about that, and is thankful for the blessings that are left to him. If you and Bessie could see how much he enjoys the chair, you would feel quite repaid for any pains you took to earn it for him. And now, my darling, I think I must put the rest of what I have to say, in your little sister's letter. Write to me soon again, and believe me "Your loving grandpapa, "CHARLES DUNCAN." Just as mama was finishing this letter, the train came in sight, and she said she must leave Bessie's letter till they were at home. In a few minutes they saw their dear father coming towards them, and a man following with his bag and a great basket. Then papa was in the carriage, and such a hugging and kissing as he took and gave. Franky came inside that he might have his share, too; and baby woke up, good-natured as she always was, and smiled and crowed at her father till he said he really thought she knew him, and was glad to see him. Mamma was quite sure she did. When they had all settled down once more, and papa had asked and answered a good many questions, he said, "Maggie and Bessie, I met a very curious old gentleman to-day; what strange question do you think he asked me?" The children were sure they did not know. "He asked me if there were any little girls down this way who wrote letters to old gentleman?" Maggie and Bessie looked at each other, and Maggie shook her head very knowingly; but they waited to hear what papa would say next. "I told him I thought I knew of two such young damsels, and what do you think he did then?" "What?" asked both the little girls at once. "He handed me these two parcels and told me if I could find any such little letter-writers, to ask them if they would prove useful." As Mr. Bradford spoke, he produced two parcels. Like the letters, they were directed one to Miss Maggie Bradford, and the other to Miss Bessie Bradford. They were quickly opened, and inside were two purple leather writing cases, very small, but as Bessie said, "perfaly pretty." They had steel corners and locks, and a plate with each little girl's name engraved upon her own. In each were found a small inkstand, a pen, and two pencils, two sticks of sealing wax, and best of all, tiny note paper and envelopes stamped M. S. B., and B. R. B. It would have done Grandpapa Duncan good to have seen his pets' pleasure. Maggie fairly screamed with delight. "Oh, such paper, such lovely stamped paper." "And such _embelopes_," said Bessie, "with our own name letters on them." "I am going to write to every one I know in the world," cried Maggie. "Mamma," said Bessie, when they had looked again and again at their beautiful presents, "I do think God has made all my people the very best people that ever lived. I don't think any little girls have such people as mine." "I suppose every other little girl thinks the same thing, Bessie." "Mamma, how can they? they don't have you, nor papa, nor Maggie, nor Grandpapa Duncan, nor grandmamma;" and Bessie went on naming all the people whom she loved, and who loved her. Papa asked if they had not each had a letter from Grandpapa Duncan. The writing cases had almost made them forget the letters; but now they showed them to papa, and he told Bessie he would read hers. He let her open it herself, and taking her on his knee, read: "MY DEAR LITTLE BESSIE,-- "Maggie will tell you how much I was pleased with the letter you both sent me, but I must thank you for your share in it. Your old grandpapa is very happy to know that his little pets think about him, and care for him when they are away. I am glad to hear that you are better, and hope you will come home with cheeks as red as Maggie's. "We are all well here except poor little Nellie, who is cutting some teeth which hurt her very much, and make her rather fretful. She has learned to say two or three words, and among them she makes a curious sound which her mamma declares to be a very plain grandpapa; as she looks at me every time she says it, I suppose I must believe it is so; but I must say it does not sound much like it to my ears. However, she loves her old grandpapa dearly, which is a great pleasure to me. "Your little dog Flossy is growing finely. He is very pretty and lively, and will make a fine playmate for you and Maggie when you come home. I went down to Donald's cottage the other day and found all four of the puppies playing before the door while Alice sat on the steps watching them. She says they are growing very mischievous and have already broken two or three of Donald's fine plants, so that when she lets them out for a play, she has to keep her eye on them all the time. Alice asked about you and Maggie, and I could not help wishing with her that you were there to see your little doggie. It will be pleasant to have you at Riverside again in the autumn. Send me another letter, if you wish to please "Your loving grandpapa, "CHARLES DUNCAN." VII. _A NEW FRIEND._ One morning Bessie was sitting on a large rock on the beach, looking at the waves as they rolled up, one after another, and listening to the pleasant sound they made. The other children and Jane were playing a little way off. Presently a lady and gentleman came walking slowly along the beach. The gentleman used crutches, for he had only one foot. They stopped at the rock where Bessie sat, and the lady said, "You had better sit down, Horace, you have walked far enough." The gentleman sat down beside Bessie, who looked at him for a minute and then got up. "I'll sit on that other stone," she said, "and then there'll be room for the lady: that is big enough for me." "Thank you, dear," said the lady; and the gentleman said, "Well, you are a polite little girl." Bessie liked his looks, but it made her sorry to see that he had only one foot. She sat opposite to him looking at him very gravely; and he looked back at her, but with a smile. Now that Bessie had given up her seat to the strangers, she felt they were her company and she must entertain them, so she began to talk. "Is your foot pretty well, sir?" she said. "Which foot?" asked the gentleman. "The one that is cut off." "How can it be pretty well if it is cut off?" he said; "you see it is not here to feel pretty well." "I mean the place where it was cut off," said Bessie. "It pains me a good deal," he said. "I am a soldier, and my foot was hurt in battle and had to be cut off, but I hope it will feel better one of these days. I have come down here to see what the sea air will do for me." "Oh, then you'll feel better, soon," said Bessie. "I used to feel very _misable_, but now I am most well." "Why, is your foot cut off, too?" asked the gentleman. "Oh, no; don't you see I have both my two?" "So you have," said the gentleman, laughing as she held up two little feet; "but there is not half as much in those two tiny feet, as there is in my one big one." "I had yather have two little ones than one big one," said Bessie. "So would I, but you see I cannot choose, and all the sea air in the world will not bring me back my other foot." "Don't you like the sea, sir?" asked Bessie, "I do." "Why do you like it so much?" "Because I like to see the waves, and I think it sounds as if it was saying something all the time." "What does it seem to say?" "I don't know, sir. I listen to it a great deal, and I can't find out, but I like to hear it for all. I think it must be telling us to yemember our Father in heaven who made it." "What a strange child," the gentleman whispered to the lady; "who is she like?" "I do not know, but she is lovely;" said the lady; "I should like to take her picture as she sits there." "What is your name, fairy?" asked the gentleman. "Bessie," said the little girl. "Bessie what?" "Bessie Bradford." "Bessie Bradford! and what is your father's name?" "His name is Bradford, too." "But what is his first name?" "Mr." said Bessie, gravely. The gentleman laughed. "Has he no other names?" "Oh, yes;" said Bessie, "all his names are Mr. Henry, Lane, Bradford." "I thought so," said the gentleman, "she is the very image of Helen Duncan. And where is your father, Bessie?" "Up in the house, yeading to mamma," said Bessie, looking away from him to the lady. She was very pretty and had a sweet smile. Bessie liked her face very much and sat gazing at her as earnestly as she had before done at the gentleman who presently said, "Well, what do you think of this lady?" "I think she is very pretty," said Bessie, turning her eyes back to him. "So do I," said the gentleman, "do you think that I am very pretty, too?" "No," said Bessie. "Then what do you think about me?" "I think you are pretty 'quisitive," said the little girl, at which both the lady and gentleman laughed heartily; but Bessie looked very sober. "Will you give me a kiss, little one?" asked the stranger. "No," said Bessie, "I had yather not." "Why, you are not afraid of me?" "Oh, no!" said Bessie, "I am not afraid of soldiers; I like them." "Then why won't you kiss me?" "I don't kiss strangers, if they're gentlemen," said Bessie. "And that is very prudent, too," said the soldier, who seemed very much amused; "but then you see I am not quite a stranger." "Oh, what a--I mean I think you are mistaken, sir," said Bessie. "Don't tease her, dear," said the lady. "But, little Bessie," said the gentleman, "do you call people strangers who know a great deal about you?" "No," said Bessie; "but you don't know anything about me." "Yes, I do; in the first place I know that you are a very kind and polite little girl who is ready to give up her place to a lame soldier. Next, I know that your father's name is Mr. Henry, Lane, Bradford, and that yours is Bessie Rush Bradford, and that you look very much like your aunt, Helen Duncan. Then I know that you have a little sister, whose name is--let me see, well, I think her name is Margaret, after your mother; and you have two brothers, Harry and Fred. There is another little one, but I have forgotten his name." "Franky," said Bessie; "and we have baby, too." "Ah, well, I have never made baby's acquaintance. And this is not your home, but you live in New York, at No. 15 ---- street, where I have spent many a pleasant hour. And more than all this, I know there is a lady in Baltimore named Elizabeth Rush, who loves you very much, and whom you love; and that a few days since you wrote a letter to her and told her how sorry you were that her brother who was 'shooted' had had his foot cut off." While the gentleman was saying all this, Bessie had slipped off her stone and come up to him, and now she was standing, with one little hand on his knee, looking up eagerly into his face. "Why, do you know the lady whom I call my Aunt Bessie?" she said. "Indeed I do; and now if you are so sorry for Aunt Bessie's brother, would you not like to do something to help him?" "I can't," said Bessie; "I am too little." "Yes, you can," said the colonel, "you can give me a kiss, and that would help me a great deal." "Why," said Bessie, again, "do you mean that you are Colonel Yush, dear Aunt Bessie's brother?" "To be sure I am," said the colonel; "and now are you going to give me the kiss for her sake?" "Yes, sir, and for your own sake, too." "Capital, we are coming on famously, and shall soon be good friends at this rate," said the colonel as he stooped and kissed the rosy little mouth which Bessie held up to him. "Will you tell me about it?" she said. "About what?" "About how you was in that country, called India, which papa says is far away over the sea, and how the wicked heathen named, named--I can't yemember." "Sepoys?" said the colonel. "Yes, Sepoys: how the Sepoys, who you thought were your friends, made a great fight, and killed the soldiers and put the ladies and dear little babies down a well. And how brave you was and how you was fighting and fighting not to let the Sepoys hurt some poor sick soldiers in the hospital; and the well soldiers wanted to yun away, but you wouldn't let them, but made the Sepoys yun away instead, and went after them. And then they came back with ever so many more to help them, and you and your soldiers had to go away, but you took all the sick men with you and did not let them be hurt. And you saw a soldier friend of yours who was dying, and he asked you not to let the Sepoys find him, and you put him on your horse and carried him away, and the Sepoys almost caught you. And how the very next day there was a dreadful, dreadful battle when more soldiers came, and your foot was shooted and your side; and your foot had to be cut off in the hospital, and would not get well for a long, long while. And how there was a lady that you wanted for your wife, and you came to our country to get her--oh, I guess that's the lady!" Bessie stopped as she looked at the pretty lady, and the colonel smiled as he said,-- "You are right, Bessie; and what more?" "And when you were coming in the ship, there was a little boy who fell in the water and you forgot your lame foot and jumped in after him, and your foot was hurt so much it had to be cut off some more. So please tell me all about it, sir." Bessie said all this just as fast as her little tongue would go, and the colonel sat watching her with a very amused look on his face. "Upon my word, you are well posted, little one. I do not know that I could tell the story better myself; how did you learn so much?" "Oh, Aunt Bessie put it in the letters she yote to mamma, and mamma told us about it, and Harry yeads and yeads it; and Maggie made a nice play about it. Harry gets on the yocking horse and plays he is Colonel Yush, and Fred is the soldier that you helped." "Very good," said the colonel, "and what are you and Maggie?" "Oh! we are Harry's soldiers, I mean _your_ soldiers, and Franky is, too; and we have the nursery chairs for horses, and our dolls for sick soldiers, and we have the pillows for Sepoys, and we poke them; and nurse don't like it, 'cause she says we make a yumpus and a muss in the nursery." "I should think so," said the colonel, laughing heartily. "Will you tell me the story?" asked Bessie. "I think I had better tell you another, since you know that so well," said Colonel Rush; "I will tell you one about a drummer boy." But just as he began the story Bessie saw her father coming towards them, and in another minute he and the colonel were shaking hands and seeming so glad to see one another. Then Mr. Bradford turned and looked at the pretty lady, and the colonel said, "Yes, this is the lady of whom you have heard as Miss Monroe, now Mrs. Rush. She has taken charge of what is left of me." "Isn't she _perfaly_ lovely, papa?" asked Bessie, as Mr. Bradford took off his hat and shook hands with the lady, and she saw a pretty pink color come into her cheeks which made her look sweeter than ever. Papa looked as if he quite agreed with his little daughter, but he only smiled and said, "My Bessie speaks her mind on all occasions." "So I see," said the colonel, looking very much pleased. "Did I talk too much, sir?" asked Bessie, not knowing exactly whether he meant to find fault with her, for she was sometimes told at home that she talked too much. "Not one word," he answered; "and I hope you will often come and see me at my rooms in the hotel, and talk to me there. I am very fond of little children." "If mamma will let me," said Bessie; "but I can't come _very_ often, 'cause I don't want to be away from Maggie." "Oh, Maggie must come, too," said the colonel. "Maggie is shy," said Bessie. "Well, you bring her to my room, and we will see if I have not something there that will cure her shyness." But papa called Maggie to come and see Colonel and Mrs. Rush, and when she heard that this was the brave English soldier about whom she had made the famous play, her shyness was forgotten at once, and she was quite as ready to be friends as Bessie, though she had not much to say. "You know, Bessie," she said afterwards, "we're so very acquainted with him in our hearts, he is not quite a stranger." The next morning, Mrs. Bradford went to the hotel to call on Mrs. Rush, taking Maggie and Bessie with her; and from this time the little girls and the colonel were the best friends possible, though Bessie was his particular pet and plaything, and she always called him her soldier. When he felt well enough, and the day was not too warm, he would come out and sit on the beach for an hour or two. The moment he came moving slowly along on his crutches, Bessie was sure to see him, and no matter what she was doing, off she would run to meet him. As long as he stayed she never left him, and her mother sometimes feared that the colonel might grow tired of having such a little child so much with him, but he told her it was a great pleasure to him; and indeed it seemed to be so, for though there were a great many people at Quam Beach who knew him and liked to talk to him, he never forgot the little friend who sat so quietly at his side, and had every now and then a word, or smile, or a touch of his hand for her. Bessie had been taught that she must not interrupt when grown people were speaking; so, though she was a little chatterbox when she had leave to talk, she knew when it was polite and proper for her to be quiet. If the colonel could not come down to the shore, he was almost sure to send for Maggie and Bessie to come to his room, until it came to be quite a settled thing that they were to pass some time there every day when he did not go out, and many a pleasant hour did they spend there. He told them the most delightful and interesting stories of people and things that he had seen while he was in India, being always careful not to tell anything that might shock or grieve them, from the day that he was speaking of the sad death of a little drummer boy, when, to his great surprise and distress, both children broke into a violent fit of crying, and it was some time before they could be pacified. Then such toys as he carved out of wood! He made a little boat with masts and sails for each of them, which they used to sail in the pools that were left by the tide; and a beautiful set of jack-straws, containing arrows, spears, swords, trumpets, and guns. One day he asked Harry to bring him some sprigs from the spruce tree, and the next time Maggie and Bessie came to see him, there was a tiny set of furniture,--a sofa and half a dozen chairs to match, all made of those very sprigs. He used to lie and carve, while Mrs. Rush was reading to him; and sometimes he worked while the children were there, and it was such a pleasure to watch him. Then he had some books with fine pictures, and oh! wonder of wonders, and what the children liked best of all, such a grand musical-box, they had never seen one like it. Mamma had a small one which played three tunes, but it was a baby musical-box to this, which was so very much larger, and played twenty. They never tired of it, at least Bessie did not; and she would sit looking into it and listening so earnestly that often she seemed to see and hear nothing else around her. Maggie was fond of it, too, but she could not keep quiet so long as Bessie, and often wanted to be off and playing out of doors long before her sister was ready to go. There were many days when the colonel was suffering too much pain to talk or play with them, and they had to be very still if they went into his room. Then Maggie never cared to stay very long, nor indeed did the colonel care much to have her; for though she tried her best to be gentle and quiet, those restless little hands and feet seemed as if they must be moving; and she was almost sure to shake his sofa, or to go running and jumping across the room, in a way that distressed him very much, though her merry ways amused him when he was able to bear them. Quiet little mouse of a Bessie went stealing about so softly that she never disturbed the sick man; and so it came about that she spent many an hour in his room without Maggie. Maggie never half enjoyed her play, if her sister was not with her; but she was not selfish, and did not complain if Bessie sometimes left her for a while. VIII. _BESSIE'S LITTLE SERMON._ One afternoon when the children had gone over to the hotel to see grandmamma, a basket of fine fruit came, from Riverside. They had not been to the colonel's room for two or three days, for he had been suffering very much, and was not able to see any one. When the fruit came grandmamma put some on a plate, and sent Bessie with it to the colonel's door, but told her that she must not go in. Bessie went to the door, and, putting her plate down on the hall floor, knocked very gently. Mrs. Rush came and opened the door, and, taking up her plate again, Bessie handed it to her, gave her grandmamma's message, and was going away, when she heard the colonel's voice. "Is that my pet?" he said. "Yes, sir; and I love you very much, and I am so sorry for you; but grandmamma said I must not come in." "But I want to see you," said the colonel. "You can come in, darling," said Mrs. Rush; "he is better this afternoon, and would like to see you." "But I better mind grandma first; bettern't I?" said Bessie. "I'll yun and ask her, and if she'll let me, I can come back." Mrs. Rush smiled, and said, "Very well;" and the obedient little girl ran to ask her grandmamma's permission. Grandmamma said, "Certainly, if the colonel wanted her." "Didn't he invite me?" said Maggie, with rather a long face. "No," said Bessie. "Would you yather I would not go? I'll stay with you, if you want me." "I guess you had better go, if he wants you," said Maggie; "but don't stay very long, Bessie; it's very sorrowful without you." "Poor Maggie," said Walter, who was standing by at the time; "it is very cruel in the colonel not to ask you. Never mind, you shall come and take care of me when I lose my foot." "Oh, no, it's me you ought to call cruel," said Maggie, in a very doleful voice; "you know I am such a fidget, Walter, and I can't help it. The other day the colonel was so sick, and I meant to be so quiet, and yet I did two shocking things." "What did you do?" asked Walter. "I knocked over a chair, and I slammed the door; and so mamma said I must not go again till he was better." "But what do you do without Bessie, when she goes?" said Walter; "I thought you two could not live apart." "We can't," said Maggie; "but then, you see, the colonel is a sick, lame soldier, with a foot cut off and a hole in his side; so, if he wants Bessie, I ought to make a sacrifice of myself and let her go." The boys laughed; but Tom said, "That is right, little woman, do all you can for the soldiers; they have sacrificed enough for us." And Bessie kissed her sister and ran back to the colonel's room. "Why, is he better?" she asked, as Mrs. Rush lifted her up to kiss him. "I think he looks very worse. Oh, how big his eyes are!" The colonel laughed. "I am like the wolf in Red Riding-Hood; am I not, Bessie?" he said. "No," she answered, "not a bit; you are just like my own dear soldier, only I wish you did not look so white." "I think he will look better to-morrow, Bessie," said Mrs. Rush. "He has suffered terribly the last two days; but he is easier now, though he is very tired and weak, so we must not talk much to him." "I wont talk a word, only if he speaks to me," said Bessie; and she brought a footstool and sat down by the side of the sofa. The colonel held out his hand to her, and she put her own little one in it and sat perfectly quiet. He lay looking at her, with a smile, for a few minutes, but presently his eyes closed, and Bessie thought he was asleep. He looked more ill when his eyes were shut than when they were open; his face was so very, very pale, and his black hair and beard made it look whiter still. Mrs. Rush sat by the sofa fanning her husband, while the little girl watched him with earnest, loving eyes. At last she whispered, "If he dies, he'll go to heaven, 'cause he's so very brave and good; wont he?" Mrs. Rush did not speak, but Bessie did not need any answer. She was quite sure in her own mind; for she never imagined that this brave soldier did not love his Saviour. "He could not be so brave and good if he did not love Jesus very much," she said, looking up at Mrs. Rush. She could not see the lady's face very plainly, for she was bending it down almost close to the pillows. Bessie went on very softly and gravely: "I suppose that's the yeason he's so patient too. Papa says he never saw any one so patient; and I guess he's like lame Jemmy. Jemmy said he couldn't help being patient when he thought how much his Saviour suffered for him, and I guess the colonel is just like him; and he was so brave in the battles, 'cause he knew Jesus loved him and would take him to heaven if he was killed. He would have been afraid, if he didn't know that. And I suppose when he was hurt in that battle and lay on the ground all night, and his own soldiers didn't know where he was, but thought the Sepoys had him, he thought about Jesus and his Father in heaven all the time, and yemembered how Jesus died for him, and kept saying his prayers to them; and so they took care of him, and let his own soldiers come and find him. Oh, I know he must love Jesus very much. And don't you think Jesus took such care of him so he could love him more yet?" Mrs. Rush's face was quite down on her husband's pillows now, and Bessie looked back at him. He had turned his head, and she could not see his face either, but she felt the hand, in which her own was lying, moving a little uneasily. "I'm 'fraid I esturb him," she said; "I mustn't whisper any more." She kissed his hand very gently, and laid her head on the sofa beside it. The room was rather dark, and very still, and in a few moments she was fast asleep. After a while the colonel turned his head again, opened his eyes and looked at her. Then Mrs. Rush lifted up her face. "Were you asleep, Horace?" she asked. "No," he said, rather crossly, and moving his head impatiently; "I wish you would take her away." Mrs. Rush was glad that Bessie did not hear him; she knew that this would have grieved her. She lifted the little darling in her arms, and carried her across the floor to her grandmamma's room. Mrs. Stanton herself opened the door; there was no one else in the room. "This precious child is asleep," said Mrs. Rush, in a low voice. "Shall I leave her with you?" Mrs. Stanton asked her to lay Bessie on the bed. She did so, and then bent over her for a moment, and when she raised her head, Mrs. Stanton saw how very pale and sad her sweet face was. "What is it, my child?" asked the kind old lady, taking her hand. Mrs. Rush burst into tears. "Is your husband worse? Do you think him in danger?" "Not for this life, but for that which is to come," sobbed Mrs. Rush, laying her head on Mrs. Stanton's shoulder. "My poor child! and is it so?" said grandmamma. "Yes, yes, and he will not hear a word on the subject; he has forbidden me to mention it to him. And if he would let me, I do not know how to teach him. I am only a beginner myself. These things are all so new to me; for it was not until I feared that I was to lose him that I felt my own need of more than human strength to uphold me. Bessie, dear little unconscious preacher, has just said more in his hearing than he has allowed me to say for months. God, in his mercy, grant that her innocent words may touch his heart. Dear Mrs. Stanton, pray for him and for me." Mrs. Stanton tried to comfort her, and then the old lady and the young one knelt down together, while little Bessie slept on, knowing nothing of the hopes and fears and sorrows of those who prayed beside her. IX. _FAITH._ "Nursey," said Bessie, the next morning, as nurse was putting on her shoes and stockings, after giving her her bath, "I can't think how it is." "How what is, dear?" "About the Trinity." "Well!" said nurse. "The Trinity! and what put that into your head?" "It's not in my head," said Bessie; "I can't get it there. I try and try to think how it can be, and I can't. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, three Persons and one God," she repeated, slowly; "how can it be, nursey? I know the Father means our Father in heaven, and the Son means Jesus, and the Holy Ghost means Heavenly Spirit; but there's only one God, and I don't understand." "And wiser heads than yours can't understand it, my lamb," said nurse; "don't bother your little brains about that. It's just one of those things we must take upon faith; we must believe it without understanding it. Don't you think about it any more till you are older." But Bessie did think about it; and her thoughtful little face looked more grave and earnest than usual all that day. Mamma wondered what she was considering, but said nothing, for she was sure that Bessie would soon come to her if she was in any difficulty. "What are you thinking about, Bessie?" asked the colonel that afternoon, when she was in his room. He was much better, and was sitting up in his easy-chair. "What is faith?" asked Bessie, answering his question by another, and turning her great serious, brown eyes on his face. The colonel looked surprised. "Faith?" he said. "Why, to have faith in a person is to believe in him and trust in him." Bessie did not look satisfied. "When you first went in bathing," said the colonel, "did you not feel afraid?" "No, sir," answered Bessie. "Why not? Did you not fear that those great waves would wash you away and drown you?" "No, sir; before I went in, I thought I would be very 'fraid; but papa said he would carry me in his arms, and wouldn't let me be drownded." "And did you believe him?" "Why, yes," answered Bessie, opening her eyes very wide at this question; "my father don't tell stories." "And you were not afraid when he carried you in his arms?" "No, sir." "That was faith,--faith in your father. You believed what he told you, and trusted in his care." Bessie still looked puzzled. "Well," said the colonel, "don't you understand yet?" "I don't know how it is about things," said the little girl. "What things?" "Things that I don't know how they can be." "Do you mean, Bessie," said Mrs. Rush, "that you do not know how to have faith in what you do not understand?" "Yes, ma'am." "See here, little old head on young shoulders," said the colonel, drawing Bessie closer to him, and seeming much amused, "when I told you that this box would make sweet music, did you believe me?" "Yes, sir." "Did you understand how it could?" "No, sir." "Do you know what this paper-knife is made of?" "No, sir." "It is made of the shell of a fish; do you believe it?" "Why, yes," answered Bessie. "But you did not see it made; how can you believe it?" "'Cause you tell me so." "Well, then, that is faith; you believe what I say, even when you cannot understand how it is, because you trust me, or have faith in me, for you know I never tell you anything that is not true. If I sometimes told you what is false, you could not have faith in me; could you?" "No," said the little girl, "but you never would tell me _falses_." "Indeed, I would not, my pet," he said, smiling, and twisting one of her curls over his finger. She stood for a few minutes, as if thinking over what he had told her, and then, her whole face lighting up, she said, "Oh, yes, I know now! I believe what papa tells me when he says he'll take care of me, 'cause he always tells me true, and I know he can do it; and that's faith; and I believe what you tell me, 'cause you tell me true; and that's faith; and we believe what God tells us, even if we can't understand how it can be, 'cause he tells us what is true; and that's faith. Now I know what nursey meant." "What did nurse say, dear?" asked Mrs. Rush. "She said we must have faith about three Persons in one God, and believe what we could not understand; but I think I do understand about that too. I thinked about it when I was sitting on the yocks this morning, and I am going to ask mamma if it is yight." "And what do you think about it, Bessie?" "Why," said Bessie, holding up her little finger, "don't you know I have a silver three cent piece? Well, there's three pennies in it--mamma said so,--but it's only one piece of money, and I suppose it's somehow that way about three Persons in one God,--Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,--three Persons in one God."[A] If the colonel had looked surprised before, he looked still more so now, while Mrs. Rush laid down her work and gazed at the child. "Who told you that, Bessie?" she asked. "Oh, nobody," said Bessie, innocently; "I just thinked it; maybe it is not yight. I couldn't ask mamma about it all day, 'cause she was busy, or some one came to see her; and I don't like to ask her things when somebody is there." Mrs. Rush looked out of the window by which she sat, and seemed to be watching the sea; and Bessie stood, softly patting the colonel's knee with her hand, while for a moment or two no one spoke. Suddenly Bessie looked up in the colonel's face. "Colonel Yush," she said, "don't you have a great deal of faith?" "In some people, Bessie," he answered. "I have a great deal of faith in my little wife, and a great deal in my pet Bessie, and some few others." "Oh, I mean in our Father," she said. "I should think you'd have more faith than 'most anybody, 'cause he took such good care of you in the battles." "What?" said the colonel, "when my leg was shot off?" Bessie did not know whether he was in earnest or not, but she did not think it was a thing to joke about, and he did not look very well pleased, though he laughed a little when he spoke. "Oh, don't make fun about it," she said, "I don't think He would like it. He could have let you be killed if He chose, but He didn't; and then He took such care of you all that night, and let your men come and find you. Don't you think He did it 'cause He wanted you to love Him more than you did before? Oh, I know you must have a great deal of faith! Didn't you keep thinking of Jesus all that night, and how he died for you so his Father could forgive your sins, and take you to heaven if you died?" "I was very thankful when I heard my men coming, Bessie; but I was too weak to think much," said the colonel. "Come, let us wind the box and have some music; hand me that key." "But you think a great deal about it when you don't feel so bad; don't you?" persisted the child, as she gave him the key of the musical box. "Pshaw!" said the colonel, throwing it down again on the table; "what absurdity it is to fill a child's head--" "Horace!" said Mrs. Rush, in a quick, startled voice. The colonel stopped short, then taking up the paper-cutter, began tapping the table in a very impatient manner. "I am sick of the whole thing," he said; "there seems to be no end to it. Wife, sister, and friend, from the parson to the baby, every one has something to say on the same subject. I tell you I will have no more of it from any one. I should have supposed I would have been safe there. And my own words turned into a handle against me too." And he looked at Bessie, who had drawn a little away from him and stood gazing at him with fear and wonder in her large eyes. She had never seen him angry before, and she could not think what had made him so now. "Am I naughty?" she asked. "No, darling," said Mrs. Rush, holding out her hand. Bessie ran over to her. Mrs. Rush lifted her up in her lap. "Did I talk too much?" asked Bessie. "I did not mean to tease him." "See that steamship coming in, Bessie," said Mrs. Rush, in a voice that shook a little. "I think it must be the 'Africa,' which is to bring Gracie Howard's father. Will she not be glad to see him?" "Yes," said Bessie; but she did not look at the steamer, but watched the colonel, who still seemed vexed, and kept up his tattoo with the paper-cutter. Nobody spoke again for a few moments, and Bessie grew more and more uncomfortable. Presently she gave a long sigh, and leaned her cheek on her hand. "Are you tired, dear?" asked Mrs. Rush. "No," said Bessie, "but I'm so uncomf'able. I think I had yather go to mamma in grandmamma's yoom." Mrs. Rush put her down, and was leading her away, but when they reached the door, Bessie drew her hand from hers and ran back to the colonel. "I am sorry I teased you," she said. "I didn't know you didn't like people to talk about that night; I'll never do it any more again." The colonel threw down the paper-cutter, and catching her in his arms, kissed her heartily two or three times. "You do not tease me, my pet," he said; "you did not know how cross your old soldier could be; did you?" "You was not so very cross," she said, patting his cheek lovingly with her little hand. "Sick, lame people can't be patient all the time, and I do talk too much sometimes; mamma says I do. Next time I come, I'll be so quiet." Then she ran back to Mrs. Rush, who took her to her grandmamma's room and left her at the door. Bessie went to mamma, and tried to climb upon her lap. Mrs. Bradford lifted her up, but she was talking to her mother, and did not notice her little girl's troubled face till Mrs. Stanton signed to her to look at Bessie. Then she asked, "What is it, dearest?" "I don't know, mamma," said Bessie. "Has something troubled you?" asked mamma. "Yes," said Bessie; "I teased the colonel." "Oh!" said Maggie, "did you slam the door?" "No, I talked about what he didn't like," said Bessie, with a quivering lip; "I talked about that night, and it teased him. I didn't know he didn't like to hear about it, mamma. I s'pose it's because he suffered so much he don't like to think of it." Mamma had no need to ask what night she meant; ever since Bessie had heard of the terrible night when the colonel had lain upon the battle-field, faint and almost dying from his dreadful wounds, thinking that he should never see his home and friends again, the story had seemed to be constantly in her mind; and she spoke of it so often that her mother knew quite well what she meant. "What did you say about it, dear?" she asked. Bessie could not remember all, but she told enough to let her mother see what had displeased the colonel. But Mrs. Bradford did not tell her little girl, for she knew it would distress her very much to know that the brave soldier of whom she was so fond did not like to be reminded, even by a little child, of his debts and duty to the merciful Father who had kept him through so many dangers and who had sent his dear Son to die for him. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: The above train of reasoning was actually carried out by a child of five years.] X. _THE SICK BABY._ One night the dear little baby was very sick. Bessie woke many times, and as often as she did so, she found that nurse had not come to bed, and when she looked through the open door which led into her mother's room, she saw either her father or mother walking up and down with the baby, trying to hush her pitiful cries and moans. In the morning the doctor was sent for, and grandmamma came over to the cottage and stayed all day; but the baby grew worse and worse. In the afternoon Maggie and Bessie went into their mamma's room and stood by her side looking at their little sister, who was lying on her lap. The baby seemed very restless, and was moaning and throwing its arms about; suddenly it threw back its head with a very strange look on its face, and clinched its tiny hands. Mamma caught it in her arms, and she and grandmamma called for nurse to bring warm water. Mrs. Jones came with it in a minute, saying, "I had it all ready, for I thought it would be wanted." Maggie ran away; she could not bear to see baby look and act so strangely; but Bessie stayed till grandmamma sent her out of the room. In a short time, Jane came to take the little girls to the beach. They did not want to go, and begged her to let them stay at home; but she said she could not keep Franky in the house all the afternoon, and she thought their mamma would wish them to go out as usual; so they said no more, and went with her, like the obedient children they were. They found Colonel and Mrs. Rush down on the beach. Mrs. Rush talked to Jane a little, and then said she would go up and see baby. She left the little girls with the colonel, and he tried to amuse them; but although he told them a very interesting story, they did not care about it half as much as usual. Mrs. Rush stayed a good while, and came back with a very grave face, and when her husband asked, "How is the child?" she looked at him without speaking; but Maggie and Bessie knew by this that the baby was worse. Then Mrs. Rush asked them if they did not want to go to the hotel and have tea with her and the colonel, but they said "No," they wanted to go home. When they went back to the house, Jane left the little girls sitting on the door-step, while she took Franky in to give him his supper. It was a very quiet, lovely evening. The sun had gone down, but it was not dark yet. The sky was very blue, and a few soft gray clouds, with pink edges, were floating over it. Down on the beach they could see the people walking and driving about; but not a sound was to be heard except the cool, pleasant dash of the waves, and Farmer Jones' low whistle as he sat on the horse-block with Susie on his knee. Susie sucked her fat thumb, and stared at the children. They sat there without speaking, with their arms round each other's waists, wishing they knew about the baby. Presently Mrs. Jones came down stairs and called out over the children's heads, "Sam'l." Mr. Jones got up off the horse-block and came towards them. "Here," said Mrs. Jones, handing him a paper, "they want you to go right off to the station and send up a telegraph for the city doctor. Here it is; Mr. Bradford writ it himself, and he says you're to lose no time. 'Taint a mite of use though, and it's just a senseless wastin' of your time." "Not if they want it done," said Jones. "Why, Susan, s'pose everybody hadn't done everything they could when we thought this one was going to be took, wouldn't we have thought they was hard-hearted creeturs? I aint done thanking the Almighty yet for leaving her to us, and I aint the man to refuse nothing to them as is in like trouble,--not if it was to ride all the way to York with the telegram." "I'm sure I don't want you to refuse 'em," said Mrs. Jones,--"one can't say no to them as has a dyin' child; but I do say it's no use. It will all be over long before the doctor comes; all the doctors in York can't save that poor little lamb. Anyhow, if I was Miss Bradford, I wouldn't take on so; she's got plenty left." "I'll do my part, anyhow," said the farmer, as he handed Susie to her mother, and then hurried off to saddle his horse and ride away to the station as fast as possible, while Mrs. Jones carried Susie off to the kitchen. "Maggie," whispered Bessie, "what does she mean?" "The bad, hateful thing!" answered Maggie, with a sudden burst of crying; "she means our baby is going to die. She wouldn't like any one to say that of her Susie, and I don't believe it a bit. Bessie, I can't bear her if she does make us cookies and turnovers. I like Mr. Jones a great deal better, and I wish he didn't have Mrs. Jones at all. Mamma wont have plenty left if our baby dies; six isn't a bit too many, and she can't spare one of us, I know." "But perhaps Jesus wants another little angel up in heaven," said Bessie, "and so he's going to take our baby." "Well, I wish he would take somebody else's baby," said Maggie. "There's Mrs. Martin, she has thirteen children, and I should think she could spare one very well; and there's a whole lot of little babies at the Orphan Asylum, that haven't any fathers and mothers to be sorry about them." "Perhaps he thinks our baby is the sweetest," said Bessie. "I know she is the sweetest," said Maggie, "but that's all the more reason we want her ourselves. She is so little and so cunning; I think she grows cunninger and cunninger every day. Day before yesterday she laughed out loud when I was playing with her, and put her dear little hands in my curls and pulled them, and I didn't mind it so very much if she did pull so hard I had to squeal a little; and oh! I'd let her do it again, if she would only get well. Don't you think, Bessie, if we say a prayer, and ask Jesus to let us keep her, he will?" "I think he will," said Bessie; "we'll try." "Let us go into the sitting-room," said Maggie, "there is no one there." "Oh! let us stay out here," answered Bessie, "there's such a beautiful sky up there. Perhaps Jesus is just there looking at us, and maybe he could hear us a little sooner out here. Nobody will see us." They knelt down together by the seat on the porch. "You say it, Bessie," said Maggie, who was still sobbing very hard. She laid her head down on the bench, and Bessie put her hands together, and with the tears running over her cheeks said, "Dear Jesus, please don't take our darling little baby to be an angel just yet, if you can spare her. She is so little and so sweet, and poor mamma will feel so sorry if she goes away, and we will, too, and we want her so much. Please, dear Jesus, let us keep her, and take some poor little baby that don't have any one to love it, Amen." They sat down again on the door-step till Harry and Fred came in. "How is baby?" asked Harry. "We don't know," said Maggie; "nobody came down this ever so long." "Go up and see, Midget." "Oh! I can't, Harry," said Maggie. "I don't want to see that strange look on baby's face." "Then you go, Bessie," said Harry; "my shoes make such a noise, and you move just like a little mouse. You wont disturb them." Bessie went up stairs and peeped in at the door of her mother's room. There was no one there but papa and mamma and the baby. Papa was walking up and down the room with his arms folded, looking very sad and anxious, and mamma sat on a low chair with baby on her lap. The little thing lay quiet now, with its eyes shut and its face so very, very white. Mamma was almost as pale, and she did not move her eyes from baby's face even when Bessie came softly up and stood beside her. Bessie looked at her baby sister and then at her mother. Mamma's face troubled her even more than the baby's did, and she felt as it she must do something to comfort her. She laid her hand gently on her mother's shoulder, and said, "Dear mamma, don't you want to have a little angel of your own in heaven?" Mamma gave a start and put her arm farther over the baby, as if she thought something was going to hurt it. Papa stopped his walk and Bessie went on,-- "Maggie and I asked Jesus to spare her to us, if he could; but if he wants her for himself, we ought not to mind very much; ought we? And if you feel so bad about it 'cause she's so little and can't walk or speak, I'll ask him to take me too, and then I can tell the big angels just how you took care of her, and I'll help them. And then when you come to heaven, you will have two little angels of your own waiting for you. And we'll always be listening near the gate for you, dear mamma, so that when you knock and call us, we'll be yeady to open it for you; and if we don't come yight away, don't be frightened, but knock again, for we'll only be a little way off, and we'll come just as fast as I can bring baby; and she'll know you, for I'll never let her forget you. And while you stay here, dear mamma, wont it make you very happy to think you have two little children angels of your own, waiting for you and loving you all the time?"[B] Mamma had turned her eyes from the baby's face, and was watching her darling Bessie as she stood there talking so earnestly yet so softly; and now she put her arm around her and kissed her, while the tears ran fast from her eyes and wet Bessie's cheeks. "Please don't cry, mamma," said the little girl; "I did not mean to make you cry. Shall I ask Jesus to take me, too, if he takes the baby?" "No, no, my darling, ask him to leave you, that you may be your mother's little comforter, and pray that he may spare your sister too." "And if he cannot, mamma?" "Then that he may teach us to say, 'Thy will be done,'" said her father, coming close to them and laying his hand on Bessie's head. "He knows what is best for us and for baby." "Yes," said Bessie, "and I suppose if he takes her, he will carry her in his arms just as he is carrying the lambs in the picture of the Good Shepherd in our nursery. We need not be afraid he wont take good care of her; need we, mamma?" "No, darling," said Mrs. Bradford, "we need not fear to give her to his care, and my Bessie has taught her mother a lesson." "Did I, mamma?" said the little girl, wondering what her mother meant; but before she could answer, grandmamma came in with the country doctor. Mr. Bradford took Bessie in his arms, and after holding her down to her mother for another kiss, carried her from the room. When he had her out in the entry, he kissed her himself many times, and whispered, as if he was speaking to himself, "God bless and keep my angel child." "Yes, papa," said Bessie, thinking he meant the baby, "and Maggie and I will say another prayer about her to-night; and I keep thinking little prayers about her all the time, and that's just the same, papa; isn't it?" "Yes, my darling," said her father; and then he put her down and stood and watched her as she went down stairs. It was not the will of our Father in heaven that the dear little baby should die. Late in the night the doctor came from New York, and God heard the prayers of the baby's father and mother and little sisters, and blessed the means that were used to make it well; and before the morning it was better, and fell into a sweet, quiet sleep. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote B: Almost the exact words of a very lovely child of a friend of the writer.] XI. _THE HAPPY CIRCUMSTANCE._ The next morning, when Bessie woke up, it was very quiet in the nursery. She lay still a moment, wondering what it was that had troubled her last night; and just as she remembered about the baby, she heard a little discontented sound at her side. She turned her head and looked around, and there sat Maggie on the floor beside the trundle-bed, with one sock and one shoe on, and the other shoe in her hand. She looked rather cross. "Maggie," said Bessie, "has the baby gone to heaven?" "No," said Maggie, "and I don't believe she's going just yet. Our own doctor came in the night, and she's a great deal better; and now she's fast asleep." "And don't you feel glad then?" "Oh, yes! I am real glad of _that_," said Maggie. "Then why don't you look glad? What is the matter?" "I can't find my clo'," said Maggie, in a fretful tone. "What clo'?" "Why, my sock." "Why don't nurse or Jane find it for you?" asked Bessie. "I can't wait," said Maggie; "I want it now; nurse is holding baby because mamma has gone to sleep too, and Jane has taken Franky to Harry's room to dress him, because she was afraid he would make a noise; and she said if I put on my shoes and socks, and all the rest of my under-clo's before she came back, I might put on yours, if you waked up. And that's a great 'sponsibility, Bessie; and I want to do it, and now I can't." "Look some more," said Bessie, who was very well pleased at the thought of having her sister dress her. "I have looked all over," said Maggie. "I just expect a robber came in the night and stole it." "Why, it would not fit him!" said Bessie. "Well, I guess he has a bad little robber girl of his own that he has taken it to," said Maggie. "Anyhow, she'll be bare one foot, and I'm glad of it." Bessie sat up in the bed and looked around the room. "I see a pair of clean socks over there on your petticoats," she said. "So there is," said Maggie; and quite good-natured again, she began to dress as fast as she could. "Maggie," said Bessie, as she lay down again to wait till her sister was ready, "what was the name of that word you said?" "What,--'sponsibility?" "Yes, that's it; say it again." "Spons-er-bil-er-ty," said Maggie, slowly. "Oh!" said Bessie, with a long breath, as if that word was almost too much for her, "what does it mean?" "It means something to do or to take care of." "Then when mamma put baby on the bed the other day, and told me to take care of her, was that a great spons-er-bil-er-ty?" "Yes," said Maggie. "It's a nice word; isn't it, Maggie?" "Yes, but it is not so nice as happy circumstance." "Oh, that is very nice? What does that mean, Maggie?" "It means something very nice and pleasant. I'm going to say happy circumstance to some one to-day, if I get a chance." "Whom are you going to say it to?" "I don't know yet; but I shall not say it to the boys, for they laugh at us when we say grown-up words. You may say it, Bessie, if you want to." "Oh, no," said Bessie, "I would not say your new words before you say them yourself; that would not be fair, and I would not do it for a hundred dollars." "Well," said Maggie, "I would not let any one else do it, but you may say any of my words you want to, Bessie." While they were talking away, Maggie was putting on her clothes, and then Bessie got up; and by the time Jane came back, Maggie had nearly dressed her sister too. Jane called Maggie a good, helpful little girl, which pleased her very much, for she liked praise. After breakfast, as the children were standing on the porch waiting for Jane to take them for their walk, Harry came along and told them, if they would come out to the barn, he would give them a swing. They never said no to the offer of a swing, and, much pleased, followed him to the barn, where they found Mr. Jones sitting outside of the door mending his nets. He took down the swing for them, lifted Bessie in, and then went back to his work. Maggie had said that Bessie should take her turn first, and that, while Harry was swinging her, she would go out and talk to Mr. Jones. They were very good friends now, and Maggie was not at all afraid of him, but sat watching him with great interest as he filled up the broken places in his nets. "Well, and so the little sister is better this morning?" said Mr. Jones. "Yes," said Maggie; "and we are very much obliged to you, Mr. Jones." "What for?" asked Jones. "Because you went so quick to send for our own doctor." "Deary me, that wasn't nothing," said Mr. Jones. "I'd ha' been a heathen if I hadn't." Maggie stood silent for a few moments, watching him, and then said, slowly, but very earnestly, "Mr. Jones, do you think Mrs. Jones is a very happy circumstance?" Mr. Jones looked at her for a moment as if he did not quite understand her, and then he smiled as he said, "Well, yes, I reckon I do; don't you?" "No, I _don't_," said Maggie. "What did make you marry her, Mr. Jones?" "Because I thought she would make me a good wife." [Illustration: Bessie at Sea Side. p. 152.] "And does she?" "First-rate; don't you think she does?" "I don't know," said Maggie, "I don't like her very much; I like you a great deal better than I do her; I think you are a very nice man, Mr. Jones." "I guess I'm about of the same opinion about you," said Mr. Jones; "but what is the reason you don't like Mrs. Jones?" "Oh," said Maggie, "because she--she--does things. She makes me just as mad as a hop." "What things?" "She goes and has trundle-beds," said Maggie. Mr. Jones laughed out now as he said, "Oh, you haven't got over that trouble yet, eh? Well, what else does she do?" "She said we could spare our baby, and we couldn't," said Maggie, angrily; "and she didn't want you to go send the message for our own doctor. I think she ought to be ashamed." "She didn't mean it," said Mr. Jones, coaxingly. "People ought not to say things they don't mean," said Maggie. "No more they oughtn't, but yet you see they do sometimes." "And she said mamma took on," said Maggie, "and mamma would not do such a thing; mamma is a lady, and ladies do not take on." This seemed to amuse Mr. Jones more than anything else, and he laughed so loud and so long that Mrs. Jones came out to the kitchen door. "Sam'l," she called, "what are you making all that noise about?" "Oh, don't tell her!" said Maggie; while Mr. Jones laughed harder than ever, and she saw that Mrs. Jones was coming towards them. "Don't you be afraid," said Mr. Jones, "I aint goin' to tell her." "Now aint you just ashamed of yourself, Sam'l," said Mrs. Jones as she came up, "to be making all that hee-hawing, and poor Miss Bradford and that little sick lamb lying asleep? Do you want to wake 'em up? Is he laughing at you, Maggie?" Maggie hung her head, and looked as if she would like to run away. "I s'pose he's just tickled to death about some of your long words, that he thinks so funny," said Mrs. Jones. "It does not take much to set him going. Never you mind him, come along with me to the kitchen, and see the nice ginger cakes I am makin' for your supper. I'll make you and Bessie a gingerbread man apiece. Such good children you was yesterday, keeping so quiet when the baby was sick, and trying to help yourselves when your poor 'ma and your nurse was busy. If it had been them young ones that was here last summer, they'd have kept the house in a riot from night till morning when they was left to themselves. Jane was tellin' me how nicely you dressed yourself and Bessie this morning. Now, Sam'l, you stop bein' such a goose." Poor Maggie did not know which way to look. Here was Mrs. Jones, whom she had just been saying she did not like, praising and petting her and promising gingerbread men; and oh, Mr. Jones was laughing so! He was not laughing out loud now, but he was shaking all over, and when Maggie peeped at him from under her eyelashes, he twinkled his eyes at her, as much as to say, "Now, what do you think of her?" Right glad was she when Harry called her to take her turn at the swing, and she could run away out of sight of Mr. and Mrs. Jones. In a few days the dear baby was quite well and bright again, while her little sisters thought they loved her more than ever, now that she had been spared to them when they had so much feared they were to lose her. XII. _MISS ADAMS._ Among the many pleasures which Maggie and Bessie Bradford enjoyed at Quam Beach, there was none which they liked much better than going over to the hotel to see the dear friends who were staying there. Sometimes it was to stay a while with grandmamma and Aunt Annie; perhaps to take a meal with them at the long hotel table; to hear grandmamma's stories, or to have a frolic with Aunt Annie and their little playmates. Aunt Annie was a young girl herself, merry and full of mischief, and liked play almost as well as Maggie. Then there were those delightful visits to Colonel and Mrs. Rush, which the colonel said he enjoyed more than they did; but they thought that could not be possible. They knew a good many of the other people, too, and almost every one was pleased to see the two well-behaved, ladylike little girls. But there was staying at the hotel a lady who used to amaze Maggie and Bessie very much. Her name was Miss Adams. She was very tall and rather handsome, with bright, flashing black eyes, a beautiful color in her cheeks, and very white teeth. But she had a loud, rough voice and laugh, and a rude, wild manner, which was more like that of a coarse man than a young lady. Then she talked very strangely, using a great many words which are called "slang," and which are not nice for any one to use, least of all for a lady. Maggie ran away whenever she came near; but Bessie would stand and watch her with a grave, disapproving air, which was very amusing to those who saw it. Miss Adams generally had a number of gentlemen around her, with whom she was very familiar, calling them by their names without any "Mr.," slapping them on the shoulder, laughing and talking at the top of her voice, and altogether behaving in a very unladylike way. But Bessie thought it very strange that sometimes, when Miss Adams had been acting in this rough, noisy manner, after she went away, the gentlemen would shrug their shoulders, and laugh and talk among themselves, as if they were making unkind remarks about her. She thought they could not like her very much, after all, when they did so. One evening Harry came home from the hotel in a state of great indignation. Miss Adams had a beautiful dog named Carlo. He was a water spaniel, and was a great favorite with all the boys, who often coaxed him to the shore, where they could play with him. Miss Adams was generally willing enough to have him go; but that afternoon, when she was going out in her pony carriage, she wanted him to go with her, and he was not to be found. Something had happened before to put her out, and she was very angry at Carlo's absence. She had gone but a little way, when it began to rain, and she had to turn back. This vexed her still more; and just as she jumped from her carriage, Carlo ran up. "So, sir," she said, with an angry frown, "I'll teach you to run away without leave!" and taking the poor dog by the back of the neck, she thrashed him with the horse-whip she held in her other hand. Carlo whined and howled, and looked up in her face with pitiful eyes; but she only whipped him the harder. The ladies turned pale and walked away, and the gentlemen begged her to stop, but all in vain; she kept on until her arm was quite tired, and then the poor dog crept away shaking and trembling all over. The boys were furious, and Maggie and Bessie were very much distressed when they heard the story, and disliked Miss Adams more than ever. When the baby was quite well again, Mr. and Mrs. Bradford took a drive of some miles, to spend the day with an old friend. They took only baby and nurse with them, and Maggie and Bessie went up to the hotel to stay with their grandmamma. It was a very warm day, and grandmamma called them indoors earlier than usual. But they did not care much, for Aunt Annie was a capital playmate, and she amused them for a long time. But just as she was in the midst of a most interesting story, some ladies came to make a visit to grandmamma. One of the ladies was old and rather cross, and she did not like children, and Aunt Annie thought that it would not be very pleasant for her little nieces to be in the room while she was there. So she gave them a pack of picture cards and a basket of shells, and said they might go and play with them on one of the long settees which stood on the piazza. There were only one or two people on the piazza, and the children spread out their shells and pictures, and were very busy and happy for some time. They heard Miss Adams' loud voice in the hall, but did not pay any attention to her. Presently she came out on the piazza, followed by three or four gentlemen, and looked around for a shady place. She saw none that she liked as well as that where Maggie and Bessie were playing, and coming up to them, she sat down on the other end of the bench. The gentlemen stood around. "Here, Thorn," said Miss Adams, "sit down here;" and she moved nearer to Bessie, sweeping down some of the shells and pictures with her skirts. Mr. Thorn obeyed, and Maggie whispered to Bessie, "Let's go away." Bessie said, "Yes;" and they began to gather up their treasures, Maggie stooping to pick up those which Miss Adams had thrown down. Presently Bessie felt a pretty hard pull at one of her long curls. She was sure it was Miss Adams, although she did not see her; but she said nothing, only shook back her hair, and put on the look she always did when Miss Adams was doing anything of which she did not approve. There came another pull, this time a little harder. "Don't," said Bessie. A third pull, just as Maggie raised her head and saw Miss Adams' hand at Bessie's hair. "Don't!" said Bessie again, in a louder and more impatient tone. "Come now, Lovatt," said Miss Adams, "are you not ashamed to be pulling a young lady's hair?" "Oh!" said Maggie, astonished out of her shyness, "you did it yourself! I saw you." Miss Adams shook her fist at Maggie, and then gave a longer and harder pull at Bessie's hair. "When I tell you _to don't_, why _don't_ you don't?" said Bessie, furiously, stamping her foot, and turning to Miss Adams, her face crimson with anger. Miss Adams and the gentlemen set up a shout of laughter, and Mr. Lovatt, who was standing just behind Bessie, caught her up in his arms and held her high in the air. Now Bessie disliked Mr. Lovatt almost as much as she did Miss Adams. He was a great tease, and was always running after her and trying to kiss her. He had never done it yet, for she had always managed to run away from him, or some of her friends had interfered to save her from being annoyed. "Put me down!" she said. "Not until you have given me three kisses," said Mr. Lovatt. "I have you now, and you cannot help yourself." "Put me down!" screamed Bessie, furious with passion. "For shame, Lovatt!" said Mr. Thorn, and Mr. Lovatt looked for a moment as if he was going to put Bessie down; but Miss Adams laughed and said,-- "You are not going to let that little mite get the better of you? _Make_ her kiss you. Such airs!" Mr. Lovatt lowered the struggling child a little, but still held her fast in his arms, while Maggie ran off to call her grandmamma. "Kiss me, and I'll let you go," said Mr. Lovatt. "I wont, I wont!" shrieked Bessie. "I'll tell my papa." "Your papa is far away," said Miss Adams. "I'll tell Colonel Yush!" gasped Bessie. "Do you think I care a _rush_ for him?" said Mr. Lovatt, as he tried to take the kisses she would not give. Bessie screamed aloud, clinched one little hand in Mr. Lovatt's hair, and with the other struck with all her force upon the mouth that was so near her own. "Whew!" said Mr. Lovatt, as he quickly set Bessie upon her feet, "who would have thought that tiny hand could have stung so?" "You little tiger!" said Miss Adams, seizing Bessie by the shoulder and giving her a shake. "You are the child they call so good; are you? Why, there's not another in the house would have flown into such a passion for nothing. What a furious temper!" Bessie had never been shaken before. It was a punishment which Mr. and Mrs. Bradford would not have thought proper for a child, were she ever so naughty, and she had never been punished at all by any one but her father or mother, and that but seldom. But it was not so much the shaking as Miss Adams' words which sobered Bessie in an instant. She had been in a passion again! She stood perfectly silent, her lips and cheeks growing so white that Miss Adams was frightened, but just then Mrs. Stanton stepped out on the piazza and came quickly toward them. They all looked ashamed and uncomfortable as the stately old lady lifted her little granddaughter in her arms and spoke a few words of stern reproof to the thoughtless young people who could find amusement in tormenting a little child. Then she carried Bessie away. XIII. _BESSIE'S REPENTANCE._ Mrs. Stanton would have come sooner, but her visitors were just leaving when Maggie came in, and she did not quite understand at first how it was. Miss Ellery, a young lady who had been standing by, rushed into Mrs. Stanton's room after she carried Bessie in, and told her how the little girl had been treated. Mrs. Stanton was very much displeased, but just now she could think of nothing but the child's distress. She shook all over, and the sobs and tears came faster and faster till grandmamma was afraid she would be ill. She soothed and comforted and petted in vain. Bessie still cried as if her heart would break. All she could say was, "Oh, mamma, mamma! I want my own mamma!" At last Mrs. Stanton said kindly but firmly, "Bessie, my child, you _must_ be quiet. You will surely be sick. Grandmamma is very sorry for you, but your head cannot hurt you so very much now." "Oh, no!" sobbed the little girl, clinging about her grandmother's neck, "it isn't that, grandmamma; I don't care much if she did pull my hair; but oh, I was so wicked! I was in a passion again, and I was _so_ bad! I struck that man, I know I did. Jesus will be sorry, and he will be angry with me too. He will think that I don't want to be his little child any more, 'cause I was so very, very naughty. Oh! what shall I do?" "Tell Jesus that you are sorry, and ask him to forgive you, Bessie," said grandmamma, gently. "Oh! I am 'fraid he can't," sobbed Bessie; "he must be so very angry. I didn't think about him, and I didn't try one bit, grandmamma. I just thought about what Miss Adams and that man did to me, and I was in such a dreadful passion; I never was so bad before. Oh, I wish I could tell my own mamma about it!" All this was said with many sobs and tears and catchings of her breath, and grandmamma wished that Miss Adams could see the distress she had caused. "Bessie," she said, "why did Jesus come down from heaven and die on the cross?" "So our Father in heaven could forgive us," answered the child more quietly. "And do you not think that his precious blood is enough to wash away our great sins as well as those which we may think are smaller?" "Yes, grandmamma." "Now, no sin is small in the eyes of a just and holy God, Bessie; but when he made such a great sacrifice for us, it was that he might be able to forgive _every one_ of our sins against him, if we are truly sorry for them. And he will surely do so, my darling, and help and love us still, if we ask him for the sake of that dear Son." "And will he listen to me _now_, grandmamma, just when I was so very naughty?" "Yes, he is always ready to hear us. No matter how much we have grieved him, he will not turn away when we call upon him." Bessie was silent for some minutes with her face hidden on her grandmother's neck, and her sobs became less violent. At last she whispered, "Grandmamma, do you think Jesus can love me just as much as he did before?" "Just as much, my precious one," said grandmamma, drawing her arms close about Bessie, and pressing her lips on the little curly head. Then Bessie raised her face and turned around in her grandmamma's lap. A very pale little face it was, and very weak and tired she looked; but she lay quite quiet now except for a long sob which still came now and then. Maggie wondered why grandmamma bit her lip, and why her eyebrows drew together in a frown, as if she were angry. She could not be displeased with Bessie now, she thought. Presently grandmamma began to sing in a low voice,-- "Just as I am, without one plea, Save that thy blood was shed for me, And that thou bid'st me come to thee, O Lamb of God! I come. "Just as I am, and waiting not To rid my soul of one dark blot, To thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, O Lamb of God! I come. "Just as I am thou wilt receive, Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve, Because thy promise I believe, O Lamb of God! I come. "Just as I am,--thy love unknown Has broken every barrier down; Now to be thine, yea, thine alone O Lamb of God! I come." When she had sung one verse, Maggie joined in, and Bessie lay listening. When they were through, Mrs. Stanton put Bessie down in a corner of the lounge, and said the children must have some lunch. First she rang the bell, and then went to a little cupboard at the side of the fireplace and brought out two small white plates, which Maggie and Bessie knew quite well. Presently the waiter came to the door to know what Mrs. Stanton wanted. This was James, the head waiter. He knew Maggie and Bessie, and they were great favorites with him. His wife washed for some of the ladies in the hotel, and once when she came there with some clothes, she brought her little girl with her, and left her in the hall with her father, who was busy there. She was a _very_ little girl, and could just walk alone, and while she was toddling about after her father, she fell down and knocked her head against the corner of a door. She cried very hard, and James tried to quiet her, lest she should disturb some of the boarders. But she had a great bump on her head, and she did not see any reason why she should be still when it hurt her so. She was still crying when Maggie and Bessie came through the hall. Each had a stick of candy, which some one had just given them. When they heard the little one crying, they stopped to ask what ailed her. "I'll give her my candy," said Maggie. "Yes, do," said Bessie, "and I'll give you half of mine." The child stopped crying when she had the nice stick of candy. James was very much pleased, and after that he was always glad to wait upon our little girls. He had just now heard the story of Bessie's trouble, for Miss Ellery had taken pains to spread it through the house, so vexed was she at Miss Adams, and James had been by when she was telling some of the ladies. He felt very sorry for Bessie, and wished that he could do something for her. When he came to answer Mrs. Stanton's ring, she asked him to bring some bread and butter. "Is it for the little ladies, ma'am?" asked James. Mrs. Stanton said, "Yes," and James asked if they would not like toast better. Two or three times when Maggie and Bessie had taken tea with their grandmamma, he had noticed that Bessie always asked for toast. Mrs. Stanton thanked him and said yes, for she thought perhaps Bessie would eat toast when she would not eat bread. "But can I have it at this time of the day?" she said. "No fear, ma'am," said James. "You shall have it, if I make it myself;" and with a nod to the children, he went away. Bessie sat quiet in a corner of the sofa, still looking very grave. "Don't you feel happy now, Bessie?" said Maggie, creeping close to her, and putting her arm around her. "I am sure Jesus will forgive you." "Yes, I think he will," said Bessie; "but I can't help being sorry 'cause I was so naughty." "You was not half so bad as Miss Adams, if you did get into a passion," said Maggie, "and I don't believe he'll forgive her." "Oh, Maggie!" said Bessie. "Well, I don't believe she'll ask him." "Then I'll ask him," said Bessie. "Now, Bessie, don't you do it!" "But I ought to ask him, if I want him to forgive me," said Bessie. "When we say 'Our Father in heaven,' we say 'Forgive us our sins as we forgive those that sin against us.' I think Miss Adams sinned against me a little bit; don't you, Maggie?" "No, I don't," said Maggie. "No little bit about it. _I_ think she sinned against you a great bit,--as much as the whole ocean." "Then if I want Jesus to forgive me, I ought to forgive her, and to ask him to forgive her too. I think I ought. I'm going to ask mamma to-night." "_I_ sha'n't do it, I know," said Maggie. "I wish I was as tall as she is; no,--as tall as papa or Colonel Rush, and oh! wouldn't she get it then!" "What would you do?" asked Bessie. "I don't know,--something. Oh, yes! don't you know the pictures of Bluebeard's wives, where they're all hanging up by their hair? I'd just hang her up that way, and then _her_ hair would be nicely pulled. And I'd get the boys to come and poke her with sticks." Maggie said this, shaking her head with a very determined look. The idea of Miss Adams hanging up by her hair made Bessie laugh; but in a moment she looked grave again. "I don't believe that's yight, Maggie," she said. "I don't care," said Maggie. "I'm going to say it." Just then James came back, and they forgot Miss Adams for a while. He brought a nice plate of toast and some butter. Grandmamma spread two pieces of toast and laid them on the little plates, and then went back again to the famous cupboard and brought out--oh, delicious!--a box of guava jelly. She put a spoonful on each plate, and gave them to the children. "Now, remember," she said, "the jelly goes with the toast." Bessie looked rather doubtfully at her toast. "Grandmamma, I don't feel very hungry." "But you must eat something, Bessie; it is long after your luncheon time, and it will not do for you to go until dinner without eating. Mamma will think I did not take good care of you." But the toast tasted so good with the guava jelly that Bessie eat the whole of hers and even asked for more, to grandma's great pleasure. When she brought it to her with some more jelly, she saw that Bessie had still some of the sweetmeats left on her plate. "Don't you like your jelly, dear?" she asked. "Yes, ma'am," said Bessie, "but I didn't know if I could eat all the toast, and I thought perhaps you only wanted me to eat just so much share of the guava as I eat a share of the toast; so I eat that first to be sure." Grandma smiled, but she did not praise her honest little granddaughter, for she did not think it best. When Aunt Annie heard Miss Ellery tell how Bessie had been treated, she was very angry, and said some things about Miss Adams and Mr. Lovatt which her mother did not wish to have her say before the children. She told her so, speaking in French; so Annie said no more just then; but as soon as Bessie ceased crying, she ran out to tell Miss Adams what she thought of her conduct. But happily Miss Adams was not to be found, and before Annie saw her again, her mother had persuaded her that it was better to say nothing about it. But now when she could not find Miss Adams, she went off to Mrs. Rush's room and told her and the colonel the whole story. The colonel was angry enough to please even Annie. He said so much, and grew so excited, that Mrs. Rush was sorry Annie had told him. He was far more displeased than he would have been with any insult to himself, and when, soon after, he met Mr. Lovatt in the hall, he spoke so severely and angrily to him that Mr. Lovatt was much offended. Very high words passed between the two gentlemen, and the quarrel might have become serious, if Mr. Howard had not interfered. Miss Adams heard all this, and when she found how much trouble and confusion she had caused by her cruel thoughtlessness, she felt rather ashamed, and wished she had not tormented the little child who had never done her any harm. But this was not the last of it, for Miss Adams was to be punished a little by the last person who meant to do it. XIV. _WHO IS A LADY?_ In the afternoon the children asked their grandmother if they might go down upon the beach, but she said it was still too warm, and she did not wish Bessie to go out until the sun was down. "Grandma is going to take her nap now," said Aunt Annie; "suppose we go out on the piazza and have a store, and ask Lily and Gracie to come play with you." "Is Miss Adams there?" asked Maggie. "No, but the colonel has had his arm-chair taken out, and is sitting there with Mrs. Rush, and I am going there with my work; so you will be quite safe." "Oh, then we'll go," said Bessie. She did not feel afraid where the colonel was. "Are you going to sew with Mrs. Rush again?" asked Maggie. Aunt Annie laughed and pinched her cheeks, telling her not to be inquisitive. For the last few days Aunt Annie had always seemed to be sewing with Mrs. Rush, and they were very busy, but they did not appear to wish to let the little girls know what they were doing. Annie was always whisking her work out of their sight, and if they asked any questions, they were put off, or told, as Maggie was now, not to be curious. Once when they were staying with the colonel, when Mrs. Rush had gone out for a while, he sent Bessie to a certain drawer to find a knife. Bessie did as she was told, but as she was looking for it, she suddenly called out, "Oh, what a dear darling little cap! just like a dolly's. Why, does Mrs. Yush play with dolls when nobody looks at her?" "Holloa!" said the colonel, "I forgot; come away from that drawer. I'm a nice man; can't keep my own secrets." Maggie was going to ask some questions; but the colonel began to talk about something else, and they both forgot the little cap. But they were very curious to know why Aunt Annie and Mrs. Rush were always whispering and laughing and showing each other their work, as well as why it was so often put away when they came near. To-day Aunt Annie was embroidering a little piece of muslin, but she did not put it out of their sight, though she would answer no questions about it. They all went out on the piazza to set about making what Maggie called, "A Grocery and _Perwision_ Store." The piazza steps ended in two large blocks of wood, and on one of these they were to play. Aunt Annie made some paper boxes to hold some of their things, and they had clam shells for the rest. They had sand for sugar, blades of timothy grass for corn, sea-weed for smoked beef and ham, and small pebbles for eggs, with larger ones for potatoes. In short, it was quite wonderful to see the number of things they contrived to have for sale. When the colonel found what they were about, he called for a couple of clam shells, and sent his man for a piece of wood and some twine; with these he made a pair of scales, which Maggie and Bessie thought quite splendid. To be sure, one side was ever so much heavier than the other, but that did not matter in the least; neither they nor their customers would be troubled by a trifle like that. Then he gave them a couple of bullets and some shot for weights, so that the whole thing was fixed in fine style. Maggie went to call Lily and Gracie, and when Mamie Stone heard what was going on, she asked if she might come too. Maggie said "Yes," for Mamie was not so disagreeable as she used to be when she first came to Quam Beach. However fretful and selfish she was when she was playing with other children, she was almost always pleasant when she was with Maggie and Bessie. Maggie went back with her to their little playmates, and in a few moments they were all as busy as bees. Maggie said Bessie must be store-keeper, for she knew she did not feel like running about. They had been playing but a little while, when Walter came up, and when he saw what they were doing, he said he would be a customer too. He was a capital playfellow, and pretended to be ever so many different people. First, he was an old negro man, then he was a naughty boy, who meddled with everything on the counter, and gave the little shop-woman a great deal of trouble, which she enjoyed very much; then he was a Frenchman, who spoke broken English; and after that, he pretended to be a cross old Irishman. While they were playing so nicely, who should come sweeping down the piazza but Miss Adams, dressed in her riding-habit? Away went all the little girls like a flock of frightened birds. Mamie and Lily ran into the parlor, where they peeped at her from behind the blinds; Gracie scrambled into Annie Stanton's lap; Maggie squeezed herself in between the colonel and Mrs. Rush; and Bessie walked to the other side of the colonel, where she stood with her hand on his chair. Miss Adams was vexed when she saw them all fly off so, for she had not come with any intention of interrupting or teasing them. She was going out to ride, and had walked to the window of the hall above, to see if the horses were at the door, and there she had noticed the children at their play. Bessie stood quietly behind her counter, while the rest ran about after Maggie. She looked more pale and languid than usual that afternoon, as she always did when she had been tired or excited. All the soft pink color which had come into her cheek since she had been at Quam Beach was quite gone; it was no wonder that grandma frowned and bit her lip to keep herself from saying sharp things when she looked at her darling that day. Now, Miss Adams always said that she was afraid of nobody, and did not care what people said of her; but as she watched the delicate little child, who she knew had been brought by her parents to the sea-shore that she might gain health and strength, she felt sorry that she had plagued her so, and thought that she would like to make it up with her. She went into her room, put a large packet of sugar-plums into her pocket, and then went down stairs. She came up to Bessie just as the little girl reached the colonel's side, and, standing before her, said,-- "Well, Bessie, are you in a better humor yet?" Bessie was certainly not pale now. A very bright color had come into her cheeks, as Miss Adams spoke to her, but she said nothing. "Come," said Miss Adams, holding out the parcel, "here are some sugar-plums for you; come, kiss me and make up." "I'll forgive you," said Bessie, gravely; "but I don't want the sugar-plums." "Oh, yes, you do!" said Miss Adams; "come and kiss me for them." "I don't kiss people for sugar-plums," said Bessie; "and I'm sure I don't want them." "Then come and kiss me without the sugar-plums." "No," said Bessie, "I'll shake hands with you, but I don't kiss people I don't like." "Oh!" said Miss Adams, "I suppose you keep all your kisses for your friend, the colonel." "Oh, no," answered Bessie, "a great many are for papa and mamma, and the yest of the people I like." Miss Adams saw that the colonel was laughing behind his newspaper, and she was provoked. "And you don't like me, eh?" she said, sharply. "Don't you know it's very rude to tell a lady you don't like her, and wont kiss her?" Bessie opened her eyes very wide. "Are you a lady?" she asked, in a tone of great surprise. Mrs. Rush did not wish to have Miss Adams go on talking to the child, for she was afraid straightforward Bessie would say something which would cause fresh trouble; and she begged Annie Stanton to take her away; but Annie would not; she rather enjoyed the prospect, and when Mrs. Rush would have spoken herself, her husband put out his hand and stopped her. "A lady!" repeated Miss Adams; "what do you take me for? Don't you know a lady when you see one?" "Oh, yes," answered Bessie, innocently. "Mamma's a lady, and grandma and Aunt Annie and Mrs. Yush, and ever so many others." "And I'm not, eh?" said Miss Adams, angrily. Bessie did not answer, but peeped up under the colonel's paper, to see if he would help her; but he did not seem inclined to interfere. His eyes were fixed on the paper which he held before his face, and his other hand was busily engaged in smoothing his moustache. Miss Adams was very angry. She would not have cared if she had been alone with Bessie; but she was provoked that she should tell her she was not a lady, before so many people, for two or three gentlemen had gathered near, and the colonel's amusement vexed her still more. "You don't call me a lady, eh?" said Miss Adams again. "How can you quarrel with such a baby about nothing, Miss Adams?" said Mrs. Rush, rising from her seat. "She is no baby. She knows very well what she is about, and she has been put up to this," said Miss Adams, with a furious look at the colonel. "Who told you I was not a lady?" "Nobody; I just knew it myself," said Bessie, drawing closer to the colonel, as Miss Adams came nearer to her. He threw down his paper, and put his hand over her shoulder. "You little impertinent!" said Miss Adams, "who made you a judge, I should like to know? Not a lady, indeed!" Poor Bessie! She would not say what she did not think, and she did not like to say what she did think; but she was tired of the dispute, and thought Miss Adams would have an answer. She gave a long sigh, and said,-- "Well, perhaps you are a kind of a lady; but if you are, it must be a kitchen or stable lady." The gentlemen who were standing by walked quickly away; Mrs. Rush looked frightened; Annie bent her head down on Gracie's shoulder, and shook with laughter; and the colonel reached his crutches and, rising, began to steady himself. Miss Adams stood silent a moment, and then began to speak in a voice almost choked with rage, "You little--" when the colonel interrupted her. "Excuse me, madam," he said, "if I remind you that you have no one to blame for this but yourself. The child is straightforward and honest, accustomed to speak as she thinks; and if she has said what was better left unsaid, remember that you forced her to it. I cannot permit her to be annoyed any farther." Helpless as he was, he looked so grand and tall as he stood there with his eyes fixed sternly on Miss Adams, that she felt abashed. Mrs. Rush had taken Bessie into her room, Annie had followed with Maggie and Gracie, and there was no one left to quarrel with but the colonel. Just at that moment the horses were led up, and she turned away and went down the steps to mount. But Miss Adams had never been so annoyed. She had no mother, or perhaps she would not have been so rough and unladylike; but she had had many a reproof from other people. Many a grave, elderly lady, and even some of her own age, had spoken, some kindly, some severely, upon the wild, boisterous manner in which she chose to behave. But she had always laughed at all they said, and went on as before. But that this innocent little child, to whom she had been so unkind, should see for herself that she had acted in an improper way, and one that was only fit for the kitchen or stable, and should tell her so, and show such surprise at hearing her call herself a lady, was very mortifying, and she could not forget it. That evening, when Mr. and Mrs. Bradford came home, they went over to the hotel for their little girls, and Annie told them all that had happened that day. After Bessie was undressed, and had said her prayers, she sat on her mother's lap, and told her of all her troubles, and then she felt happier. "Mamma, I'm afraid I made Miss Adams mad, when I said that, and I didn't mean to," she said. "But why did you say it, Bessie?--it was saucy." "Why, I had to, mamma; I didn't want to; but I couldn't _break the truth_; she asked me and asked me, so I had to." "Oh, my Bessie, my Bessie!" said mamma, with a low laugh, and then she held the little girl very close in her arms, and kissed her. Bessie nestled her head down on her mamma's bosom, and her mother held her there, and rocked her long after she was fast asleep. Sometimes she smiled to herself as she sat thinking and watching her child; but once or twice a bright tear dropped down on Bessie's curls. Mamma was praying that her little girl might live to grow up and be a good Christian woman, and that she might always love the truth as she did now, even when she was older and knew it was not wise to say such things as she had done to-day. XV. _UNCLE JOHN._ "A letter from Uncle John!" said mamma, at the breakfast-table. "I hope Nellie is no worse. No, she is better; but the doctor has ordered sea air for her, and they all want to come here, if we can find room for them, either in this house or in the hotel." "The hotel is full, I know," said Mr. Bradford; "I do not think there is a room to be had. I wonder if Mrs. Jones can do anything for us." "I think not," said Mrs. Bradford. "Old Mr. Duncan must be with them wherever they go, for John is not willing to leave his father alone." "We can ask her, at least," said Mr. Bradford. So the next time Mrs. Jones came in with a plate full of hot cakes, she was asked if she could possibly take in Mr. Duncan's family. "Couldn't do it," she said. "If you didn't mind scroudging, I could give 'em one room; but two, I can't do it. I've plenty of beds, but no more rooms." Maggie and Bessie looked very much disappointed. It would be such a pleasure to have Grandpapa Duncan, and all the rest. "Suppose we gave up this little dining-room, and took our meals in the sitting-room," said Mr. Bradford; "could you put old Mr. Duncan in here?" "Oh, yes, well enough," said Mrs. Jones. "Didn't suppose you'd be willing to do that, York folks is so partickler." "We would be willing to do far more than that to accommodate our friends," said Mrs. Bradford, smiling. After a little more talk with Mrs. Jones, it was all settled; so mamma sat down to write to Uncle John, telling him they might come as soon as they chose. "Mamma," said Maggie, "what did Mrs. Jones mean by 'scroudging'?" "She meant to crowd." "I sha'n't take it for one of my words," said Maggie; "I don't think it sounds nice." "No," said mamma, laughing, "I do not think it is a very pretty word; crowd is much better." The children went out in the front porch, greatly pleased with the idea of having their Riverside friends with them. Dear Grandpapa Duncan and Aunt Helen, merry Uncle John and little Nellie! Maggie went hopping about the path, while Bessie sat down on the steps with a very contented smile. Presently she said,-- "Maggie, if you was on the grass, what would you be?" "I don't know," said Maggie; "just Maggie Stanton Bradford, I suppose." "You'd be a grasshopper," said Bessie. Maggie stopped hopping to laugh. She thought this a very fine joke; and when, a moment after, her brothers came up to the house, she told them of Bessie's "conundrum." They laughed, too, and then ran off to the barn. Maggie sat down on the step by her sister. "Bessie," she said, "don't you think Mrs. Jones is very horrid, even if she does make us gingerbread men?" "Not very; I think she is a little horrid." "I do," said Maggie; "she talks so; she called papa and mamma 'York folks.'" "What does that mean?" asked Bessie. "I don't know; something not nice, I'm sure." "Here comes papa," said Bessie; "we'll ask him. Papa, what did Mrs. Jones mean by York folks?" "She meant people from New York," said Mr. Bradford. "Then why don't she say that?" said Maggie; "it sounds better." "Well, that is her way of talking," answered Mr. Bradford. "Do you think it a nice way, papa?" "Not very. I should be sorry to have you speak as she does; but you must remember that the people with whom she has lived are accustomed to talk in that way, and she does not know any better." "Then we'll teach her," said Maggie. "I'll tell her she doesn't talk properly, and that we're going to teach her." "Indeed, you must do nothing of the kind," said Mr. Bradford, smiling at the idea of his shy Maggie teaching Mrs. Jones; "she would be very much offended." "Why, papa," said Bessie, "don't she like to do what is yight?" "Yes, so far as I can tell, she wishes to do right; but probably she thinks she speaks very well, and she would think it impertinent if two such little girls were to try to teach her. It is not really wrong for a person to talk in the way she does, if they know no better. It would be wrong and vulgar for you to do so, because you have been taught to speak correctly." "And do we do it?" said Bessie. "Do we speak coryectly?" "Pretty well for such little girls," said papa. "Mrs. Jones laughs at us because she says we use such big words," said Maggie; "and Mr. Jones does too. They ought not to do it, when they don't know how to talk themselves. I like grown-up words, and I am going to say them, if they do laugh." "Well, there is no harm in that, if you understand their meaning," said papa; "but I would not feel unkindly towards Mrs. Jones; she means to be good and kind to you, and I think she is so; and you must not mind if her manner is not always very pleasant." "But she called you and mamma particular," said Maggie, who was determined not to be pleased with Mrs. Jones. "Well, if Mrs. Jones thinks we are too particular about some things, we think she is not particular enough; so neither one thinks the other quite perfect." Maggie did not think this mended the matter at all. But just then the nurses came with the younger children, and after their father had played with them for a while, they all went for their morning walk on the beach. Two days after, the party came from Riverside, and, with some crowding, were all made comfortable. They almost lived out of doors in this beautiful weather, and so did not mind some little inconveniences in the house. Uncle John was always ready for a frolic. Now he would hire Mr. Jones' large farm wagon and two horses, cover the bottom of the wagon with straw, pack in Aunt Annie and the little Bradfords, and as many other boys and girls as it would hold, and start off for a long drive. Then he said they must have a clam-bake, and a clam-bake they had; not only one, but several. Sometimes Uncle John would invite their friends from the hotel, and they would have quite a grand affair; but, generally, they had only their own family, with Mrs. Rush, and the colonel when he was well enough to come; and the children enjoyed the smaller parties much more than they did the larger ones. First, a large, shallow hole was made in the sand, in which the clams were placed, standing on end; a fire was built on top of them, and they were left until they were well roasted, when they were pulled out and eaten with bread and butter. When Mrs. Jones found how fond the children were of roast clams, she often had them for their breakfast or supper; but they never tasted so good as they did when they were cooked in the sand and eaten on the shore. One cool, bright afternoon, Mr. Bradford and Mr. Duncan went down to the beach for a walk. The children had been out for some time: Maggie was racing about with the boys; Bessie, sitting on the sand beside a pool of salt water, looking into it so earnestly that she did not see her father and uncle till they were quite close to her. "What is my little girl looking at?" said her father, sitting down on a great stone which was near. "Such an ugly thing!" said Bessie. Papa leaned forward and looked into the pool, and there he saw the thing Bessie thought so ugly. It was a small salt-water crab which had been left there by the tide. He was very black and had long, sprawling legs, spreading out in every direction. He lay quite still in the bottom of the pool, with his great eyes staring straight forward, and did not seem to be in the least disturbed by the presence of his visitors. "What do you suppose he is thinking about, Bessie?" said Uncle John. "I guess he thinks he looks pretty nasty," said Bessie; "I do." "Bessie," said her father, "it seems to me that you and Maggie say 'nasty' very often. I do not think it is at all a pretty word for little girls to use." "Then I wont say it," said Bessie; "but when a thing looks--looks _that_ way, what shall I say?" "You might say ugly," said Mr. Bradford. "But, papa, sometimes a thing looks ugly, and not nasty. I think that animal looks ugly and nasty too." "Tell us of something that is ugly, but not nasty," said Uncle John. Bessie looked very hard at her uncle. Now Mr. Duncan was not at all a handsome man. He had a pleasant, merry, good-natured face, but he was certainly no beauty. Bessie looked at him, and he looked back at her, with his eyes twinkling, and the corners of his mouth twitching with a smile, for he thought he knew what was coming. "Well?" he said, when Bessie did not speak for a moment. "Uncle John," said she, very gravely, "I think you are ugly, but I do not think you are nasty, a bit." Uncle John laughed as if he thought this a capital joke; and Mr. Bradford smiled as he said, "It don't do to ask Bessie questions to which you do not want a straightforward answer." "But I want to know about 'nasty,'" said Bessie. "Is it saying bad grammar, like Mrs. Jones, to say it?" "Not exactly," said Mr. Bradford, "and you may say it when a thing is really nasty; but I think you often use it when there is no need. Perhaps this little fellow does look nasty as well as ugly; but the other day I heard Maggie say that Mamie Stone was a nasty, cross child. Now, Mamie may be cross,--I dare say she often is,--but she certainly is not nasty, for she is always neat and clean. And this morning I heard you say that you did not want 'that nasty bread and milk.' The bread and milk was quite good and sweet, and not at all nasty; but you called it so because you did not fancy it." "Then did I tell a wicked story?" asked Bessie, looking sober at the thought of having said what was not true. "No," said papa, "you did not tell a wicked story, for you did not mean to say that which was not so. But it is wrong to fall into the habit of using words which seem to say so much more than we mean. But do not look so grave about it, my darling; you did not intend to do anything that was not right, I am sure."-- "But, papa," said Bessie, "why did God make ugly things?" "Because he thought it best, Bessie. He made everything in the way which best fitted it for the purpose for which he intended it. This little crab lives under the sea, where he has a great many enemies, and where he has to find his food. With these round, staring eyes which stand out so far from his head, he can look in every direction and see if any danger is near, or if there is anything which may do for him to eat. With these long, awkward legs, he can scamper out of the way, and with those sharp claws, he fights, for he is a quarrelsome little fellow. He can give a good pinch with them, and you had better not put your fingers too near them. Under that hard, black shell, he has a tender body, which would be hurt by the rocks and stones among which he lives, if he had not something to protect it." Uncle John took up a stick. "Here, Johnny Crab," he said, "let us see how you can fight;" and he put the stick in the water and stirred up the crab. The moment he was touched, the crab began to move all his legs, and to scuttle round the pool as if he wanted to get out. But Uncle John did not mean to let him come out until he had shown Bessie what a nip he could give with those pincers of his. He pushed him back, and put the stick close to one of his larger claws. The crab took hold of it, as if he were very angry, and such a pinch as he gave it! "See there, Bessie," said Uncle John, "are you not glad it is not one of your little fingers he has hold of?" "Yes," said Bessie, climbing on her father's knee as the crab tried to get out. "I didn't know he could pinch like that." "Or you would not have sat so quietly watching him, eh, Bessie?" said Uncle John. "Well, romp,"--to Maggie, as she rushed up to them, rosy and out of breath, and jumping upon the rock behind him, threw both arms around his neck,--"well, romp, here is a gentleman who wishes to make your acquaintance." "Why, Uncle John, what a horrid, nasty thing! What is it?" said Maggie, as her uncle pushed back the crab, which was still trying to get out of the pool. "There it goes again," said Uncle John,--"horrid, nasty thing! Poor little crab!" "Maggie," said Bessie, "we must not say 'nasty.' Papa says it means what we do not mean, and it's unproper. Tell her about it, papa." "No," said papa, "we will not have another lecture now. By and by you may tell her. I think you can remember all I have said." "Now see, Maggie," said Uncle John, "you have hurt the crab's feelings so that he is in a great hurry to run off home. I am sure his mother thinks him a very handsome fellow, and he wants to go and tell her how he went on his travels and met a monster who had the bad taste to call him 'a horrid, nasty thing.'" "Oh," said Bessie, laughing, "what a funny Uncle John you are! But I should think it would hurt the crab's feelings a great deal more to be poked with a stick, and not to be let to go home when he wants to. I don't believe he knows what Maggie says." "I think you are about right, Bessie; I guess we must let him go." So the next time the crab tried to come out of the pool, Uncle John put the stick by his claw, and when he took hold of it, lifted him out of the water and laid him on the sand. Away the crab scampered as fast as his long legs could carry him, moving in a curious side-long fashion, which amused the children very much. They followed him as near to the water's edge as they were allowed to go, and then ran back to their father. XVI. _THE BIRTHDAY PRESENTS._ The tenth of August was Maggie's birthday. She would be seven years old, and on that day she was to have a party. At first, Mrs. Bradford had intended to have only twenty little children at this party, but there seemed some good reason for inviting this one and that one, until it was found that there were about thirty to come. Maggie begged that she might print her own invitations on some of the paper which Grandpapa Duncan had sent. Mamma said she might try, but she thought Maggie would be tired before she was half through, and she was right. By the time Maggie had printed four notes, her little fingers were cramped, and she had to ask her mother to write the rest for her. Mrs. Bradford did so, putting Maggie's own words on Maggie's and Bessie's own stamped paper. Maggie said this was Bessie's party just as much as hers, and the invitations must come from her too. So they were written in this way. "Please to have the pleasure of coming to have a party with us, on Tuesday afternoon, at four o'clock. "MAGGIE AND BESSIE." Among those which Maggie had printed herself, was one to Colonel and Mrs. Rush. "What do you send them an invitation for?" said Fred. "They wont come. The colonel can't walk so far, and Mrs. Rush wont leave him." "Then they can send us a _refuse_," said Maggie. "I know the colonel can't come, but maybe Mrs. Rush will for a little while. We're going to ask them, anyhow. They'll think it a great discompliment if we don't." Such busy little girls as they were on the day before the birthday! The dolls had to be all dressed in their best, and the dolls' tea things washed about a dozen times in the course of the morning. Then Bessie had a birthday present for Maggie. She had been saving all her money for some time to buy it. Papa had bought it for her, and brought it from town the night before. Every half-hour or so, Bessie had to run and peep at it, to be sure it was all safe, taking great care that Maggie did not see. They went to bed early, that, as Maggie said, "to-morrow might come soon," but they lay awake laughing and talking until nurse told them it was long past their usual bedtime, and they must go right to sleep. The next morning Bessie was the first to wake. She knew by the light that it was very early, not time to get up. She looked at her sister, but Maggie showed no signs of waking. "Oh, this is Maggie's birthday!" said the little girl to herself. "My dear Maggie! I wish she would wake up, so I could kiss her and wish her a happy birthday. 'Many happy yeturns,' that's what people say when other people have birthdays. I'll say it to Maggie when she wakes up. But now I'll go to sleep again for a little while." Bessie turned over for another nap, when her eye was caught by something on the foot of the bed. She raised her head, then sat upright. No more thought of sleep for Bessie. She looked one moment, then laid her hand upon her sleeping sister. "Maggie, dear Maggie, wake up! Just see what somebody brought here!" Maggie stirred, and sleepily rubbed her eyes. "Wake up wide, Maggie! Only look! Did you ever see such a thing?" Maggie opened her eyes, and sat up beside Bessie. On the foot of the bed--one on Maggie's side, one on Bessie's--were two boxes. On each sat a large doll--and such dolls! They had beautiful faces, waxen hands and feet, and what Bessie called "live hair, yeal live hair." They were dressed in little white night-gowns, and sat there before the surprised and delighted children as if they had themselves just wakened from sleep. Maggie threw off the bed-covers, scrambled down to the foot of the bed, and seized the doll nearest to her. "Who did it, Bessie?" she said. "I don't know," said Bessie. "Mamma, I guess. I think they're for your birthday." "Why, so I s'pose it is!" said Maggie. "Why don't you come and take yours, Bessie?" "But it is not my birthday," said Bessie, creeping down to where her sister sat. "I don't believe somebody gave me one; but you will let me play with one; wont you, Maggie?" "Bessie, if anybody did be so foolish as to give me two such beautiful dolls, do you think I'd keep them both myself, and not give you one? Indeed, I wouldn't. And even if they only gave me one, I'd let it be half yours, Bessie." Bessie put her arm about her sister's neck and kissed her, and then took up the other doll. "What cunning little ni'-gowns!" she said. "I wonder if they have any day clo's." "Maybe they're in these boxes," said Maggie. "I'm going to look. Gracie Howard's aunt did a very unkind, selfish thing. She gave her a great big doll with not a thing to put on it. I don't believe anybody would do so to us. Oh, no! here's lots and lots of clo's! Pull off your cover quick, Bessie. Oh, I am so very, very pleased! I know mamma did it. I don't believe anybody else would be so kind. See, there's a white frock and a silk frock and a muslin one, and--oh! goody, goody!--a sweet little sack and a round hat, and petticoats and drawers and everything! Why don't you look at yours, Bessie, and see if they are just the same?" "Yes," said Bessie; "they are, and here's shoes and stockings, and oh! such a cunning parasol, and here's--oh, Maggie, here's the dear little cap that I saw in Mrs. Yush's drawer the day the colonel sent me to find his knife! Why, she must have done it!" "And look here, Bessie, at this dear little petticoat all 'broidered. That's the very pattern we saw Aunt Annie working the day that 'bomnable Miss Adams pulled your hair. Isn't it pretty?" "And see, Maggie! Mrs. Yush was sewing on a piece of silk just like this dear little dress, and she wouldn't tell us what it was. I do believe she did it, and Aunt Annie and maybe the colonel." "How could the colonel make dolls' clothes?" said Maggie. "Men can't sew." "Soldier men can," said Bessie. "Don't you yemember how Colonel Yush told us he had to sew on his buttons? But I did not mean he made the dolly's clothes, only maybe he gave us the dolls, and Mrs. Yush and Aunt Annie made their things. Oh, here's another ni'-gown,--two ni'-gowns!" "Yes," said Maggie. "I was counting, and there's two ni'-gowns, and two chemise, and two everything, except only dresses, and there's four of those, and they're all marked like our things,--'Bessie,' for yours, and 'Maggie' for mine. Oh, what a happy birthday! Bessie, I'm so glad you've got a doll too! Oh, I'm so very gratified!" "I have something nice for you too, Maggie. Please give me my slippers, and I'll go and get it." Maggie leaned over the side of the trundle-bed, to reach her sister's slippers, but what she saw there quite made her forget them. She gave a little scream of pleasure, and began hugging up her knees and rolling about the bed squealing with delight. Bessie crept to the edge of the bed, and peeped over. There stood two little perambulators, just of the right size for the new dolls, and in each, lay neatly folded, a tiny affghan. When this new excitement was over, Bessie put on her slippers and went for her present for Maggie. This was a little brown morocco work-bag, lined with blue silk, and fitted up with scissors, thimble, bodkin, and several other things. She gave it to her sister saying, "I make you many happy yeturns, dear Maggie." Then Maggie had another fit of rolling, tumbling, and screaming, until nurse, who was watching the children from her bed, though they did not know it, could stand it no longer, but broke into a hearty laugh. "Now, nursey," said Maggie. "Is it a pig or a puppy we have got here for a birthday?" said nurse. "Sure, it is a happy one I wish you, my pet, and many of 'em, and may you never want for nothing more than you do now. Now don't you make such a noise there, and wake Franky. I s'pose I may just as well get up and wash and dress you, for there'll be no more sleep, I'm thinking." "Who gave us these dolls and all these things, nursey?" asked Maggie. "Indeed, then, Bessie was just right," said nurse. "Colonel Rush gave you the dolls, and his wife, with Miss Annie, made the clothes; and did you ever see dolls that had such a fittin' out? It was your mamma that bought the wagons and made the blankets." "We didn't see her," said Bessie. "No, but she did them when you were out or asleep; but you see Mrs. Rush and Miss Annie had to be working all the time on the clothes, lest they wouldn't be done; and you're round there so much, they had to let you see." "But we never knew," said Maggie. The children could scarcely keep still long enough to let nurse bathe and dress them; but at last it was done, and then the dolls were dressed, and the rest of the clothes put nicely away in the boxes. As soon as baby awoke, they were off to their mamma's room, scrambling up on the bed to show their treasures, and talking as fast as their tongues could go. "I was so very surprised, mamma!" said Maggie. "You were not; were you, Bessie?" said mamma, laughing. "Why, yes, I was." "Didn't you see or hear something last night?" asked mamma. Bessie looked at her mother for a minute, and then exclaimed, "Oh, yes, I do yemember, now! Maggie, last night I woke up and somebody was laughing, and I thought it was Aunt Annie; but when I opened my eyes, only mamma was there, and when I asked her where Aunt Annie was, she said, 'Go to sleep; you shall see Aunt Annie in the morning.' Mamma, I thought you came to kiss us, as you do every night before you go to bed. I suppose you put the dolls there that time?" "Yes," said Mrs. Bradford. "That's what I call being _mysteyious_," said Bessie. "Do you like people to be mysterious, Bessie?" asked her father, laughing. "About dolls, I do, papa; but about some things, I don't." "What things?" "When they're going to say what they don't want me to hear, and they send me out of the yoom. I don't like that way of being mysteyious at all. It hurts children's feelings very much to be sent out of the yoom." "What are these magnificent young ladies to be named?" asked Uncle John, at the breakfast-table. "Mine is to be Bessie Margaret Marion," said Maggie,--"after mamma and Bessie and Mrs. Rush." "Why, all your dolls are named Bessie," said Harry; "there are big Bessie and little Bessie and middling Bessie." "I don't care," said Maggie; "this is going to be Bessie too. She will have two other names, so it will be very nice. Besides, I am not going to play with middling Bessie again. The paint is all off her cheeks, and Franky smashed her nose in, and yesterday I picked out her eyes, to see what made them open and shut, so she is not very pretty any more. I am going to let Susie have her." "And what is yours to be, Bessie?" "Margayet Colonel Hoyace Yush Byadford," said Bessie, trying very hard to pronounce her r's. The boys shouted and even the grown people laughed. "That is a regular boy's name,--all except the Margaret," said Fred, "and the Colonel is no name at all." "It is," said Bessie,--"it is my own dear soldier's, and it is going to be my dolly's. You're bad to laugh at it, Fred." "Do not be vexed, my little girl," said her father. "Colonel is not a name; it is only a title given to a man because he commands a regiment of soldiers. Now young ladies do not command regiments, and Horace is a man's name. You may call your doll what you please, but suppose you were to name her Horatia; would not that sound better?" But Bessie held fast to the Horace; it was her soldier's name, and she was quite determined to give her doll the same. After breakfast, Mrs. Bradford called Maggie up stairs for a while. "Maggie, dear," she said, when she had taken the little girl up into her lap, "have you remembered this morning that our Father in heaven has brought you to the beginning of another year of your life?" "Oh, yes, mamma," said Maggie; "I have done nothing but think it was my birthday ever since I woke up. You know I could not forget it when every one was so kind and gave me such lots and lots of lovely things." "But have you remembered to thank God for letting you see another birthday, and for giving you all these kind friends, and so many other blessings? And have you asked him to make you wiser and better each year, as you grow older?" "I am afraid I did not think much about it that way," said Maggie, coloring; "but I _am_ very thankful. I know I have a great many blessings. I have you and papa and Bessie, and my new doll, and all the rest of the family. But I want to know one thing, mamma. Isn't it wrong to pray to God about dolls? Bessie said it wasn't, but I thought it must be." "How to pray about them, dear?" "To thank God because he made Colonel Rush think of giving us such beautiful ones. Bessie said we ought to, but I thought God would not care to hear about such little things as that. Bessie said we asked every day for our daily bread; and dolls were a great deal better blessing than bread, so we ought to thank him. But I thought he was such a great God, maybe he would be offended if I thanked him for such a little thing as a doll." "We should thank him for every blessing, dear, great and small. Though we deserve nothing at his hands, all that we have comes from his love and mercy; and these are so great that even our smallest wants are not beneath his notice. He knows all our wishes and feelings,--every thought, whether spoken or not; and if you feel grateful to him because he put it into the hearts of your kind friends to give you this pretty present, he knew the thought, and was pleased that you should feel so. But never fear to thank him for any mercy, however small. Never fear to go to him in any trouble or happiness. He is always ready to listen to the simplest prayer from the youngest child. Shall we thank him now for all the gifts and mercies you have received to-day, and for the care which he has taken of you during the past year?" "Yes, mamma." "And, Maggie, I think you have one especial blessing to be grateful for." "What, mamma?" "That you have been able, with God's help, to do so much towards conquering a very troublesome fault." "Oh, yes, mamma! and I do think God helped me to do that, for I asked him every night and morning, since I meddled with papa's inkstand. I mean, when I said, 'God bless,' when I came to 'make me a good little girl,' I used to say quite quick and softly to myself, 'and careful too.'" "That was right, dear," said Mrs. Bradford, tenderly smoothing Maggie's curls, and kissing her forehead; "you see he did hear that little prayer, and help you in what you were trying to do." Then Mrs. Bradford knelt down with Maggie, and thanked God that he had spared her child's life, and given her so many blessings, and prayed that each year, as she grew older, she might be better and wiser, and live more to his glory and praise. "I am not quite careful yet, mamma," said Maggie, when they rose from their knees. "You know the other day, when nurse told me to bring in Bessie's best hat, I forgot and left it out on the grass, and the rain spoiled it; but I mean to try more and more, and maybe, when I am eight, I will be as careful as Bessie." XVII. _THE BIRTHDAY PARTY._ Maggie said this was the very best birthday she had ever had. The whole day seemed one long pleasure. She and Bessie walked over, with their father and Uncle John, to see Colonel and Mrs. Rush, leaving mamma, Aunt Helen, and Aunt Annie all helping Mrs. Jones to prepare for the evening. There were cakes and ice cream and jelly to make, for such things could not be bought here in the country as they could in town. The new dolls went too, seated in the perambulators and snugly tucked in with the affghans, though it was such a warm day that when they reached the hotel, Bessie said she was "yoasted." "So this is a pleasant birthday; is it, Maggie?" said the colonel. "Oh, yes!" said Maggie; "I wish every day was my birthday or Bessie's." "Then in sixty days you would be old ladies. How would you like that?" said Uncle John. "Not a bit," answered Maggie; "old ladies don't have half so much fun as children." "So you will be content with one birthday in a year?" "Yes, Uncle John." "And you liked all your presents, Maggie?" asked the colonel. "Yes, sir, except only one." "And what was that?" "Mrs. Jones gave me a white _Canting_ flannel rabbit, with black silk for its nose, and red beads for its eyes. Idea of it! just as if I was a little girl, and I am seven! I told nurse if baby wanted it, she could have it; and I didn't care if she did put it in her mouth. Nurse said I was ungrateful; but I am not going to be grateful for such a thing as that." The colonel and Uncle John seemed very much amused when Maggie said this, but her father looked rather grave, though he said nothing. "Colonel Yush," said Bessie, "you didn't send me a yefuse." "A what?" "A yefuse to our party note." "Oh, I understand. Did you want me to refuse?" "Oh, no, we didn't _want_ you to; but then we knew you couldn't come, because you are so lame." "Will it do if you get an answer to-night?" said the colonel. Bessie said that would do very well. When they were going home, Mr. Bradford fell a little behind the rest, and called Maggie to him. "Maggie, dear," he said, "I do not want to find fault with my little girl on her birthday, but I do not think you feel very pleasantly towards Mrs. Jones." "No, papa, I do not; I can't bear her; and the make-believe rabbit too! If you were seven, papa, and some one gave you such a thing, would you like it?" "Perhaps not; but Mrs. Jones is a poor woman, and she gave you the best she had, thinking to please you." "Papa, it makes Mrs. Jones very mad to call her poor. The other day I asked her why she didn't put pretty white frocks, like our baby's and Nellie's, on Susie. Bessie said she supposed she was too poor. Mrs. Jones was as cross as anything, and said she wasn't poor, and Mr. Jones was as well off as any man this side the country; but she wasn't going to waste her time doing up white frocks for Susie. She was so mad that Bessie and I ran away." "Then we will not call her poor if she does not like it," said Mr. Bradford; "but Mrs. Jones is a kind-hearted woman, if she is a little rough sometimes. She tries very hard to please you. Late last night, I went into her kitchen to speak to Mr. Jones, and there she sat making that rabbit, although she had been hard at work all day, trying to finish her wash, so that she might have the whole of to-day to make cakes and other nice things for your party. Yet this morning when she brought it to you, you did not look at all pleased, and scarcely said, 'Thank you.'" "Ought I to say I was pleased when I was not, papa?" "No, certainly not; but you should have been pleased, because she meant to be kind, even if you did not like the thing that she brought. It was not like a lady, it was not like a Christian, to be so ungracious; it was not doing as you would be done by. Last week you hemmed a handkerchief for Grandpapa Duncan. Now you know yourself that, although you took a great deal of pains, the hem was rather crooked and some of the stitches quite long, yet grandpapa was more pleased with that one than with the whole dozen which Aunt Helen hemmed, and which were beautifully done, because he knew that you had done the best you could, and that it was a great effort for you. It was not the work, but the wish to do something for him, that pleased him. Now, if grandpa had frowned, and looked at the handkerchief as if it were scarcely worth notice, and grumbled something that hardly sounded like 'Thank you,' how would you have felt?" "I'd have cried," said Maggie, "and wished I hadn't done it for him." "Suppose he had told other people that he didn't like work done in that way, and was not going to be grateful for it?" Maggie hung her head, and looked ashamed. She saw now how unkindly she had felt and acted towards Mrs. Jones. Mr. Bradford went on: "I think Mrs. Jones was hurt this morning, Maggie. Now, I am sure you did not mean to vex her; did you?" "No, papa, indeed, I did not. What can I do? I don't think I ought to tell Mrs. Jones that I think the rabbit is pretty when I don't." "No, of course you must not. Truth before all things. But you might play with it a little, and not put it out of sight, as you did this morning. Perhaps, too, you may find a chance to thank her in a pleasanter way than you did before." "I'll make a chance," said Maggie. When they reached the house, Maggie ran up to the nursery. "Nursey," she said, "where is my rabbit; did baby have it?" "No, indeed," said nurse; "I wasn't going to give it to baby, to hurt Mrs. Jones' feelings,--not while we're here, at least. When we go to town, then my pet may have it, if you don't want it; and a nice plaything it will make for her then. It's up there on the mantel-shelf." "Please give it to me," said Maggie; "I'm going to cure Mrs. Jones' feelings." Nurse handed it to her, and she ran down stairs with it. She took her doll out of the little wagon, put the rabbit in its place, and tucked the affghan all round it. Then she ran into the kitchen, pulling the wagon after her. "Now, come," said Mrs. Jones, the moment she saw her, "I don't want any children here! I've got my hands full; just be off." "Oh, but, Mrs. Jones," said Maggie, a little frightened, "I only want you to look at my rabbit taking a ride in the wagon. Don't he look cunning? I think you were very kind to make him for me." "Well, do you know?" said Mrs. Jones. "I declare I thought you didn't care nothing about it,--and me sitting up late last night to make it. I was a little put out when you seemed to take it so cool like, and I thought you were stuck up with all the handsome presents you'd been getting. That wasn't nothing alongside of them, to be sure; but it was the best I could do." "And you were very kind to make it for me, Mrs. Jones. I am very much obliged to you. No, Susie, you can't have it. Maybe you'd make it dirty, and I'm going to keep it till I'm thirteen; then I'll let baby have it, when she's big enough to take care of it." "Oh, it will be in the ash-barrel long before that," said Mrs. Jones. "Here's a cake for you and one for Bessie." "No, thank you," said Maggie; "mamma said we musn't eat any cakes or candies this morning, because we'll want some to-night." "That's a good girl to mind so nice," said Mrs. Jones; "and your ma's a real lady, and she's bringing you up to be ladies too." Maggie ran off to the parlor, glad that she had made friends with Mrs. Jones. She found her mother and Aunt Helen and Aunt Annie all making mottoes. They had sheets of bright-colored tissue paper, which they cut into small squares, fringed the ends with sharp scissors, and then rolled up a sugar-plum in each. They allowed Maggie and Bessie to help, by handing the sugar-plums, and the little girls thought it a very pleasant business. And once in a while mamma popped a sugar-plum into one of the two little mouths, instead of wrapping it in the paper; and this they thought a capital plan. Then came a grand frolic in the barn with father and Uncle John and the boys, Tom and Walter being of the party, until Mrs. Bradford called them in, and said Bessie must rest a while, or she would be quite tired out before afternoon. So, taking Bessie on his knee, Grandpapa Duncan read to them out of a new book he had given Maggie that morning. After the early dinner, the dolls, old and new, had to be dressed, and then they were dressed themselves, and ready for their little visitors. The piazza and small garden and barn seemed fairly swarming with children that afternoon. And such happy children too! Every one was good-natured, ready to please and to be pleased. And, indeed, they would have been very ungrateful if they had not been; for a great deal of pains was taken to amuse and make them happy. Even Mamie Stone was not heard to fret once. "I do wish I had an Uncle John!" said Mamie, as she sat down to rest on the low porch step, with Bessie and one or two more of the smaller children, and watched Mr. Duncan, as he arranged the others for some new game, keeping them laughing all the time with his merry jokes,--"I do wish I had an Uncle John!" "You have an Uncle Robert," said Bessie. "Pooh! he's no good," said Mamie. "He's not nice and kind and funny, like your Uncle John. He's as cross as anything, and he wont let us make a bit of noise when he's in the room. He says children are pests; and when papa laughed, and asked him if he said that because he remembered what a pest he was when he was a child, he looked mad, and said no; children were better behaved when he was a boy." "I don't think he's very better behaved to talk so," said Bessie, gravely. "No, he's not," said Mamie. "He's awful. He's not a bit like Mr. Duncan. And I like your Aunt Annie too. She plays so nice, just as if she were a little girl herself; and she helps everybody if they don't know how, or fall down, or anything." "Are we not having a real nice time, Bessie?" asked Gracie Howard. "Yes," said Bessie; "but I do wish my soldier and Mrs. Yush could come to our party." "What makes you care so much about Colonel Rush?" asked Gracie. "He's such a big man." "He isn't any bigger than my father," said Bessie; "and I love my father dearly, dearly. We can love people just as much if they are big." "Oh, I didn't mean that," said Gracie; "I meant he's so old. You'd have to love your father, even if you didn't want to, because he is your father, and he takes care of you. But Colonel Rush isn't anything of yours." "He is," said Bessie; "he is my own soldier, and my great, great friend; and he loves me too." "I know it," said Gracie. "Mamma says it is strange to see a grown man so fond of a little child who doesn't belong to him." "I think it is very good of him to love me so much," said Bessie, "and I do wish he was here. I want him very much." "And so do I," said Maggie, who had come to see why Bessie was not playing; "but we can't have him, 'cause he can't walk up this bank, and the carriage can't come here, either. I just wish there wasn't any bank." "Why, what is the matter?" asked Uncle John. "Here is the queen of the day looking as if her cup of happiness was not quite full. What is it, Maggie?" "We want the colonel," said Maggie. "Why, you disconsolate little monkey! Are there not enough grown people here already, making children of themselves for your amusement, but you must want the colonel too? If he was here, he could not play with you, poor fellow!" "He could sit still and look at us," said Maggie. "And we could look at him," said Bessie. "We are very fond of him, Uncle John." "I know you are," said Uncle John, "and so you should be, for he is very fond of you, and does enough to please you. But I am very fond of you too, and I am going to make a fox of myself, to please you. So all hands must come for a game of fox and chickens before supper." Away they all went to join the game. Uncle John was the fox, and Mrs. Bradford and Aunt Annie the hens, and Aunt Helen and papa were chickens with the little ones; while grandpa and grandma and Mrs. Jones sat on the piazza, each with a baby on her knee. The fox was such a nimble fellow, the mother hens had hard work to keep their broods together, and had to send them scattering home very often. It was a grand frolic, and the grown people enjoyed it almost as much as the children. Even Toby seemed to forget himself for a moment or two; and once, when the chickens were all flying over the grass, screaming and laughing, he sprang up from his post on the porch, where he had been quietly watching them, and came bounding down among them with a joyous bark, and seized hold of the fox by the coat tails, just as he pounced on Harry and Walter, as if he thought they had need of his help. How the children laughed! But after that, Toby seemed to be quite ashamed of himself, and walked back to his old seat with the most solemn air possible, as if he meant to say,-- "If you thought it was this respectable dog who was playing with you just now, you were mistaken. It must have been some foolish little puppy, who did not know any better." And not even Bessie could coax him to play any more. But at last fox, hen, and chickens were all called to supper, and went in together as peaceably as possible. The children were all placed round the room, some of them on the drollest kind of seats, which Mr. Jones had contrived for the occasion. Almost all of them were so low that every child could hold its plate on its lap, for there was not half room enough round the table. They were scarcely arranged when a curious sound was heard outside, like a tapping on the piazza. "That sounds just like my soldier's crutches," said Bessie. "But then it couldn't be, because he never could get up the bank." But it seemed that the colonel could get up the bank, for as Bessie said this, she turned, and there he stood at the door, with Mrs. Rush at his side, both looking very smiling. "Oh, it is, it is!" said Bessie, her whole face full of delight. "Oh, Maggie, he did come! he did get up! Oh, I'm _perferly_ glad." And indeed she seemed so. It was pretty to see her as she stood by the colonel, looking up at him with her eyes so full of love and pleasure, and a bright color in her cheeks; while Maggie, almost as much delighted, ran to the heavy arm-chair in which Grandpapa Duncan usually sat, and began tugging and shoving at it with all her might. "What do you want to do, Maggie?" asked Tom Norris, as he saw her red in the face, and all out of breath. "I want to take it to the door, so that he need not walk another step. Please help me, Tom," said Maggie, looking at the colonel who stood leaning on his crutches, and shaking hands with all the friends who were so glad to see him. "Never mind, little woman," said he; "I shall reach the chair with far less trouble than you can bring it to me, and I can go to it quite well. I could not have come up this bank of yours, if I had not been 'nice and spry,' as Mrs. Jones says. I told you you should have the answer to your invitation to-night; did I not?" "Oh, yes; but why didn't you tell us you were coming?" "Because I did not know myself that I should be able to when the time came; and I was vain enough to think you and Bessie would be disappointed if I promised and did not come after all. I knew I should be disappointed myself; so I thought I would say nothing till I was on the spot. Would you have liked it better if I had sent you a 'refuse'?" "Oh, no, sir!" said Maggie. "How can you talk so?" "You gave us the best answer in the world," said Bessie. Certainly the colonel had no reason to think that all, both old and young, were not glad to see him. As for Maggie, she could not rest until she had done something for him. As soon as she had seen him seated in the great chair, she rushed off, and was presently heard coming down stairs with something thump, thumping after her, and in a moment there she was at the door dragging two pillows, one in each hand. These she insisted on squeezing behind the colonel's back, and though he would have been more comfortable without them, he allowed her to do it, as she had taken so much trouble to bring them, and smiled and thanked her; so she was quite sure she had made him perfectly easy. Neither she nor Bessie would eat anything till he had taken or refused everything that was on the table, and he said he was fairly in the way to be killed with kindness. After supper Fred whispered to his father, and receiving his permission, proposed "three cheers for Bessie's soldier, Colonel Rush." The three cheers were given with a hearty good-will, and the room rang again and again. "Three cheers for all our soldiers," said Harry; and these were given. Then Walter Stone cried, "Three cheers for our Maggie, the queen of the day," and again all the boys and girls shouted at the top of their voices. But Maggie did not like this at all. She hung her head, and colored all over face, neck, and shoulders, then calling out in a vexed, distressed tone, "I don't care," ran to her mother, and buried her face in her lap. "Poor Maggie! That was almost too much, was it not?" said her mother, as she lifted her up and seated her on her knee. "Oh, mamma, it was dreadful!" said Maggie, almost crying, and hiding her face on her mother's shoulder. "How could they?" "Never mind, dear; they only did it out of compliment to you, and they thought you would be pleased." "But I am not, mamma. I would rather have a discompliment." Maggie's trouble was forgotten when Uncle John jumped up and began a droll speech, which made all the children laugh, and in a few moments she was as merry as ever again. "So this has been a happy day?" said the colonel, looking down at Bessie, who was sitting close beside him, as she had done ever since he came in. "Oh, yes," said Bessie; "it is the best birthday we have ever had." "We?" said the colonel. "It is not your birthday, too; is it?" "No," said Bessie; "but that's no difference. I like Maggie's birthday just as much as mine, only I like hers better, 'cause I can give her a present." "Does she not give you a present on your birthday?" "Yes; but I like to give her one better than to have her give me one; and it was such a great part of the happiness 'cause you came to-night." "Bless your loving little heart!" said the colonel, looking very much pleased. "You know, even if you did not give me that beautiful doll, it would be 'most the same; for Maggie would let me call hers half mine; but I am very glad you did give it to me. Oh, I'm _very_ satisfied of this day." "Wasn't this a nice day?" Bessie said to her sister, when their little friends were gone, and they were snug in bed. "Yes, lovely," said Maggie, "only except the boys hollering about me. I never heard of such a thing,--to go and holler about a girl, and make her feel all red! I think, if it wasn't for that, I wouldn't know what to do 'cause of my gladness." XVIII. _THE ADVENTURE._ There was a dreadful storm that week, which lasted several days, and did a great deal of damage along the coast. The sky was black and angry with dark, heavy clouds. The great waves of the ocean rolled up on the beach with a loud, deafening roar, the house rocked with the terrible wind, and the rain poured in such torrents that Maggie asked her mother if she did not think "the windows of heaven were opened," and there was to be another flood. "Maggie," said her mother, "when Noah came out of the ark, what was the first thing he did?" Maggie thought a moment, and then said, "Built an altar and made a sacrifice." "Yes; and what did the Lord say to him?" "Well done, good and faithful servant," said Maggie, who, provided she had an answer, was not always particular it was the right one. Mrs. Bradford smiled a little. "We are not told the Lord said that," she answered, "though he was doubtless pleased that Noah's first act should have been one of praise and thanksgiving. Indeed, the Bible tells us as much. But what did he place in the clouds for Noah to see?" "A rainbow," said Maggie. "What did he tell Noah it should be?" "I forgot that," said Maggie; "he said it should be a sign that the world should never be drowned again." "Yes; the Lord told Noah he would make a covenant with him 'that the waters should no more become a flood to destroy the earth;' and he made the rainbow for a sign that his promise should stand sure." "I am glad God made the rainbow, 'cause it is so pretty," said Maggie; "but I think Noah might have believed him without that, when he took such care of him in the ark." "Probably he did; we are not told that Noah did not believe, and it was of his own great goodness and mercy that the Almighty gave to Noah, and all who should live after him, this beautiful token of his love and care. But if my little girl could have believed God's promise then, why can she not do so now? His word holds good as surely in these days as in those of Noah." "So I do, mamma," said Maggie; "I forgot about the rainbow and God's promise. I wont be afraid any more, but I do wish it would not rain so hard, and that the wind would not blow quite so much." "We are all in God's hands, Maggie. No harm can come to us unless he wills it." "Franky don't like this great wind either, mamma," said Maggie, "and he said something so funny about it this morning. It was blowing and blowing, and the windows shook and rattled so, and Franky began to cry and said, 'I 'fraid.' Then nurse told him not to be afraid, 'cause God made the wind blow, and he would take care of him. A little while after, he was standing on the chair by the window, and it galed harder than ever, and the wind made a terrible noise, and Franky turned round to nurse and said, 'How God do blow!' and then the poor little fellow began to cry again." "Yes, and Maggie was very good to him," said Bessie; "she put her new doll in the wagon, and let him pull it about the nursery, only we watched him all the time, 'cause he's such a misfit." (Bessie meant mischief.) "Mamma, will you yead us about Noah?" Mrs. Bradford took the Bible and read the chapter in Genesis which tells about the flood, and the children listened without tiring until she had finished. At last the storm was over,--the wind and rain ceased, and the sky cleared, to the delight of the children, but they still heard a great deal of the storm and the damage which had been done. Many vessels had been wrecked, some with men and women on board, who had been drowned in the sea. Some miles farther up the shore, a large ship had been cast upon the rocks, where she was driven by the gale. The guns of distress she had fired had been heard by the people of Quam the night before the storm ceased. It was an emigrant ship coming from Europe, and there were hundreds of poor people on board, many of whom were drowned; and most of the saved lost everything they had in the world, so there was much suffering among them. Mr. Howard and Mr. Norris drove over to the place, to see if anything could be done for them, and came back to try and raise money among their friends and acquaintances to buy food and clothing. Maggie and Bessie were down on the beach with their father and Colonel Rush when Mr. Howard joined them, and told them some of the sad scenes he had just seen. The little girls were very much interested, and the gentlemen seemed so too. Mr. Bradford and Mr. Duncan gave them money, and the colonel, too, pulled out his pocket-book, and taking out a roll of bills, handed Mr. Howard two or three. Mr. Howard was still talking, and the colonel, who was listening earnestly, and who was always careless with his money, did not pay much heed to what he was doing. He put the roll of bank-notes back in his pocket-book, and, as he thought, put the book in his pocket; but instead of going in, it dropped upon the sand behind the rock on which he sat, and no one saw it fall, but a bad boy standing a little way off. Now this boy was a thief and a liar. Perhaps no one had ever taught him better; but however that was, he was quite willing to do anything wicked for the sake of a little money. He saw the soldier take out the roll of bank-notes, put them back again, and then drop the pocket-book on the sand, and he hoped no one would notice it, so that he might pick it up when they had gone. [Illustration: Bessie at Sea Side. P. 252.] By and by the colonel said he was tired, and thought he would go home. Mr. Bradford and the other gentlemen said they would go with him, Mr. Bradford telling his little girls to come too. "In a minute, papa," said Bessie; "my dolly's hat has come off, and I must put it on." "We'll go on then," said her father; "you can run after us." The gentlemen walked on, while Bessie began to put on Miss Margaret Horace Rush Bradford's hat. "Oh, Maggie!" she said, "there's Lily Norris going out in the boat with her father, and mamma said we might ask her to tea. I know she'd yather come with us; you yun ask her, while I put on my dolly's hat, and then I'll come too." Maggie ran on, leaving Bessie alone. The boy came a little nearer. Bessie put on her doll's hat, and was going after her sister, when she dropped her doll's parasol, and as she stooped to pick it up, she saw the pocket-book. "Oh, there's my soldier's porte-monnaie!" she said to herself; "I know it is; I'll take it to him. My hands are so full, maybe I'll lose it. I'll put it in my bosom, and then it will be all safe." She laid doll, parasol, and the little basket she held in her hand upon the rock, picked up the pocket-book, and pulling down the neck of her spencer, slipped it inside. Just at this moment the boy came up to her. "Give me that," he said. "What?" asked Bessie, drawing back from him. "Don't you make believe you don't know,--that pocket-book. It's mine." "It isn't," said Bessie; "it's the colonel's." "No, 'taint; it's mine. Hand over now, else I'll make you." "I sha'n't," said Bessie. "I know it's the colonel's. I've seen it a great many times, and just now he gave Mr. Howard some money out of it for the poor people who lost all their things." "Are you going to give it to me?" said the boy, coming nearer to her. "No," said Bessie, "I am not. I am going to give it to the colonel, and I shall tell him what a very naughty boy you are. Why, I'm afraid you're a stealer! Don't you know--" Bessie was stopped by the boy taking hold of her, and trying to drag away the spencer, beneath which he had seen her slip the pocket-book. Just at this moment Maggie turned her head, to see if Bessie were coming, and saw her struggling in the grasp of the boy. Down went her new doll, happily in a soft place in the sand, where it came to no harm, and forgetting all fear, thinking only of her little sister, she ran back to her help. "Leave my Bessie be! Leave my Bessie be!" she screamed, flying upon the boy, and fastening with both her hands upon the arm with which he was tearing away the spencer and feeling for the pocket-book, while he held Bessie with the other. "Let go!" he said, fiercely, between his teeth. But Maggie only held the tighter, screaming,-- "Leave my Bessie be! Oh! papa, papa, do come!" Both terrified children were now screaming at the top of their voices, and they were heard by their father and the other gentlemen, who turned to see what was the matter. Although they were at a distance, Mr. Bradford saw his little girls were in great trouble. Back he came, as fast as he could, Mr. Howard and Uncle John after him, the colonel, too, as quick as his crutches would carry him. "Let go!" cried the boy, as he saw Mr. Bradford, letting go his own hold on Bessie, and giving Maggie a furious blow across the face. But fearing he would seize Bessie again, brave little Maggie held fast. "Take that, then!" said the boy, giving her another and a harder blow. Maggie fell, striking her head against the edge of the rock, and the boy turned to run before Mr. Bradford reached the spot. But all this time another pair of eyes had been upon him. Four swift feet were coming toward him, and ever so many sharp teeth were set for a grip of him. While the children had been with their father, Toby, Mr. Jones' great white dog, had been seated on the edge of the bank before the house, watching the people as he was accustomed to do. Now between Toby and Joe Sands, the boy who tried to take the pocket-book, there was great enmity. Joe never saw Toby without trying to provoke him to a quarrel by making faces at him, and throwing sticks and stones; but though the dog would growl and show his teeth, he had never yet tried to bite him. This afternoon, the moment Joe appeared, Toby seemed to suspect mischief. He straightened himself up, put his head on one side, cocked up one ear and drooped the other. Toby was not a handsome dog at the best of times, and it was not becoming to him to hold his ears in this fashion. He looked very fierce as he sat thus, but Joe did not see him, or he might have been afraid to meddle with Bessie. Toby never told whether he saw the colonel drop the pocket-book, but from the minute it fell, he looked all ready for a spring, and never took his eyes from Joe. When the boy spoke to Bessie, he appeared still more uneasy, rose to his feet, snarled, and gave short, angry barks, but did not think it was time to interfere till Joe laid his hand upon the little girl. Then his patience was at an end, and with a furious, rough bark, he rushed over the bank, down the beach, and just as Joe turned to run from Mr. Bradford, seized fast hold of his leg. Happily for Joe, he had on a thick, strong pair of boots; but even through these Toby's teeth came in a way far from pleasant. Not a step could he stir, and in an instant Mr. Bradford and the other gentlemen came up. Mr. Bradford stooped to pick up Maggie, while Mr. Howard collared Joe. Even then Toby would not let go, but gave Joe a good shake, which made him cry out with pain. Poor Maggie was quite stunned for a moment by the blow which Joe had given her, and there was a bad cut on her head, where it had struck the rock, while one side of her face was much bruised and scratched. But when, a moment after, she came to herself, her first thought was still for Bessie, who was crying loudly with terror and distress for her sister. "Oh, my Bessie, my Bessie! leave her be!" she said, as she slowly opened her eyes. "Bessie is safe, my darling," said her father. "She is not hurt at all. My poor little Maggie!" and sitting down on the rock, with her on his knee, he tenderly bound up her head with his handkerchief. By this time, Colonel Rush and two or three more people had come up, and Uncle John went on to the house, to tell Mrs. Bradford what had happened, so that she might not be startled when she saw Maggie. Mr. Howard kept his hand on Joe's shoulder, but there was not much need, for Toby still held him fast, and if he made the least move, gave him a hint to keep still, which Joe thought it best to mind. Mr. Bradford carried Maggie to the house, and the rest followed; but it was a long time before any one could make out what had happened. Bessie was too much frightened to tell, Maggie too sick, and Joe too sullen. And Maggie did not know about the pocket-book. All she could tell was, that she had seen Bessie struggling with the boy, and had run to help her. At last Bessie was quieted, and then told the story in her straightforward way, putting her hand in her bosom and pulling out the pocket-book. "Oh, you villain!" said Mrs. Jones, who was holding the basin while Mrs. Bradford washed the blood from Maggie's face and head. "Oh, you villain! Aint it enough to go robbin' orchards and melon patches, and farmers' wagons market-days, but you must be fighting and knocking down babies like these to get what's not your own? If you don't see the inside of the county jail for this, my name's not Susan Jones. And you'd have been there long ago, only for your poor mother, whose heart ye're breakin' with your bad ways. That's you, Toby, my boy; you know when you've a rascal fast; but you may let him go now, for there's your master, and he will take him in hand." Mr. Jones was the constable, and Toby knew this quite as well as if he went on two feet instead of four. When Mr. Jones was sent to arrest any one, he always took Toby with him, and it was curious to see how the dog would watch the prisoner, and seem to feel that he had quite as much share as his master in bringing him to be punished for the wicked things he had done. As soon as Mr. Jones came in the room, he let go of Joe, but sat down close to him, ready to take another grip, if he tried to run away. "And what's to be done about your poor mother?" said Mr. Jones, when he had heard the story. "I shall have to have you up for this. It will go nigh to kill her." Joe made no answer, only looked more sullen and obstinate than ever. "Mr. Jones," said Maggie, in a weak little voice, "please take him away; it frightens me to see him." "I'm going to take him right off where he wont trouble you for one while," said Mr. Jones. "But how is it that you are afraid of him just standing here, and you weren't afraid of him when he was handling you and Bessie so rough?" "I didn't think about that," said Maggie, "and if I had, I couldn't let anybody do anything to my Bessie. I thought he was going to kill her. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" and Maggie began to cry again; she could not have told why, except that she could not help it. "Come along," said Mr. Jones, taking hold of Joe's arm. "Mr. Jones," said Bessie, "are you going to take him to the jail?" "I am going to take him to the squire, and I guess he'll give him a few days of it. Serve him right too." "But I'm 'fraid it will break his mother's heart," said Bessie; "Mrs. Jones said it would." "He's breakin' his mother's heart fast enough, any way," said Mr. Jones. "Drinkin' and swearin' and stealin' and idlin' round, when he ought to be a help to her, poor, sick body! It isn't goin' to do him nor his mother no harm for him to be shut up for a little while where he can think over his bad ways. He wants bringin' up somewhere, and Toby knows it too." Toby growled and wagged his tail, as if to say he agreed with Mr. Jones. The growl was for Joe, the wag for his master. "You surely don't think he ought to be let off," said Mrs. Jones, "when he hurt Maggie that way? Why, she's going to have a black eye, sure as a gun!" Joe walked away with Toby at his heels. Maggie's head was bound up, and her bruises washed with arnica, and both she and Bessie were petted and comforted. As for the new doll, which Maggie had thrown down in her haste to run to her little sister's help, it was picked up by one of the gentlemen, who brought it safe and unbroken to Maggie. To be sure, Miss Bessie Margaret Marion's dress was rather soiled by the wet sand on which she had fallen; but as it was of muslin, it could easily be washed, and Mrs. Jones soon made it quite clean again. XIX. _SOUL AND INSTINCT._ "Papa," said Maggie, the next morning, as she sat on his knee at the breakfast-table, leaning her aching little head against his breast,--"papa, is there anything in the paper about our 'sault and battery?" "About what?" "Our 'sault and battery," said Maggie. "The other day, Uncle John was reading to Aunt Helen how Mr. King was knocked down, and beaten by a man who didn't like him; and he called it an 'unprovoked 'sault and battery.' I thought that meant when somebody hit somebody that didn't do anything to him." "So it does," said her father, trying not to smile, "and yours was a most 'unprovoked assault and battery,' my poor little woman; but there is nothing in the paper about it." "Do you think that there should be?" asked Mrs. Bradford. "Oh, no, mamma; I'm very glad there isn't. I thought maybe the paper-maker would hear about it, and put it into his paper; and I didn't want people to be reading about Bessie and me. Do you think he would do it another day, papa?" "I think not, dear; you need not be afraid." "I don't see what's the reason then," said Harry. "Maggie is a real heroine, and so is Bessie. Why, there isn't a boy at Quam, however big he is, that would dare to fight Joe Sands; and to think of our mite of a Bess standing out against him, and holding fast to the pocket-book, and Maggie running to the rescue!" "Yes, you little speck of nothing ground down to a point," said Uncle John, catching Bessie up in his arms, "how dared you hold your ground against such a great rough boy as that?" "Why, it was the colonel's pocket-book," said Bessie, "and he was going to take it, and it wasn't his; so I _had_ to take care of it, you know. I couldn't let him do such a naughty thing." "They're bricks, both of them," said Harry. "So they are," said Fred; for both of the boys were very proud of their little sisters' courage; "and Maggie has the right stuff in her, if she is shy. She is a little goose where there is nothing to be afraid of, and a lion where there is." "Holloa! what is all this heap of pennies for?" asked the colonel, a while after, as he came into Mrs. Jones' parlor, and found Maggie and Bessie, like the famous king, "counting out their money." He had come up the bank and paid them a visit two or three times since Maggie's birthday, so that they were not very much surprised to see him. "But first tell me how that poor little head and face are, Maggie? Why, you do look as if you'd been to the wars. Never mind, the bruises will soon wear away; and as for the cut, your hair will hide that. It is not every soldier that gets over his scars so easily; and you must not be ashamed of yours while they last. But you have not told me what you are going to do with so much money," he added, when he was comfortably seated in the arm-chair. "Oh, it isn't much," said Maggie; "it is only a little, and we wish it was a whole lot." "And what do you and Bessie want with a whole lot of money? I should think you had about everything little girls could wish for." "Yes, we have," said Bessie, "and we don't want it for ourselves." "Who for, then?" "For those poor shipyecked people. Papa and Uncle John have gone over to see them; and mamma and Aunt Helen have gone to the village to buy some flannel and calico to make things for the poor little children who have lost theirs. Mr. Howard says there's a baby there that hasn't anything but a ni'-gown, and no mother, 'cause she was drowned. A sailor man has it, and he's going to take care of it, but he hasn't any clothes for it. And we wanted to help buy things, but we have such a very little money." "Bessie has such a little, 'cause she spent all hers for my birthday present," said Maggie. "Mamma gives us six cents a week, but it's such a little while since my birthday, Bessie hasn't saved much. I have more than she has, but not a great deal." "And she wanted mamma to let her hem a pock'-han'kerchief and earn some money," said Bessie, "but she can't, for the doctor says she musn't use her eye while it's so black." "Well," said the colonel, "I think you two have fairly earned the right to dispose of at least half the money that was in that unfortunate pocket-book. You shall say what shall be done with it." Maggie looked as if she did not know what to say. "If you mean, sir," said Bessie, "that you're going to give us half that money, papa and mamma would not like it. They don't allow us to yeceive money from people who are not yelations to us." "And they are quite right," said the colonel. "I should not like you to do it, if you were my little girls. But I do not mean that I will give _you_ the money, only that I will give it away for any purpose you may choose. Your father and mother can have no objection to that. There were fifty dollars in the pocket-book. Half of that is twenty-five. Now, shall I give it all to the shipwrecked people, or shall I give part to something else?" "Will you please to 'scuse me if I whisper to Maggie?" said Bessie. "Certainly," said the colonel. They whispered together for a minute or two, and then Bessie said, "If you didn't mind it, sir, we would like to give half to Mrs. Sands; she's very poor, and sick too; and she's in such a trouble 'cause Joe's so bad. She has no one to work for her or do anything. Mamma sent Jane to see her, and she told us about her; and we're so very sorry for her." "Well, you are two forgiving little souls," said the colonel. "Do you want me to give money to the mother of the boy who treated you so?" "_She_ didn't treat us so," said Maggie, "and we would like her to be helped 'cause she's so very poor. She cried about the pocket-book, and she is a good woman. She couldn't help it if Joe was so bad. We can't help being a little speck glad that Joe is shut up, he's such a dangerous boy; and we'd be afraid of him now; but his mother feels very bad about it. So if you want to do what we like with the money, sir, please give half to the baby in the shipwreck, and half to Joe's mother." "Just as you please," said the colonel; "twelve and a half to the baby, twelve and a half to Mrs. Sands. I shall give the baby's money to Mrs. Rush, and ask her to buy what it needs. Will not that be the best way?" The children said yes, and were much pleased at the thought that Mrs. Sands and the little orphan baby were to be made comfortable with part of the money which they had saved. "Now, suppose we go out on the piazza," said the colonel; "Mrs. Rush is there talking to Grandpa Duncan, and I told them I would come out again when I had seen you." "But there's no arm-chair out there," said Maggie. "Never mind; the settee will do quite as well for a while." But when Mrs. Jones happened to pass by, and saw the colonel sitting on the piazza, nothing would do but she must bring out the arm-chair, and make a great fuss to settle him comfortably. Maggie could not help confessing she was very kind, even if she did not always take the most pleasant way of showing it. "What are you thinking of, Bessie?" asked the colonel, after he had talked to Mr. Duncan for some time. Bessie was sitting on the piazza step, looking at Toby with a very grave face, as he lay beside her with his head in her lap. "I am so sorry for Toby," she answered. "Why, I think he is as well off as a dog can be. He looks very comfortable there with his head in your lap." "But he hasn't any soul to be saved," said the child. "He does not know that," said the colonel, carelessly; "it does not trouble him." "But," said Bessie, "if he had a soul, and knew Jesus died to save it, he would be a great deal happier. It makes us feel so happy to think about that. Isn't that the yeason people are so much better and happier than dogs, grandpa?" "That's the reason they should be happier and better, dear." "There are some people who know they have souls to be saved, who don't think about it, and don't care if Jesus did come to die for them; are there not, grandpa?" said Maggie. "Yes, Maggie, there are very many such people." "Then they can't be happy," said Bessie,--"not as happy as Toby, for he don't know." "I don't believe Joe thinks much about his soul," said Maggie. "I am afraid not," answered Mr. Duncan. "Grandpa," said Bessie, "if people know about their souls, and don't care, I don't think they are much better than Toby." "But, grandpa," said Maggie, "Toby behaves just as if he knew some things are naughty, and other things right. How can he tell if he has no soul? How did he know it was naughty for Joe to steal the pocket-book; and what is the reason he knows Susie must not go near the fire nor the cellar stairs?" "It is instinct which teaches him that," said grandpa. "What is that?" "We cannot tell exactly. It is something which God has given to animals to teach them what is best for themselves and their young. It is not reason, for they have no soul nor mind as men, women, and children have; but by it some animals, such as dogs and horses, often seem to know what is right and wrong. It is instinct which teaches the bird to build her nest. I am an old man, and I suppose you think I know a great deal, but if I wanted to build a house for my children, I would not know how to do it unless I were shown. But little birdie, untaught by any one,--led only by the instinct which God has given her,--makes her nest soft and comfortable for her young. It is instinct which teaches Toby to know a man or a boy who is to be trusted from one who is not; which makes him keep Susie from creeping into danger when he is told to take care of her." "And, grandpa," said Bessie, "Toby had an instinct about our baby, too. The other day, when nurse left her asleep in the cradle, and went down stairs for a few minutes, she woke up and fretted. Toby heard her, and went down stairs, and pulled nurse's dress, and made her come up after him to baby." "Yes, that was his instinct," said Mr. Duncan. "He knew that baby wanted to be taken up, and that nurse should come to her." "He did such a funny thing the other day," said Maggie, "when Fred played him a trick. You know he brings Mr. Jones' old slippers every evening, and puts them by the kitchen door, so Mr. Jones can have them all ready when he comes from his work. You tell it, Bessie, it hurts my face to speak so much." "Well," said Bessie, who was always ready to talk, "Fred took the slippers, and hid them in his trunk, 'cause he wanted to see what Toby would do. Toby looked and looked all over, but the poor fellow could not find them. So at last he brought an old pair of yubber over-shoes, and put them by the kitchen door. Then he went away and lay down behind the door, and he looked so 'shamed, and so uncomf'able, Maggie and I felt yeal sorry for him, and we wanted to show him where the slippers were, but we didn't know ourselves, and Fred wouldn't tell us. Then Fred called him ever so many times, but he was very cross, and growled, and would not go at all till Fred said, 'Come, old dog, come, get the slippers.' Then he came out and yan after Fred, and we all yan, and it was so funny to see him. He was so glad, and he pulled out the slippers and put them in their place, and then he took the old yubbers and put them in the closet, and lay down with his paws on the slippers, as if he thought somebody would take them away again. And now Mrs. Jones says that every morning he hides them in a place of his own, where no one can find them but his own self. I think that is very smart; don't you, grandpa?" "Very smart," said Mr. Duncan; "Toby is a wise dog." "But, grandpa, don't Toby have conscience, too, when he knows what's good and what's naughty? Mamma says it's conscience that tells us when we're good, and when we're naughty." "No, dear; Toby has no conscience. If he knows the difference between right and wrong in some things, it is partly instinct, partly because he has been taught. Conscience is that which makes us afraid of displeasing God, and breaking his holy laws, but Toby feels nothing of this. He is only afraid of displeasing his master; he has neither love nor fear of One greater than that master, for he does not know there is such a wise and holy being. If Toby should steal, or do anything wrong, God would not call him to account for it, because he has given to the dog no soul, no conscience, no feeling of duty to his Maker." "Grandpa," said Bessie, "don't you mean that if Toby is naughty, God will not punish him when he dies, 'cause he didn't know about him?" "Yes, dear; for Toby there is neither reward nor punishment in another world. For him, there is no life to come." "Grandpa," said Maggie, "where will Toby's instinct go when he dies?" "It will die with the dog. It is mortal; that is, it must die; but our souls are immortal; they will go on living for ever and ever, either loving and praising God through all eternity, or sinking down to endless woe and suffering. Toby is a good, wise, faithful dog, and knows a great deal, but the weakest, the most ignorant boy or girl--that poor idiot you saw the other day--is far better, of far more value in the sight of God, for he has a soul; and to save that precious soul, our Lord left his heavenly home, and died upon the cross. Think what a soul is worth when it needed that such a price be paid for its salvation!" "I can't help being sorry for Toby, 'cause he has no soul," said Bessie; "but I'm a great deal sorrier for those people that don't think about their souls, and go to Jesus to be saved. How can they help it, when they know he wants them to come? Grandpa, don't they feel ungrateful all the time?" "I am afraid not, Bessie. If they do not feel their need of a Saviour, they do not feel their ingratitude." Bessie was silent for a minute or two, and sat gazing for a while far away over the water, with the thoughtful look she so often had in her eyes, and then she said slowly, as if speaking to herself,-- "I wonder if they think about for ever and ever and ever." No one answered her. Not a word had the colonel said since Bessie had said that she thought those who did not care for their souls were no better than Toby; but he sat with his eyes sometimes on her, sometimes on the dog, and his face, which was turned from his wife and Mr. Duncan, had a vexed, troubled look. Mrs. Rush had often seen that look during the last few days, and now she guessed it was there, even though she did not see it. But, presently, when the carriage was seen coming back with Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Duncan, he drove it away, and was soon laughing and talking as usual. XX. _NURSE TAKEN BY SURPRISE._ Nurse and Jane had taken all the children for a long walk. About a mile up the shore lived the woman who took in Mrs. Bradford's washing. Mrs. Bradford wished to send her a message, and told Jane to go with it. There were two ways by which this house could be reached: one by the shore, the other by a road which ran farther back, part of the way through the woods. About a quarter of a mile this side of the washer-woman's, it turned off nearer to the shore; and here it was crossed by the brook, which also crossed the road to the station. It was wider here, and deeper, and ran faster towards the sea. Over it was built a rough bridge. Two beams were laid from bank to bank; on these were placed large round logs, a foot or two apart, and above these were the planks, with a miserable broken rail. It was a pretty place though, and the walk to it was shady and pleasant,--pleasanter than the beach on a warm day. Nurse said she would walk to the bridge with the children, and rest there, while Jane went the rest of the way. When Harry and Fred heard this, they said they would go too, for the brook was a capital place to fish for minnows. So they all set off, the boys carrying their fishing-rods and tin pails. But when they reached the bridge, they found there would be no fishing. The rains of the great storm a few days ago had swollen the brook very much, and there had been several heavy showers since, which had kept it full, so it was now quite a little river, with a muddy current running swiftly down to the sea. The tiny fish were all hidden away in some snug hole, and the boys knew it was of no use to put out their lines. "Oh, bother!" said Harry. "I thought the water would be lower by this time. Never mind, we'll have some fun yet, Fred. Let's go in and have a wade!" "I don't believe father would let us," said Fred. "He said we must not the day before yesterday, and the water is as high now as it was then." "Let's go back, then," said Harry. "I don't want to stay here doing nothing." "No," said Fred. "Let's go on with Jane to the washer-woman's. She has a pair of guinea-fowls, with a whole brood of young ones. Bessie and I saw them the other day, when Mr. Jones took us up there in his wagon. We'll go and see them again." Maggie and Bessie asked if they might go too, but nurse said it was too far. Bessie did not care much, as she had seen the birds once, but Maggie was very much disappointed, for she had heard so much of the guinea-fowls, that she was very anxious to have a look at them. So Jane said, if nurse would let her go, she would carry her part of the way. So at last nurse said she might. Then Franky said he wanted to go too, but he was pacified by having a stick with a line on the end of it given to him, with which he thought he was fishing. A tree which had been blown down by the gale lay near the bridge, and on this nurse sat down with baby on her knee, and Bessie and Franky beside her. Franky sat on the end of the log, toward the water, where he was quite safe, if he sat still, and nurse meant to keep a close eye on him. But something happened which made her forget him for a moment or two. "And I'll tell you Cinderella," said nurse to Bessie, as the others went off. "I'd yather hear about when you were a little girl on your father's farm," said Bessie. Nurse liked to talk of this, so she began to tell Bessie of the time when she was young, and lived at home in far-off England. Bessie had heard it all very often, but she liked it none the less for that. Franky sat still, now and then pulling up his line, and saying, "Not one fis!" and then throwing it out again. Suddenly the sound of wheels was heard, and looking round, they saw Miss Adams' pony carriage, with the lady driving, and the little groom behind. Several times since the day when Miss Adams had teased Bessie, and Bessie had called her a kitchen lady, she had shown a wish to speak to the little girl; but she could never persuade her to come near her. Once or twice, as Bessie was passing through the hall of the hotel, Miss Adams had opened her door and called to her in a coaxing voice; but Bessie always ran off as fast as possible, without waiting to answer. As Miss Adams passed, she nodded, drove on a little way, and then turned back. She pulled in her horses close to nurse and Bessie. Baby crowed and shook her little hands at the carriage. It was a pretty affair, the low basket, softly cushioned, the black ponies with their bright, glittering harness, and the jaunty groom in his neat livery; but Bessie had no wish to get in it when Miss Adams said, "Come, Bessie, jump in and take a ride." "No, thank you, ma'am," said Bessie, drawing closer to nurse. "Yes, come," said Miss Adams, coaxingly. "I'll give you a nice ride, and bring you back quite safe to your nurse, or take you home, as you like." "I'd yather not," said Bessie, taking hold of nurse's dress, as if she feared Miss Adams might take her off by force. "You don't know how pleasant it is," said Miss Adams,--"come." "I don't want to yide," said Bessie. All this time nurse had been looking very grim. She was quite an old woman, and had lived in the family a great many years, for she had taken care of Mrs. Bradford herself when she was a little girl. She loved her and her children dearly, and would have done anything in the world for them, and if any one brought harm or trouble to her nurslings, she ruffled up her feathers like an old hen, and thought herself at liberty to do or say anything she pleased. "And she wouldn't be let, if she did want to," she said sharply to Miss Adams. The young lady looked at the old woman with a sparkle in her eye. "I'll take the baby, too, if you like," she said, mischievously; "I can drive quite well with her on my lap, and Bessie can sit beside me." "My baby!" said nurse, who seemed to think the baby her own special property,--"my baby! Do you think I'd risk her neck in a gimcrack like that? There isn't one of them I'd trust a hand's breadth with ye, not if ye was to go down on your bended knees." "I'm not likely to do that," said Miss Adams, turning round and driving off once more, "Well, good-by, Bessie, since you wont come." She had gone but a short distance, when she drew in the ponies again, jumped out, tossed the reins to the groom, and ran back to the bridge. "Bessie," she said, "I want to speak to you; will you come over on the other side of the road?" Bessie looked as shy as Maggie might have done. "No, ma'am," she answered. "But I have something very particular to say to you, and I shall not tease or trouble you at all. Come, dear, that is a good child. If you do not, I shall think you are angry with me still." "No, I'm not," said Bessie. "Well, I'll go." "Not with my leave," said nurse. "If you have anything to say, just say it here, miss. You can't have anything to tell this child her old nurse can't hear." "Yes, I have," said Miss Adams. "Come, Bessie. I shall not pull your hair. I want to speak to you very much. Don't you wish to do as you would be done by?" "I think I'd better go; bett'n't I?" said Bessie. "I don't want her to think I'm angry yet." "Sit ye still," said nurse, without looking at Miss Adams. "I sha'n't let ye go to have I know not what notions put into your head." Miss Adams looked vexed, and bit her lip, then she laughed. "Now, don't be cross, nurse. I am not going to say anything to Bessie which you or her mother would not approve." "Maybe," said nurse, dryly. "And if Mrs. Bradford were here, I am sure she would let Bessie come." "Maybe," said nurse again, beginning to trot baby rather harder than she liked. Miss Adams stood tapping the toe of her gaiter with her riding whip. "I promise you," she said, "that I will let her come back to you in a moment or two, and that I will not do the least thing which could trouble or tease her." "Promises and fair words cost nothing," said nurse. "How dare you say that to me?" she said, losing her temper at last. "Whatever else I may have done, I have never yet broken my word! Bessie,"--she said this in a softer tone,--"don't think that of me, dear. I would not say what was not true, or break a promise, for the world." Then to nurse again: "You're an obstinate old woman, and--Look at that child!" These last words were said in a startled tone and with a frightened look. Nurse turned her head, started up, and then stood still with fear and amazement. Finding himself unnoticed, Master Franky had concluded that he had sat quiet long enough, and slipping off his stone, he had scrambled up the bank and walked upon the bridge. About the centre of this he found a broken place in the railing through which he put the stick and line with which he was playing to fish. Putting his head through after it, he saw that it did not touch the water and that just in front of him was the projecting end of one of the logs. Here, he thought, he could fish better, and slipping through, he was now where Miss Adams told nurse to look at him, stooping over, with one fat hand grasping the railing and with the other trying to make his line touch the water. The bridge was four or five feet above the stream, and although a fall from it might not have been very dangerous for a grown person, a little child like Franky might easily have been swept away by the current, which was deepest and swiftest where he was standing. "Don't speak," said Miss Adams, hastily, and darting round to the other side of the bridge, she walked directly into the water, and stooping down, passed under the bridge and came out under the spot where Franky stood. As she had expected, the moment he saw her, he started and fell, but Miss Adams was ready for him. She caught him in her arms, waded through the water, and placed him safe and dry on the grass. "Oh, you naughty boy!" said nurse, the moment she had done so, "what am I to do with you now?" "Nosin' at all; Franky dood boy. Didn't fall in water." "And whose fault is that I should like to know," said Miss Adams, laughing and shaking her dripping skirts, "you little monkey? I do not know but I should have done better to let you fall into the water and be well frightened before I pulled you out." "Franky not frightened; Franky brave soldier," said the child. "You're a mischievous monkey, sir," said the young lady. "That he is," said nurse, speaking in a very different way from that in which she had spoken before. "And where would he have been now but for you and the kind Providence which brought you here, miss? What would I have done, with the baby in my arms and he standing there? I'd never have thought of catching him that way. It was right cute of you, miss." "I saw it was the only way," said Miss Adams. "I knew he would be off that slippery log if he was startled." "I thank you again and again, miss," said the nurse, "and so will his mother; there's your beautiful dress all spoiled." "Oh! that's nothing," said Miss Adams, giving her dress another shake; "it was good fun. But now, when I have saved one of your chickens from a ducking, you cannot think I would hurt the other if you let me have her for a moment." "Surely I will," said nurse; "but you are not going to stand and talk in such a pickle as that? You'll catch your death of cold." "No fear," said Miss Adams, "I am tough. Come now, Bessie." She held out her hand to the little girl, and now that she had saved her brother, she went with her willingly. She was not afraid of her any more, though she wondered very much what the lady could have to say to her which nurse might not hear. "You'll excuse me for speaking as I did before, miss, but I'm an old woman, and cross sometimes, and then you see--" Nurse hesitated. "Yes, I see. I know I deserved it all," said Miss Adams, and then she led Bessie to the other side of the road. "Suppose I lift you up here, Bessie; I can talk to you better." She lifted her up and seated her on the stone wall which ran along the road. "Now," she said, leaning her arms upon the wall, "I want to ask you something." "I know what you want to ask me," said Bessie, coloring. "What is it, then?" "You want me to say I'm sorry 'cause I said that to you the other day, and I am sorry. Mamma said it was saucy. But I didn't mean to be saucy. I didn't know how to help it, you asked me so much." "You need not be sorry, Bessie. I deserved it, and it was not that I was going to speak about. I wanted to ask you to forgive me for being so unkind to you. Will you?" "Oh, yes, ma'am! I did forgave you that day, and mamma told me something which made me very sorry for you." "What was it? Would she like you to repeat it?" "I guess she wont care. She said your father and mother died when you were a little baby, and you had a great deal of money, more than was good for you, and you had no one to tell you how to take care of it; so if you did things you ought not to, we ought to be sorry for you, and not talk much about them." Miss Adams stood silent a moment, and then she said, slowly,-- "Yes, if my mother had lived, Bessie, I might have been different. I suppose I do many things I should not do if I had a mother to care about it; but there is no one to care, and I don't know why I should myself. I may as well take my fun." "Miss Adams," said Bessie, "hasn't your mother gone to heaven?" "Yes, I suppose so," said the young lady, looking a little startled,--"yes, I am sure of it. They say she was a good woman." "Then don't she care up there?" "I don't know. They say heaven is a happy place. I should not think my mother could be very happy even there, if she cared about me and saw me now." "Do you mean she wouldn't like to see you do those things you say you ought not to do?" "Yes." "Then why don't you do things that will make her happy? I would try to, if my mother went to heaven." "What would you do?" "I don't know," said Bessie. "I suppose you would not pull little girls' hair, or tease them, or behave like a kitchen lady." "Please don't speak of that any more," said Bessie, coloring. "And your mother thinks I have too much money; does she? Well, I do not know but I have, if having more than I know what to do with is having too much." "Why don't you give some away?" Bessie asked. "I do, and then am scolded for it. I drove down the other day to take some to those shipwrecked people, and the next day Mr. Howard came to me with his long face and told me I had done more harm than good; for some of them had been drinking with the money I gave them, and had a fight and no end of trouble. That is always the way. I am tired of myself, of my money, and everything else." Bessie did not know what to make of this odd young lady, who was talking in such a strange way to her, but she could not help feeling sorry for her as she stood leaning on the wall with a tired, disappointed look on her face, and said these words in a troubled voice. "Miss Adams," she said, "why don't you ask our Father in heaven to give you some one to take care of you and your money, and to make you--" Bessie stopped short. "Well," said Miss Adams, smiling, "to make me what?" "I am afraid you would not like me to say it," said Bessie, fidgeting on her hard seat. "I think I had better go to nurse." "You shall go, but I would like to hear what you were going to say. To make me what?" "To make you behave yourself," said Bessie, gravely, not quite sure she was doing right to say it. But Miss Adams laughed outright, then looked grave again. "There are plenty of people would like to take care of my money, Bessie, and there are some people who try, or think they try, to make me behave myself; but not because they care for me, only because they are shocked by the things I do. So I try to shock them more than ever." Bessie was sure this was not right, but she did not like to tell Miss Adams so. "But I am sorry I shocked you, Bessie, and made you think me no lady. Now tell me that you forgive me, and shake hands with me. I am going away to-morrow, and may never see you again." Bessie put her little hand in Miss Adams', and lifted up her face to her. "I'll kiss you now," she said, "and I'm sorry I wouldn't that day." The young lady looked pleased, and stooping, she kissed her two or three times, then took her hand to lead her back to nurse. Nurse was just rising from her seat and looking anxiously up at the sky. "There's a cloud coming over the sun," she said; "I'm afraid it is going to rain." "I expect it is," said Miss Adams; "I saw there was a shower coming as I drove down the hill, but I did not think it would be here for some time yet." Just then the boys and Jane came running up to them, Jane carrying Maggie in her arms. "Oh, nursey!" called Maggie, "it's going to gust. We thought you would be gone home. Why, there's Miss Adams!"--and Maggie stopped. Not only she, but all the rest of the party were very much surprised to see Miss Adams standing there, and seeming so friendly with Bessie and nurse. But there was no time to say anything. There was indeed a gust coming. The edge of a black cloud was just showing itself over the woods which had hidden it till now from nurse. "Make haste!" cried Harry; "I never saw a cloud come up so fast." "Quick, nurse!" said Miss Adams; "jump into the pony carriage with the little ones, and we will be home in less than no time. Quick, now!" Nurse made no objections now to the "gimcrack." She thought of nothing but how to get her babies home before the storm should overtake them. She bundled into the carriage with baby, while Miss Adams, laughing as if she enjoyed the fun, packed in Maggie, Bessie, and Franky beside her. "Hurry up, now, Tip!" she said to the groom, and giving the ponies a crack with her whip, away they dashed down the road. "Now, boys, try if we can outrun the clouds. See who'll be first at the bend in the road. One, two, three, and away!" and off she went, with Fred and Harry after her, while Jane stood still for a moment in amazement at the pranks of this strange young lady, and then followed as fast as her feet could carry her. Meanwhile, on went the carriage with its precious load, nurse, as soon as they were fairly started, wishing they were all out again, and every minute begging Tip to drive carefully, and not upset them, to which he did not pay the least attention. But they reached home without accident, and found papa and Uncle John setting out to meet them. It was growing very dark now. The black cloud had covered nearly the whole sky, and a white line was moving swiftly along the water, showing that a furious wind was sweeping over the waves. In another minute they were in the house, and right glad was the anxious mother to see her little ones. "But where are Harry and Fred?" she said; "and how came you home in that?" looking at the carriage. "Miss Adams sent us," said Maggie, "and the boys are coming with her." "And she didn't let him fall in, mamma," said Bessie, "and she is all wet. But she only laughed. She's been talking to me, and I was sorry for her, and she's sorry 'cause she pulled my hair. I kissed her, so we are friends now." "Miss Adams!" said Mrs. Bradford, in great surprise. "Yes, ma'am, Miss Adams," said nurse, giving baby to her mother, "and surely I think she's turned over a new leaf. She's been talking to Bessie as tame as a lamb, and making friends with her, and that after me giving her a piece of my mind. And she saved that boy there (oh, you naughty fellow!) from drowning; for what could I have done?" "Saved my boy from drowning!" said Mrs. Bradford, turning pale. Then nurse told how Miss Adams' presence of mind had saved Franky from a fall, and probably from being carried away and drowned. Just as she finished her story, the young lady and the boys came up. Mr. and Mrs. Bradford went out on the piazza, to meet Miss Adams, but she did not mean to come in, nor could she be persuaded to do so, though the large drops of rain were beginning to plash heavily down; nor would she listen to any thanks from Mrs. Bradford. "But you are heated with your run," said Mrs. Bradford, "come in and have some dry clothes. You will be drenched in this pouring rain, and will take cold." "No fear," said Miss Adams, laughing. "The second wetting will do me no harm; nothing ever hurts me. Good-by. Good-by, dear little Bessie." She stooped to kiss her, and running down the bank, snatched the reins from the groom, jumped into the carriage, and kissing her hand, drove away through all the rain. "Strange, wild girl," said Mrs. Bradford, with a sigh, as she turned into the house. "But there must be some good in her, mamma, when she gave up her carriage to the children, and walked or rather ran all the way here," said Harry; "and she didn't seem to think she'd done anything at all. How she did scud though! I don't like to see a woman act the way she does, and I can't quite forgive her about Carlo and Bessie; but I do think there's some good in her." "Ah, Harry," said his mother. "There is some good in every one, if we only knew how to find it." XXI. _THE COLONEL IN TROUBLE._ "Bessie," said Harry, as the children were at their supper, and he saw his little sister sitting with her spoon in her hand and her eyes fixed on the table as if she had forgotten the bread and butter and berries before her,--"Bessie, what are you thinking of." "Of Miss Adams," said the little girl. "Nurse said she was talking to you ever so long," said Fred; "what was she saying?" "I don't think she meant me to talk about it," said Bessie; "she didn't want nurse to hear, and so I shall only tell mamma and Maggie. You know I must tell mamma everything, and I couldn't help telling my own Maggie." "She is a queer dick," said Fred, "pulling your hair, and tormenting you out of your life one time, and telling you secrets another. The idea of a grown woman telling secrets to a little snip like you!" "No snip about it!" said Maggie; "and if I was everybody, I'd tell Bessie every one of my secrets." "That's right, Maggie. You always stand up for Bessie and fight her battles; don't you?" "But, Bessie," said Harry, "did Miss Adams tell you you mustn't repeat what she said?" "No," said Bessie. "Then there's no harm in telling." "Oh, Harry!" said Fred. "If Bessie knows Miss Adams don't want her to talk about it, she ought not to tell any more than if she had promised; ought she, father?" "Certainly not," said Mr. Bradford; "it would be unkind as well as dishonorable." "Yes," said Maggie; "it is not to do to others as I would that they should do to me." "Exactly, little woman," said her father, "and remember, dear children, that is a very safe rule to be guided by, when we do not feel sure whether a thing is fair or not." "Bessie," said Fred, "tell us what ails the colonel. I suppose you know, for all the grown-uppers seem to be telling you their secrets." "Why, that's not a secret! His leg is cut off." "Don't think I don't know that. I mean, what makes him so grumpy? He isn't like the same fellow he was when he first came down here." "Fred," said Bessie, giving him a reproving look, "you're not polite at all to talk that way about my soldier. He's not a fellow, only boys are fellows, and he's a big gentleman. And he's not that other thing you called him,--I sha'n't say it, because it is a very ugly word." "And it's saucy to say it about the colonel," said Maggie. "I don't care," said Fred. "It's true; isn't it, Hal? He used to be the best company in the world,--always ready to tell us boys stories by the hour, and full of his fun and jokes. But for the last few days he has been as solemn as an owl, with no fun to be had out of him, and if one can get him to talk, it always seems as if he were thinking of something else. He's as cross as a bear too. Now don't fire up, Bess; it's so. Starr, his man, says he was never half so impatient or hard to please all the time he was sick as he has been for the last ten days." "Fred," said Mrs. Bradford, "you should not talk to a servant of his master's faults." "He didn't, mother," said Harry,--"at least, not in a way you would think wrong. The colonel was dreadfully dull and out of sorts the other day, though he declared that nothing ailed him, and seemed quite provoked that we should ask, though any one could see with half an eye that something was the matter. Starr was hanging round, bringing him this and that, books and newspapers, coaxing him to have something to eat or drink. At last he asked him if there was _nothing_ he could do for him, and the colonel thundered at him and said, 'Yes, leave me alone.' Then he got himself up on his crutches and went off, and would not let Starr help him. The man looked as if he had lost every friend he had in the world. So Fred told him he didn't believe the colonel meant anything. Starr said he was sure he did not, for he was the best master that ever lived. But he was troubled about it, for he was sure that something was wrong with him. Fred said perhaps his wounds pained him worse; but Starr said no, the wounds were doing nicely, and the colonel was not a man to make a fuss about them if they did pain him, for all the time he was suffering so dreadfully that no one thought he could live, he never heard a complaint or a groan from him. And it was then he said the colonel was far harder to please, and more impatient than when he was so ill." "Maybe he wants to get back to his regiment," said Fred. "No, it is not that,--at least, Mrs. Rush says it is not; for this morning, when I was standing in the hall, the doctor came out of the room with Mrs. Rush, and he said her husband had something on his mind, and asked if he were fretting to be with his regiment. And she said, 'Oh, no, the colonel never frets himself about that which cannot be.'" "Didn't she tell him what it was?" asked Fred. "No, but I guess she, too, thinks there's something wrong with him, for the doctor told her she must not let anything worry him, and she did not say a word. And when he went, and she turned to go back to her room, her face was so very sad." "She's just the sweetest little woman that ever was made," said Fred, who was a great admirer of Mrs. Rush, "and I don't know what he can have to make him fret. I should think he had everything a man could want." "Except the one great thing," said Grandpapa Duncan, in a low voice to himself. Mr. Bradford, who had been listening to what his children were saying, but had not spoken, now walked out on the piazza, where he stood watching the clearing away of the storm. In a moment or two Bessie followed him, and silently held out her arms to him to be taken up. "Papa," she said, as he lifted her, "do you think my soldier has a trouble in his mind?" "I think he has." "Wont you help him, papa?" said Bessie, who, like most little children, thought her father able to help and comfort every one. "I could only show him where he could find help, my darling, and I do not think he cares to have me tell him." "Then is there no one that can help him, papa?" "Yes, there is One who can give him all the help he needs." "You mean the One who lives up there?" said Bessie, pointing to the sky. "Yes. Will my Bessie pray that her friend may receive all the help he needs from that great merciful Father?" "Oh, yes, papa, and you'll ask him, and my soldier will ask him, and he'll be sure to listen; wont he?" Mr. Bradford did not tell his little girl that the colonel would not ask such aid for himself; he only kissed her and carried her in. Bessie did not forget her friend that night when she said her evening prayers. Maggie and Bessie went over to the hotel the next morning with their mother. After making a visit to their grandma, they thought they would go to see the colonel, so they ran away to his room. Mrs. Rush was there busy, and she told them the colonel was out on the piazza. He was reading the newspaper, but threw it down when they came, and was very glad to see them. Bessie looked at him earnestly, to see if she could see any signs of trouble about him. But he seemed much as usual, laughing and talking pleasantly with them. But she could not forget what Harry had said, and she turned her eyes so often upon him with a questioning look that he noticed it, and said, "Well, my pet, what is it? What do you want to know?" "Does something trouble you?" asked Bessie. "Trouble me!" he repeated. "What should trouble me?" "I don't know," she answered; "but I thought maybe something did." "What have I to trouble me?" he again asked, carelessly. "Have I not the dearest little wife and two of the dearest little friends in the world, as well as pretty much everything else a reasonable man could want? To be sure, another leg would be a convenience, but that is a small matter, and we will see what Palmer can do for me one of these days; he will make me as good as new again." Bessie was not quite satisfied. Though the colonel spoke so gayly, she felt sure there had been something wrong, if there was not now. She still watched him wistfully, and the colonel, looking into her loving eyes, said, "If I were in any trouble, you would help me out of it, Bessie; would you not?" "If I could," she answered; "but I couldn't do very much, I'm too little. But we know who can help us; don't we? and we can tell Him. Mamma has a book named 'Go and tell Jesus.' Aint that a pretty name? I asked her to read it to me, and she said I couldn't understand it now. When I am older, she will; but I can understand the name, and I like to think about it when I have been naughty or have a trouble." "May your troubles never be worse than they are now, little one," said the colonel fondly, with a smile; "and one of your troubles is done with, Bessie. Do you know that your enemy, Miss Adams, is gone?" "Oh, she is not my enemy any more," said Bessie; "we are friends now, and I am glad of it, for I don't like to be enemies with people." "Ho, ho!" said the colonel. "How did that come about? I thought she wanted to make it up with you, but I did not see how it was to come about when you were off like a lamp-lighter every time she came near you." Then Bessie told how Miss Adams' presence of mind had saved Franky from falling into the stream, "And then we talked a little," she said, "and I told her I was sorry I had been saucy, and kissed her, and so we are all made up." "That was the way; was it?" said the colonel. "I do not think you were the one to ask pardon." "Oh, she did too," said Bessie; "she said she was sorry she teased me." "And what else did she say?" "I don't think she meant me to talk about it, 'cause she didn't want nurse to hear." "Then I wont ask you, honorable little woman." "And she sent us home in the pony-carriage when the rain was coming, and ran all the way to our house herself, and mamma was very much obliged to her," said Maggie. "Well," said the colonel, "I suppose I shall have to forgive her too, since she saved you from a wetting, and took a bad cold in your service. We all wondered how she came to be so drenched, but she would not tell us how it happened." "Did she take cold?" asked Maggie. "Mamma said she would, but she said nothing ever hurt her." "Something has hurt her this time. They say she was really ill when she went away this morning, and some of the ladies tried to persuade her to wait until she was better. But go she would, and go she did. Here comes Mrs. Rush to take me for a walk. Will you go with us?" The children were quite ready, and, mamma's permission gained, they went off with their friends. But although this was the last they saw of Miss Adams, it was not the last they heard of her. Mrs. Bradford was right. Miss Adams had been wet to the knees in the brook, and much heated by her long run; and then again thoroughly drenched in the rain, and when she reached home, the foolish girl, for the sake of making people wonder at her, would not change her clothes. She took a violent cold, but, as the colonel had said, insisted on travelling the next morning, and went on till she was so ill that she was forced to give up. She had a long illness, from which it was thought she would never recover, but she afterwards said that this was the happiest thing that had ever happened to her in her life. Sometime after this, about Christmas time, came a letter and a little parcel to Bessie. The letter said,-- "MY DEAR LITTLE BESSIE,-- "Tell your mother I scorned her advice the day we were caught in the rain, and paid well for my folly, for I was very ill; but there was a good, kind doctor, who came and cured me, and now he is going to 'take care of me and my money, and make me behave myself.' He thinks he can make the 'kitchen lady' less of a mad-cap; but I do not know but that my long illness has done that already. While I lay sick, I had time to think, and to feel sorry that I had acted so wildly and foolishly as to leave myself without a true friend in the world. I shall never forget you, Bessie, and I hope you will sometimes think kindly of me, and that you may do so, will you ask your mother to let you wear this bracelet in remembrance of CLARA ADAMS." The little parcel contained a very beautiful and expensive bracelet with a clasp which made it smaller or larger, according to the size of the arm of the wearer. But Mrs. Bradford did not think it a suitable thing for her little girl, and she told Bessie she should put it away till she was grown up. "I sha'n't wear it then, mamma," said Bessie; "she never sent Maggie one, and I don't want to wear what she don't. We can both look at it sometimes, and then we can both think of Miss Adams: but we can't both wear it, and we don't want to be dressed _different alike_." XXII. _THE BROKEN NOSE._ "There comes mamma with Mamie Stone," said Maggie, as they were going back to the hotel with Colonel and Mrs. Rush. When Mamie saw the little girls, she ran to meet them, saying she was going home to spend the morning with them; and Mrs. Bradford took them all back with her. While Maggie and Bessie said their lessons, Mamie amused herself with Franky and Nellie and the baby; and she was delighted when nurse made her sit down on the floor, and putting the baby in her lap, let her hold her for a few minutes. Afterwards they all had a good play together, a doll's tea-party, and a fine swing. Mamie stayed to dinner, and was very good all day; and very soon after dinner, Mr. Stone came to take his daughter home. He was a grave, serious man, and it was rather unusual to see him with such a bright smile, and looking so happy. He said a few words in a low tone to Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Duncan, and they seemed pleased too, and shook hands with him. "Yes," he said, in answer to something Mrs. Bradford said to him, "I am glad of it; it is the best thing in the world for Mamie." "What is it, papa?" said Mamie, springing forward; "have you got something for me?" "Yes," he answered. "Will you come home and see it?" "What is it,--a new toy?" "The very prettiest plaything you ever had in your life," he answered, with a smile. Mamie clapped her hands. "Can Maggie and Bessie come too?" she asked, turning to Mrs. Bradford. "Not to-day," said Mrs. Bradford, "but they shall come soon." Mamie went away with her father, while Maggie and Bessie stood and watched her as she went skipping along by his side, looking very happy and eager. But when an hour or two later they went down on the beach and found Mamie, she seemed anything but happy. Indeed, she looked as if nothing pleasant had ever happened to her in her life. She was sitting on a stone, the marks of tears all over her cheeks and now and then giving a loud, hard sob. It was more than sulkiness or ill-humor; any one who looked at the child could see that she was really unhappy. Martha, her nurse, was sitting a little way off knitting, and not taking the least notice of her. Maggie and Bessie ran up to her. "What is the matter, Mamie?" asked Maggie. "My nose is broken," sobbed Mamie, "and my father and mother don't love me any more." "Oh," exclaimed Maggie, paying attention only to the first part of Mamie's speech, "how did it get broken?" "Baby did it." "What baby? Not ours?" "No, an ugly, hateful little baby that's in my mother's room." "How did it do it?" "I don't know; but Martha says it did, and she says that's the reason my papa and mamma don't love me any more." "Don't they love you?" asked Bessie. "No, they don't," said Mamie, passionately. "Mamma tried to push me away, and papa scolded me and took me out of the room. He never scolded me before, and he was so angry, and it's all for that hateful little baby. Oh, dear, oh, dear! what shall I do?" "Wasn't you naughty?" asked Maggie. "I sha'n't tell you," said Mamie. "Then I know you was. If you hadn't been, you'd say, 'No!'" Mamie did not answer. Bessie walked round her, looking at her nose, first on one side, then on the other. "I don't see where it's broken," she said. "It looks very good. Will it blow now?" "I don't know," said Mamie. "I'm afraid to try. Oh, dear!" "Does it hurt?" asked Bessie. "No, not much; but I expect it's going to." "Maybe we can feel where it's broken," said Maggie. "Let's squeeze it a little." "I wont let you," said Mamie. "But I'll let Bessie, 'cause she's so softly." Bessie squeezed the nose, first very gently, then a little harder, but it seemed all right, and felt just as a nose ought to feel. Then Mamie let Maggie squeeze; but she pinched harder than Bessie had done, and hurt it a little. "Oh, you hurt! Go away!" said Mamie, and set up an angry cry. Martha, who had been talking to Jane, rose at this. "Come, now," she said, "just have done with this. I wont have any more crying, you bad child." "Go away!" screamed Mamie, as Martha came near; "you're bad yourself. Oh, I want my mamma!" "Your mamma don't want you then, little broken nose. Have done with that crying." "I'll tell mamma of you," said Mamie. "Oh, you needn't be running with your tales now. Your mamma has got some one else to attend to." "That's a shame, Martha," said Jane. "She's just teasing you, Miss Mamie; your mamma does care for you." "Martha," said Bessie, "I'm glad you're not my nurse; I wouldn't love you if you were." "There's no living with her. She'll be cured of her spoiled ways now," said Martha, as she tried to drag the struggling, screaming child away. But Mamie would not stir a step. She was in a great rage, and fought and kicked and struck Martha; but just then Mrs. Bradford was seen coming towards them. "What is the matter?" she asked. "She's just going on this way because of the baby, ma'am," said Martha. "Mamie," said Mrs. Bradford, "you don't look like the happy little girl who left us a short time ago." Mamie stopped screaming, and held out one hand to Mrs. Bradford, but Martha kept fast hold of the other, and tried to make her come away. "Let her come to me, Martha," said the lady; "I want to speak to her." Martha looked sulky, but she let go of Mamie, and walked away muttering. Mrs. Bradford sat down on the rock and took Mamie on her lap. "Now, Mamie, what is the matter?" she asked, kindly. "I thought I should find you so pleasant and happy." "My nose is broken," sobbed Mamie, "and oh, dear! my papa and mamma don't love me any more. I would not care if my nose was broken, if they only loved me." "They do love you just as much as they ever did," said Mrs. Bradford, "and your nose is not broken. How should it come to be broken?" "There's an ugly baby in mamma's room," said Mamie. "The bad little thing did it." "Oh, nonsense!" said Mrs. Bradford, "how could such a little thing break your nose? Even if it were to give you a blow, which I am sure it did not, that tiny fist could not hurt you much." "Martha said it did," said Mamie. "Then Martha told you what was not true. That is a very foolish, wicked way which some people have of telling a little child that its nose is broken, when a baby brother or sister comes to share its parents' love. And it is quite as untrue to say that your father and mother do not love you any longer. They love you just as much as they ever did, and will love you more if you are kind to the baby, and set it a good example." "But I don't want it to be mamma's," said Mamie. "I'm her baby, and I don't want her to have another." "But you are six years old," said Mrs. Bradford. "You surely do not want to be called a baby now! Why, Franky would be quite offended if any one called him a baby. This morning, when you were playing with my little Annie, you said you did wish you had a baby at home, to play with all the time; and now, when God has sent you the very thing you wanted, you are making yourself miserable about it." "But it isn't a nice, pretty baby like yours," said Mamie. "It don't play and crow like little Annie, and it don't love me either. It made a face and rolled up its fist at me." "Poor little thing!" said Mrs. Bradford, "it did not know any better. Such very small babies do not know how to play. For some time this little sister must be watched and nursed very carefully by its mother, for it is weak and helpless; but when it is a little older, though it must be cared for still, it will begin to hold up its head and take notice, and play and crow, as Annie does. Then she will know you, and be pleased when you come, if you are kind to her. By and by you may help to teach her to walk and talk. Think what a pleasure that will be! The first words Franky spoke were taught to him by Maggie, and the first one of all was 'Mag.'" Mamie stopped crying, and sat leaning her head against Mrs. Bradford as she listened. "But I know my father and mother don't love me so much now," she said. "Mamma did try to push me away, and papa scolded me so, and he never did it before." "Then I am sure you deserved it. I am afraid you must have been very naughty. Now tell me all about it," said Mrs. Bradford, smoothing back Mamie's disordered hair, and wiping her heated, tear-stained face with her own soft, cool handkerchief. "Perhaps we can cure some of your troubles by talking a little about them. When your father came for you this afternoon, it seemed to me that half his own pleasure came from the thought that the baby was to bring so much happiness to you. That did not look as if he did not love you; did it?" "No, but he was angry with me." "Tell me what happened after you went home with him?" Mamie put her finger in her mouth and hung her head, but after a moment she looked up and said,-- "He took me into mamma's room, and there was a woman there I did not know, and that baby was in the bed with mamma." "And what then?" "Mamma told me to come and see my darling little sister, and I cried and said I would not have her for my sister, and she should not stay there. And papa said I was naughty, and that woman said she would not have such a noise there, and I must go away if I was not quiet, and that made me madder. I wasn't going to be sent out of my own mamma's room for that baby. If she was its nurse, she could take it away. It hadn't any business there, and then--then--" Mamie was beginning to feel ashamed, and to see that the most of her trouble came from her own naughtiness. "Well, dear," said Mrs. Bradford, gently, "and then?" "And then I tried to pull the baby away, and I tried to slap the bad little thing." "Oh, Mamie!" exclaimed Maggie and Bessie. "That was the reason your papa was angry, was it not?" asked Mrs. Bradford. "Yes, ma'am. Mamma pushed me away, and papa carried me out of the room, and oh, he did scold me so! He called Martha, and told her to take me away. Then she said my nose was broken, and papa and mamma would not love me any more, because the baby had come. Oh! I would be good, if they would let me go back to mamma, and she would love me." "She does love you just as much as ever. You see, my child, you frightened and disturbed her when you tried to hurt that tender little baby. She cares for you just as much as she did before, and I am sure she is grieving now because you were naughty, and had to be sent away from her. And your papa, too, when you see him, only tell him you mean to be a good child, and kind to the baby, and you will find you are still his own little Mamie, whom he loves so dearly, and for whose comfort and pleasure he is always caring. I am sorry Martha has told you such cruel, wicked stories. There is not a word of truth in them, and you must always trust your father and mother. I am sure your dear little sister will be as great a delight to you as Annie is to Maggie and Bessie, and that you will learn to love her dearly; but you must be kind and loving yourself, dear, not selfish and jealous, if you should have to give up a little to baby. It was jealousy which made you so unhappy. Jealousy is a wicked, hateful feeling, one which is very displeasing in the sight of God, and which makes the person who gives way to it very miserable." "It was Martha who made her jealous," said Maggie. "Martha is a very bad nurse; she is not fit to have the care of a child. Nurse said so, and that she told wicked stories; so she does, for I have heard her myself she is very _deceptious_." "Well," said her mother, "I hope Mamie will be too wise to mind what Martha says after this." "I will try to be good," said Mamie, "and I do love you, Mrs. Bradford. Do you think, when the baby is older, I can hold her on my lap like I did Annie?" "I have not a doubt of it. I cannot tell you in how many ways she will be a pleasure to you, if you teach her to be fond of you, and she will be, as your father said, the very prettiest plaything you have ever had. There comes your papa now;" and Mamie, looking up, saw her father coming towards them. Mr. Stone looked grave and troubled, and turned his eyes anxiously towards Mamie as he spoke to Mrs. Bradford. "Here is a little girl who thinks she has not behaved well, and wishes to tell you so," said Mrs. Bradford. Mr. Stone held out his arms to Mamie, and in another moment she was clinging round his neck, with her face against his. "Oh, I will be good! Will you please love me again?" "Love you? and who ever thought of not loving you?" said Mr. Stone. "Poor little woman, you did not think your father would ever cease to love his own Mamie? Not if a dozen daughters came. No, indeed, my pet; and now do you not want to go and see your poor mamma again, and be a good, quiet girl? She is feeling very badly about you." So Mamie went off with her father, feeling quite satisfied that her nose was as good as ever, and that her father and mother loved her just as much as they had done before the baby came to claim a share of their hearts. XXIII. _JESUS' SOLDIER._ One warm, bright Sunday morning, Mrs. Rush came over to the cottage. Old Mr. Duncan was sitting on the piazza reading to the children. On the grass in front of the porch, lay Uncle John, playing with Nellie. She shook hands with the gentlemen, and kissed the children--Bessie two or three times with long, tender kisses--and then went into the sitting-room to see their mother. There was no one there but Mr. and Mrs. Bradford. "Mrs. Bradford," said Mrs. Rush, when she had bidden them good-morning, "I have come to ask you a favor. This is the first Sunday morning since we have been here that my husband has been able and willing to have me leave him to go to church, but to-day he is pretty well, and Mrs. Stanton has offered me a seat in her carriage. I could not leave the colonel quite alone, and he wishes to have Bessie. Will you let her come over and stay with him while I am gone?" "Certainly," said Mrs. Bradford. "I do not, as you know, approve of Sunday visiting for my children, except when they may be of some use or comfort, then, indeed, I should never hesitate to let them go." "Bessie can indeed be of use, and oh! I trust a help and comfort to him. Dear Mrs. Bradford," she went on, the tears starting to her eyes, "I think, I am sure, that God's Spirit is striving with my dear husband, and he knows not where to look for help. But he has so long hardened his heart, so firmly closed his ears against all his friends could say to him, so coldly refused to hear one word on the subject, that he is now too proud to ask where he must seek it. I am sure, quite sure, that it has been your dear little Bessie's unquestioning faith, her love and trust in the power and goodness of the Almighty and, more than all, her firm belief that one for whom he had done so much, and preserved through so many dangers, must of necessity have a double share of faith and love, which has touched his heart. He is restless and unhappy, though he tries to hide it, and I think he is almost anxious to have me away this morning, that he may have her alone with him, in the hope that he may hear something in her simple talk which will show him where to go for aid. He will hear and ask from her what he will hear and ask from no one else." "My little Bessie! That baby!" said Mrs. Bradford, in great surprise. "Do you mean to tell me that anything she has said has had power with him?" "Yes, yes," said Mrs. Rush. "I think the first thing that roused him was one day when he was very ill, and she was in his room. She thought him asleep, and in her pretty, childish way spoke of the love she thought he had for his Saviour, and how he had been spared that he might love and serve him more and more. Horace was touched then, and her words took hold of him I could see, though he tried to seem impatient and vexed, and would not permit me to allude to them. So it was again and again. She was always saying some little thing which would not let him forget or keep his heart closed. She was so fond of him, so pretty and sweet in all her ways, that he had not the heart to check her, even when it annoyed him. And besides, I know he could not bear that her trust in him should be shaken by the knowledge that he was not what she thought him,--a Christian. Then came the day when Bessie fell into such trouble with Miss Adams. Annie came to our room, telling of it, and of the poor child's touching repentance. Horace sat silent for a good while after Annie had gone away; at last he said, 'Poor innocent little lamb! and she is so earnestly seeking forgiveness for the trifling fault which is far more the sin of another than her own, while I--' There he stopped, and indeed it seemed as if he had been speaking more to himself than to me. It was the first word I had ever heard from him which showed that he was allowing the thought of his own need of forgiveness, but I dared not speak. I felt that that baby was doing what I could not do. The tiny grain of mustard seed dropped by that little hand had taken root on a hard and stony ground, it might be; but I could only pray that the dews of heaven might fall upon it, and cause it to grow and bring forth fruit. It is years, I believe, since he has opened a Bible. He made me move mine from the table, for he said he did not want to see it about. I have almost feared he would forbid me to read it, and here I felt I must resist him. Even his wishes or commands must not come between me and the precious words in which I found so much comfort and strength. But the other day I had to leave him alone for a little while. I had been reading my Bible, and left it lying on my chair. When I came back, it lay upon the window-ledge. There had been no one there to touch it but my husband, and he must have left his seat to reach it. With what purpose? I thought, with a sudden hope. Yesterday it was the same. I had been away for a few minutes, and when I came back, the colonel started from the window where he was standing, and walked as quickly as he could to his sofa. My Bible lay where I had left it, but a mark and a dried flower had fallen from it. I was sure now. He had been searching within for something which might help him, but was still unwilling to ask for human or divine guidance. Since then I have left it again on his table, but he has not made me move it, as he would have done a month ago. And this morning, when Mrs. Stanton sent for me, and I asked him if he could spare me, he said so kindly, but so sadly,-- "'Yes, yes, go. I fear I have too often thrown difficulties in your way, poor child; but I shall never do so again. Only, Marion, do not leave your husband too far behind.' "Then I said I would not leave him, but he insisted, and went back to his careless manner, and said, if you would let him, he would have Bessie for his nurse this morning. I said I would ask, but he had better let Starr sit in the room, lest he should want anything she could not do. But he said no, he would have none but Bessie, and told me to send Starr at once. But I came myself, for I wanted to tell you all I felt and hoped. Now, if Bessie comes to him, and he opens the way, as he may with her, she will talk to him in her loving, trusting spirit, and perhaps bring him help and comfort." Mr. Bradford had risen from his seat, and walked up and down the room as she talked. Now he stood still, and said, very low and gently, "And a little child shall lead them." When Mrs. Rush had gone, Mrs. Bradford called Bessie. "Bessie," she said, taking her little daughter in her arms and holding her very closely, "how would you like to go over and take care of your soldier this morning, and let Mrs. Rush go to church?" "All by myself, mamma?" "Yes, dear. Do you think you will be tired? We shall be gone a good while. It is a long ride to church." "Oh, no, I wont be tired a bit," said Bessie, "and I'll take such good care of him. Mamma, are you sorry about something?" "No, dear, only very glad and happy." "Oh," said Bessie, "I thought I saw a tear in your eye when you kissed me; I s'pose I didn't." When the wagon started for church with the rest of the family, Bessie went with them as far as the hotel, where she was left, and taken to the colonel's room by Mrs. Rush. "Now what shall I do to amuse you, Bessie?" said the colonel, when his wife had gone. "Why, I don't want to be amused on Sunday," said Bessie, looking very grave. "Franky has his playthings, and baby has her yattle, 'cause they don't know any better. I used to have my toys, too, when I was young, but I am too big now. I mean I'm not very big, but I am pretty old, and I do know better. Besides, I must do something for you. I am to be your little nurse and take care of you, mamma said." "What are you going to do for me?" "Just what you want me to." "Well, I think I should like you to talk to me a little." "What shall I talk about? Shall I tell you my hymn for to-day?" "Yes, if you like." "Every day mamma teaches us a verse of a hymn," said Bessie, "till we know it all, and then on Sunday we say it to papa. I'll say the one for this week, to-night; but first I'll say it to you. It's such a pretty one. Sometimes mamma chooses our hymns, and sometimes she lets us choose them, but I choosed this myself. I heard mamma sing it, and I liked it so much I asked her to teach it to me, and she did. Shall I say it to you now?" "Yes," said the colonel, and climbing on the sofa on which he sat, she put one little arm over his shoulder, and repeated very slowly and correctly:-- "I was a wandering sheep; I did not love the fold; I did not love my Father's voice; I would not be controlled. I was a wayward child; I did not love my home; I did not love my Shepherd's voice; I loved afar to roam. "The Shepherd sought his sheep; The Father sought his child; They followed me o'er vale and hill, O'er deserts waste and wild. They found me nigh to death; Famished and faint and lone; They bound me with the bands of love; They saved the wandering one. "Jesus my Shepherd is; 'Twas he that loved my soul; 'Twas he that washed me in his blood; 'Twas he that made me whole; 'Twas he that sought the lost, That found the wandering sheep; 'Twas he that brought me to the fold; 'Tis he that still doth keep. "No more a wandering sheep, I love to be controlled; I love my tender Shepherd's voice; I love the peaceful fold. No more a wayward child, I seek no more to roam; I love my heavenly Father's voice; I love, I love his home." "Isn't it sweet?" she asked, when she had finished. "Say it again, my darling," said the colonel. She went through it once more. "Where is that hymn?" asked the colonel. "Is it in that book of hymns Marion has?" "I don't know," said Bessie. "Mamma did not say it out of that; but we will see." She slipped down from the sofa, and going for the hymn-book, brought it to the colonel. He began slowly turning over the leaves, looking for the hymn. "Why, that is not the way," said Bessie; "don't you know how to find a hymn yet? Here is the way:" and she turned to the end of the book, and showed him the table of first lines. No, it was not there. "I'll ask mamma to lend you her book, if you want to yead it for yourself," said Bessie. "She will, I know." "No, no," said the colonel, "I do not wish you to." "But she'd just as lief, I know." "Never mind, darling; I would rather not," said Colonel Rush, as he laid down the book. "Shall I say another?" asked Bessie. "I should like to hear that one again," said the colonel, "if you do not mind saying it so often." "Oh, no; I like to say it. I guess you like it as much as I do, you want to hear it so many times. I was glad that I learned it before, but I am gladder now when you like it so;" and the third time she repeated the hymn. "The Shepherd," she said when she was through; "that means our Saviour,--does it not?--and the big people are the sheep, and the children the lambs. Maggie and I are his lambs, and you are his sheep; and you are his soldier too. You are a little bit my soldier, but you are a great deal his soldier; are you not?" The colonel did not answer. He was leaning his head on his hand, and his face was turned a little from her. "Say, are you not?" repeated Bessie,--"are you not his soldier?" "I'm afraid not, Bessie," he said, turning his face towards her, and speaking very slowly. "If I were his soldier, I should fight for him; but I have been fighting against him all my life." "Why?" said the little girl, a good deal startled, but not quite understanding him; "don't you love him?" "No, Bessie." It was pitiful to see the look of distress and wonder which came over the child's face. "Don't you love him?" she said again,--"don't you love our Saviour? Oh, you don't mean that,--you only want to tease me. But you wouldn't make believe about such a thing as that. Don't you really love him? How can you help it?" "Bessie," said the colonel, with a kind of groan, "I want to love him, but I don't know how. Don't cry so, my darling." "Oh," said the child, stopping her sobs, "if you want to love him, he'll teach you how. Tell him you want to; ask him to make you love him, and he will. I know he will, 'cause he loves you so." "Loves me?" said the colonel. "Yes; he loves you all the time, even if you don't love him. I think that's what my hymn means. Even when we go away from him, he'll come after us, and try to make us love him. I know it's wicked and unkind not to love him, when he came and died for us. But if you're sorry, he wont mind about that any more, and he will forgive you. He will forgive every one when they ask him, and tell him they're sorry. The other day, when I was so wicked and in such a passion, and struck Mr. Lovatt, I asked Jesus to forgive me, and he did. I know he did. I used to be in passions very often, and he helped me when I asked him; and now he makes me better; and he'll forgive you too, and make you better." "I fear there can be no forgiveness for me, Bessie. I have lived seven times as long as you, my child, and all that time, I have been sinning and sinning. I have driven God from me, and hardened my heart against the Lord Jesus. I would not even let any one speak to me of him." "Never matter," said Bessie, tenderly. "I don't mean never matter, 'cause it is matter. But he will forgive that when he sees you are so sorry, and he will be sorry for you; and he does love you. If he didn't love you, he couldn't come to die for you, so his Father could forgive you, and take you to heaven. There's a verse, I know, about that; mamma teached it to me a good while ago. It hangs in our nursery just like a picture, all in pretty bright letters; and we have 'Suffer little children,' too. It is 'God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life.' Mamma says the world means everybody." "Could you find that verse for me, Bessie?" asked the colonel. "I don't know, sir; I can't find things in the Bible,--only a few; but Jesus said it to a man named Nicodemus, who came to him and wanted to be teached. He'll teach you, too, out of his Bible. Oh, wont you ask him?" "I will try, darling," he said. "I'll get your Bible, and we'll see if we can find that verse," said Bessie. "Where is your Bible?" "I have none," he answered; "at least, I have one somewhere at home, I believe, but I do not know where it is. My mother gave it to me, but I have never read it since I was a boy." "Oh, here's Mrs. Yush's on the table," said Bessie; "she always keeps it on the window-seat, and she always made me put it back there; but I s'pose she forgot and left it here." She brought the Bible, and sat down by the colonel. "I can find, 'Suffer little children,'" she said, turning to the eighteenth chapter of Matthew. "I can yead you a little bit, if you tell me the big words: 'Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.' Isn't it sweet?" "Yes; and I can believe it," he said, laying his hand on Bessie's head; "of such is the kingdom of heaven." Bessie turned to the fifteenth chapter of Luke. "Here's about the prodigal son," she said, "but it's too long for me. Will you please yead it?" He took the Bible from her, and read the chapter very slowly and thoughtfully, reading the parable a second time. Then he turned the leaves over, stopping now and then to read a verse to himself. "If you want what Jesus said to Nicodemus, look there," said Bessie, pointing to the headings of the chapters. He soon found the third of John, and sat for a long time with his eyes fixed on the sixteenth and seventeenth verses. Bessie sat looking at him without speaking. "What are you thinking of, my pet?" he asked at last, laying down the book. "I was thinking how you could be so brave when you didn't love Him," she said "Didn't it make you afraid when you was in a danger?" "No," he said; "I hadn't even faith enough to be afraid." "And that night didn't you feel afraid you wouldn't go to heaven when you died?" "The thought would come sometimes, Bessie, but I put it from me, as I had done all my life. I tried to think only of home and Marion and my sister. Will you say that hymn again for me, Bessie?" "Shall I say, 'I need thee, precious Jesus'?" she asked, after she had again repeated, "I was a wandering sheep;" "I think you do need our precious Jesus." "Yes," he said, and she said for him, "I need thee, precious Jesus." "Shall I ask papa to come and see you, and tell you about Jesus?" she said, when her father and mother stopped for her on their way from church. "I am so little, I don't know much, but he knows a great deal." "No, dear, I want no better teacher than I have had," said Colonel Rush. "Who?" asked Bessie. But the colonel only kissed her, and told her not to keep her father and mother waiting; and so she went away. But that afternoon there came a little note to Mr. Bradford from Mrs. Rush:-- "DEAR FRIEND,-- "Can you come to my husband? He has opened his heart to me, and asked for you. "MARION RUSH." Mr. Bradford went over directly. The colonel looked pale and worn, and had a tired, anxious expression in his eye. But after Mr. Bradford came in, he talked of everything but that of which he was thinking so much, though it seemed as if he did not feel a great deal of interest in what he was saying. At last his wife rose to go away, but he called her back, and told her to stay. He was silent for a little while, till Mr. Bradford laid his hand on his arm. "Rush, my friend," he said, "are you looking for the light?" The colonel did not speak for a moment then he said in a low voice,-- "No; I _see_ the light, but it is too far away I cannot reach to where its beams may fall upon me. I see it. It was a tiny hand, that of your precious little child, which pointed it out, and showed me the way by which I must go; but my feet have so long trodden the road which leads to death, that now, when I would set my face the other way, they falter and stumble. I cannot even stand, much less go forward. Bradford, I am a far worse cripple there than I am in this outer world." "There is one prop which cannot fail you," said Mr. Bradford. "Throw away all others, and cast yourself upon the almighty arm which is stretched out to sustain and aid you. You may not see it in the darkness which is about you, but it is surely there, ready to receive and uphold you. Only believe, and trust yourself to it, and it will bear you onwards and upwards to the light, unto the shining of the perfect day." Colonel Rush did not answer, and Mr. Bradford, opening the Bible, read the 92d and 118th Psalms. Then he chose the chapter which the colonel and Bessie had read in the morning, and after he had talked a little, "Marion," said the colonel, after some time, "do you know a hymn beginning 'I was a wandering sheep'?" "Yes," said Mrs. Rush; and in her low, sweet voice, she sang it to him. Next she sang, "Just as I am," twice over,--for he asked for it a second time,--then both sat silent for a long while. The rosy light of the August sunset died out of the west, the evening star which little Bessie had once said looked "like God's eye taking care of her when she went to sleep," shone out bright and peaceful; then, as it grew darker and darker, came forth another and another star, and looked down on the world which God had loved so much, till the whole sky was brilliant with them; the soft, cool sea-breeze came gently in at the windows, bringing with it the gentle plash of the waves upon the shore, mingled with the chirp of the crickets and the distant hum of voices from the far end of the piazza; but no one came near or disturbed them; and still the colonel sat with his face turned towards the sea, without either speaking or moving, till his wife, as she sat with her hand in his, wondered if he could be asleep. At last he spoke, "Marion." "Yes, love." "The light is shining all around me, and I can stand in it--with my hand upon the cross." "Bessie," said the colonel, when she came to him the next morning, "I have found your Saviour. He is my Saviour now, and I shall be his soldier, and fight for him as long as I shall live." 530 BROADWAY, NEW YORK, March, 1884. ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS NEW BOOKS. =HANDS FULL OF HONEY=, and other Sermons, preached in 1883, by C. H. SPURGEON. 12mo. $1.00. =THE PRESENT TRUTH.= New Sermons by C. H. SPURGEON. 12mo. $1.00. SERMONS. 10 vols. 12mo. $10.00 _Any volume sold separately at_ $1.00. MORNING BY MORNING. 12mo 1.00 EVENING BY EVENING. 12mo 1.00 TYPES AND EMBLEMS. 12mo 1.00 SAINT AND SAVIOUR. 12mo 1.00 FEATHERS FOR ARROWS. 12mo 1.00 LECTURES TO STUDENTS. 12mo 1.00 SPURGEON'S GEMS. 12mo 1.00 COMMENTING AND COMMENTARIES. 12mo 1.00 JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S TALK. .75 JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S PICTURES. 16mo .75 JOHN PLOUGHMAN'S TALK AND PICTURES. 12mo 1.00 GLEANINGS AMONG THE SHEAVES. 18mo .60 =THE LIFE AND WORKS OF THOMAS GUTHRIE, D.D.= New, neat, and very cheap edition. 11 vols. $10.00. 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Twenty-nine instances of "wont" were retained as dialect or the author's preference; "won't" was used 13 times. Six instances of "aint" were retained as dialect or the author's preference; "ain't" was used 2 times. Page 26: "Mary" and "Mamie" are used interchangeably for the same girl. Page 216: "affghan" may be a typo for "afghan." (Orig: lay neatly folded, a tiny affghan.)