33522	----	images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) MRS. LESLIE'S BOOKS FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. THE LITTLE FRANKIE SERIES. BOOKS WRITTEN OR EDITED By A. R. BAKER, AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. * * * * * QUESTION BOOKS on the Topics of Christ's Sermon on the Mount. VOL. I. FOR CHILDREN. VOL. II. FOR YOUTH. VOL. III. FOR ADULTS. LECTURES ON THESE TOPICS, _in press_. MRS. LESLIE'S SABBATH SCHOOL BOOKS. TIM, THE SCISSORS GRINDER. SEQUEL TO "TIM, THE SCISSORS GRINDER." PRAIRIE FLOWER. THE BOUND BOY. THE BOUND GIRL. VIRGINIA. THE TWO HOMES; OR, EARNING AND SPENDING. THE ORGAN-GRINDER, _in press_. QUESTION BOOKS. The Catechism tested by the Bible. VOL. I. FOR CHILDREN. VOL. II. FOR ADULTS. THE DERMOTT FAMILY; or, Stories Illustrating the Catechism. VOL. I. DOCTRINES RESPECTING GOD AND MANKIND. " II. DOCTRINES OF GRACE. " III. COMMANDMENTS OF THE FIRST TABLE. " IV. COMMANDMENTS OF THE SECOND TABLE. " V. CONDITIONS OF ETERNAL LIFE. MRS. LESLIE'S HOME LIFE. VOL. I. CORA AND THE DOCTOR. " II. COURTESIES OF WEDDED LIFE. " III. THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL. MRS. LESLIE'S JUVENILE SERIES. VOL. I. THE MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. " II. PLAY AND STUDY. " III. HOWARD AND HIS TEACHER. " IV. TRYING TO BE USEFUL. " V. JACK, THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER. " VI. THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER. " VII. LITTLE AGNES. THE ROBIN REDBREAST SERIES. THE ROBINS' NEST. LITTLE ROBINS IN THE NEST. LITTLE ROBINS LEARNING TO FLY. LITTLE ROBINS IN TROUBLE. LITTLE ROBINS' FRIENDS. LITTLE ROBINS' LOVE ONE TO ANOTHER. * * * * * THE LITTLE FRANKIE SERIES. LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS MOTHER. LITTLE FRANKIE AT HIS PLAYS. LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS COUSIN. LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS FATHER. LITTLE FRANKIE ON A JOURNEY. LITTLE FRANKIE AT SCHOOL. [Illustration: UNPACKING NELLY'S TRUNKS.] LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS COUSIN. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE HOME LIFE SERIES;" "MRS. LESLIE'S JUVENILE SERIES," ETC. [Illustration] BOSTON: CROSBY AND NICHOLS. 117 WASHINGTON STREET. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by A. R. BAKER, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. ELECTROTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS COUSIN. CHAPTER I. FRANKIE'S COUSIN NELLY. IN another little book I have given you an account of Frankie when he was a baby, and have spoken of some things which he said and did when he began to talk and to walk. In this book I shall tell you more about him, and also about his cousin Nelly, who came to pass some months in his father's house, while her parents visited Europe. Nelly was six years old, while Frankie was but just past his fourth birthday. Nelly was a pale, delicate child, with light flaxen hair, which curled in ringlets about her face. Her features were very small; but her eyes were bright and sparkling, and her motions quick and graceful. Sally, the nurse, used often to say that Nelly looked like the great wax dolls which were put up in the shop windows; but her cousin Willie laughed, and said, "Nelly flies about so, I can't tell what she does look like." When Nelly was a baby, she had learned to suck her finger; and since that time she had never been taught to give up the habit. Before her mother went to Europe, Mrs. Gray showed her that the poor little finger was wasting away, and would never grow like the others, unless Nelly would stop sucking it. But the lady only laughed, and said, "I have not the heart to forbid her, she takes such a world of comfort with it." Mrs. Gray said no more, but she determined to break up the habit before Nelly left her. The little girl was to have a small room, opening out of her aunt's chamber. There her trunks were carried for Sally to unpack, and put the clothes into the wardrobe and drawers. "Come in here!" said Nelly to her little cousin, "and we will take out the playthings. This trunk is full of them." Frankie's eyes grew very round and large as Sally selected the right key, and displayed a great variety of toys packed as closely as possible into the large trunk. "Goodness me!" exclaimed nurse, holding up both hands. "Why, you'll be able to set up a toy shop, miss." "I have more at home," said Nelly. "Maria couldn't get them all in." Maria was the name of the colored woman who had taken care of Nelly ever since she was a tiny baby. She had wished to come with her to Mrs. Gray's, and cried bitterly when she knew that she could not. But her aunt was sure that if Maria was there, Nelly would be too much indulged, that is, she would have her own way, and would be spoiled. She loved her little niece, and was sorry that her brother's wife did not take more pains to teach her little girl to be good and kind. She hoped Nelly would learn, while her mother was away, to wait upon herself, and to be generous and truthful. When Sally had unlocked the trunk of playthings for the little miss, she went on unpacking the other one. She took out the dresses, and laid them on the bed. There was a pink muslin, and a blue tarleton, and a white one with the skirt tucked up to the waist. Then there were two silks, and one or two delaines, and ever so many French calicoes. Mrs. Gray came in at this moment, and Sally exclaimed, "Where I am to put all these dresses, ma'am, is more than I can tell. The wardrobe won't hold half of them." The lady glanced toward the bed, and said, "You may hang the best ones in the parlor-chamber closet." By this time Frankie had helped his cousin to take out the toys; and they were spread all over the floor, so that neither his mamma nor nurse could walk at all without stepping on them. "Why, Nelly," said her aunt, "what a quantity of playthings you have there!" "May we play with them here?" asked Frankie. "I am afraid you will be in Sally's way," replied mamma. "She can wait, then, till we are done," said Nelly, taking up a large dolly. "No," said her aunt; "nurse has a great deal to do; and first of all she wants to clear up this room. See how untidy it looks, with the clothes all lying about." "Can't we go up in Willie's play room, then?" asked the little boy. "Yes, my dear; there is a large case up there, which will make a nice play house for Nelly. You can have one shelf for the parlor, and put these little sofas and chairs in it. Then have another for the closet, and set out the cups and saucers. You and your cousin may carry them up stairs; and when Margie comes home, she will love to help you arrange them." "O mamma, see this pretty carriage!" cried Frankie. "That's a pedler's wagon," said Nelly. "There is the front seat for him to sit on, and the top comes way over to keep off the rain. The horses can take out too. When I first had it, I used to play 'get to the tavern, and put them up in the barn.'" "O Nelly!" exclaimed the little fellow, "let us play that as soon as we get up stairs." "I'm tired," said Nelly, sitting down on the floor, and putting her finger in her mouth. "I'll carry the things up then," said Frankie, running into the next room for a basket. "See, I'm real strong." "If you are tired, you had better go and lie down on the lounge," said her aunt. "No," said Nelly; "I want to stay here, and see Sally put away my clothes." Nurse did not take a fancy to the little girl; that was very plain. She kept muttering to herself all the time she was arranging the drawers, and was quite vexed that her darling, as she called Frankie, should be doing the work while Nelly sat idly looking on. At last, when her mistress had left the room, she asked, "Do you never work any, miss?" Nelly shook her head. "Well, I expect your aunt will teach you to wait upon yourself," said Sally; "you'd be a great deal happier if you had something to do." "Maria does every thing for me," said Nelly, still holding her finger in her mouth. "If I don't like to stay without her, I shall send for her to come. Mamma said I might." "Indeed!" said nurse, laughing. "We'll see what your aunt says to that. Here, darling," she called out to Frankie, "let Sally help you carry that heavy basket. I'm afraid you can't get it through the door alone." "Yet I can," said Frankie, "cause I belong to the Try Company." "I guess your cousin had better join it too," said nurse to herself. [Illustration] CHAPTER II. MOSES AND THE ORANGE. "MAMMA," said Frankie one day, "you promised to tell me a toly." "So I did," said mamma; "and what shall it be about?" "Bout Moses." "Moses in the bulrushes?" asked mamma. "No; bout Moses and the olange." The lady thought a minute before she could remember what he meant. Then she smiled, and said, "O, yes, I'll tell that. Do you like to hear stories, Nelly?" she asked. "I don't know," answered Nelly. "Maria sometimes tells me pretty ones." "Well, you may bring the cricket, and sit down by Frankie. I think you will like to hear about Moses," said aunty. "He was just as old as you are, Nelly; and like you, he was an only child. His father and mother were very fond of him, and loved to do every thing to make him happy. I don't mean that they always let him have his own way, or allowed him to do what was wrong, for that would have made him grow very selfish and wicked. "The day before he was six years old, his mother thought she would let him have a party. So she asked his father to bring from the city some oranges, and figs, and nuts, that the little folks might have a feast. "When papa had gone to town, which he did every day, because his store was there, she went to the kitchen, and helped the cook make some light sponge cake for Moses to have for his party. "The little fellow knelt in a chair close by the table, and watched her sift the sugar and beat the eggs; then, when she put in the lemon, and took a clean spoon to taste a little to know whether it was seasoned right, Moses said, 'I should like to taste too.' "By and by the cake was done, and smelled so good that Moses asked for a piece; but his mother told him to wait until his cousins were there to eat it with him. "Then the carriage came up to the door, and James, the hostler, rung the bell to let his mistress know he was ready to drive her out. She dressed her little boy in his new suit, and told him he might go with her. "They drove first to aunt Mary's, and mamma invited George and Walter, and little Katy. Then they went a mile farther, to uncle John's, where Susy, William, and Grace gladly promised to come. On their way home, they called upon three of their neighbors, where the number was increased to eleven. "When his father came home from the city, he brought a basket in one hand, and two large bundles under his other arm. "Moses ran to meet him, and said, 'Let me carry the basket, papa. It isn't too heavy for me.' "Before he put it on the table, he peeped in, and said, 'O, what nice oranges, papa!' The little boy was very fond of oranges. "That night Moses went to bed very happy. He longed for the time when his young companions would come, and lay awake nearly an hour, thinking what a very pleasant party his would be. "The next morning he was up long before his mother, and ran down stairs to see if breakfast was ready. The table was not yet laid; and he went into the large store closet to see where his mother had put the oranges and cake. There was the basket upon the first shelf, and on lifting the lid he saw that the oranges were still in it. How fresh and good they smelt! He put in his hand and took one out. 'O, what a large one!' "The basket was so full, he thought there must be more than twelve; so he stood up on a box, and began to count them. 'Yes, there are,' he said to himself; 'there are twelve, and one more.' "Then he took the largest, and laid it on the next shelf, while he put the others back again into the basket, wishing all the time that he could have it for his own. He knew that he should have one at the party, but he couldn't wait. 'I want one now,' he said. "He sat down on the box, and began to smell the large orange which he had left out. Then he made a small hole in the peel, and began to suck the juice through it. It tasted so sweet, he could not get his mouth away. So he squeezed and sucked, and sucked and squeezed, until the juice was all gone, and nothing remained but the skin and the pulp. "'O, dear! I'm sorry I've eaten it,' he whispered; 'I didn't mean to. I only thought I would suck it a little. How quick it all came out!' "Just then he heard cook come into the room to set the table for breakfast, and he knew his mother would soon be down. He began to be very unhappy, and to wish he were back again in his little bed. Then he remembered it was his birthday; but some how the thought of his party gave him no pleasure." "I guess Satan was whispering to him," said Frankie. "If I had been there, I would open the door, and say, 'Satan, go wight out.'" "Who is Satan?" asked Nelly, who had been listening with great interest. "Satan's naughty man," said Frankie. "He don't love good boys." "He is the evil spirit," replied aunty, "who tries to make boys and girls, and men and women too, behave naughty and sin against God." "Does he live in Moses' house?" asked the little girl. "He is every where, my dear," said the lady, "trying to make people do mischief. He was there in the closet with Moses, and when the little boy's naughty heart said, 'I would steal one of my mother's oranges and eat it,' he said, 'Yes; no one will know it, and if your mother asks you about it, you can tell her a lie, and say you didn't touch it.'" "I wouldn't take your olange, mamma," said Frankie, putting his arms round his mother's neck and kissing her. "I would ask you, 'May I?'" At this moment a lady called to see mamma, and she said, "You may go and play now, and I will finish the story about Moses some other time." CHAPTER III. FRANKIE'S SICKNESS. THAT night Frankie was quite sick, and his mother, after being up with him several times, lay down by him in his trundle-bed. He was very much pleased at this, and put up his little hot hand on her face. The fever made him quite wakeful, and he wanted to talk. She began to repeat the little rhyme,-- "Once there was a little man, Where a little river ran," when he said, "Mamma, please tell me 'bout heaven." "Do you want to go to heaven?" she asked. "Yes, mamma, when I die; but I can't go 'lone. I want you to go with me. Won't you please to ask God to let us take hold of hands and go wight up to heaven together. That would be a pretty way; wouldn't it?" Mrs. Gray bent over her darling boy and kissed his cheek. She whispered a prayer to God to preserve her dear child from death for a long time to come. Pretty soon he spoke again: "How can you get up to heaven, mamma?" "God will send his angels, my dear, and take me there." "I 'fraid they can't lift you, mamma, you so heavy. But you can go up on the barn, and then they can get you up there; can't they?" In a minute, he asked, "Does God have horses in heaven, mamma?" Toward morning, he sank into a quiet sleep, and did not awake until Willie and Margie had gone to school. When he opened his eyes, his mamma was standing over him with a cup of milk and water in her hand. "Frankie feel better," he said, starting up to receive her kiss. As he still felt weak, his mamma held him in her lap, where he could look at Ponto, who was washing his paws on the rug. Presently Nelly came in, carrying a wax doll nearly as large as herself. She was a little afraid of Ponto, and when he went and put his nose on her arm, and tried to lick her hand, she cried, "Get away, you ugly dog! I hate you, I do!" and she struck him with the doll. Ponto growled, and turned away to Frankie. The little fellow slipped down from his mother's lap, and clasped his arms around Ponto's neck. "O, you good dog," he said, "I love you, I do." Ponto knew very well what this meant, and he rapped with his tail as hard as he could on the rug. Then Frankie made the dog lie down, and he laid his head upon him. Ponto was delighted to have his little master use him for a pillow; so he lay very still indeed. I suppose he thought Frankie wished to go to sleep. Then Mrs. Gray told Nelly how the good dog had pulled Frankie out of the water, and how much they all loved him. But Nelly only said, "I hate dogs, I do, they're so ugly and cross;" and then she put her finger in her mouth again. "Mamma," said Frankie, "I want to hear 'bout Moses 'gen. Pease, mamma, tell me toly 'bout Moses." "Well," said mamma, "I'll get my sewing and tell you the rest of the story." So Frankie lay with his head on Ponto, and listened to mamma. Nelly sat in her little chair, and sucked her finger and tended her doll. "I told you," said the lady, "that Moses began to wish he had not touched the orange; but it was of no use to wish that now, for there it was all squeezed and sucked, and what should he do with it? "When the cook had set the table, she rang the bell, and presently his father and mother came down to breakfast. "'Where's Moses?' asked his mamma; 'I expected to find him at the table.' "'He came down early,' said the cook; 'but I have not seen him for a good while.' "'Won't you see if he is out doors?' said the lady. "Moses knew it was of no use for him to wait any longer; so he came out laughing. "'Why, what were you doing, my dear?' asked the lady. "'I was hiding,' said the boy." "O, that was a naughty lie!" exclaimed Frankie. "Yes, dear, when children do one naughty thing, they almost always do another. Moses had stolen his mother's orange, and now he told a lie to hide it. His mother did not think he would act so wickedly. She asked, 'Do you remember, Moses, this is your birthday.' "'Yes, mamma.' "'You have a very pleasant day for your party,' said his father; and then Moses began to talk about what he should play when his company came. 'Shall you have the supper first?' he asked. "'No, my dear. I shall wait until you have played a while.' "After breakfast the lady swept and dusted the parlors, to have them ready for the party. Then she sat down to her sewing, while she heard Moses read and spell. After this he went out doors to play with his hoop. "In the middle of the afternoon she began to arrange for her little feast. First, she took the nut-cracker and cracked the large walnuts, the almonds, and the filberts, and put them in the glass dishes ready to set them on the table. Then she cut the cake into square pieces, and grated sugar over them. After that, she put the figs into plates, and then brought out the basket of oranges. "All this time, Moses had been kneeling in his chair by the table, watching her as she worked. He looked very sober. He was thinking about the orange, and wished he had not taken it. "When his mother began to take the oranges from the basket, he felt as if he should cry, he was so afraid she would find out what he had done. "'Why,' said the lady to herself, 'here are only twelve. I asked him to get thirteen.' She counted them over again. All at once she looked at Moses, and said, 'I hope you have not eaten one of mother's oranges, my dear.' "'No,' said the little boy, 'I haven't touched one.'" "O, dear!" said Frankie. "I'm afraid God won't love Moses any more, he is so naughty, and tells so many lies." Frankie jumped up when he said this, and Ponto took the opportunity to turn himself over. He had lain very still before, for fear of disturbing his little master. "'What did you want thirteen for?' asked Moses. 'You said there would be twelve at the party.' "'Because I meant to send one to Sarah Christie. Joseph and Belle are coming, but Sarah is sick, you know; so I meant to send her one. I suppose your father forgot it; but I'm very sorry.'" Mrs. Gray was going on to tell the rest of the story, but she saw that Frankie looked very pale, and she stopped. "I want to womit," said he, and she ran quickly to get the bowl. Then she gave him some medicine, and put him into bed, while she sent Nelly to play out doors until he awoke. CHAPTER IV. NELLY'S PUNISHMENT. IN a few days Frankie was quite well again, and able to play merrily with Nelly, who had sadly missed him in her out-door exercise. The little girl had not been long with her aunt before the lady saw that the right training of her niece would require much skill and patience. Nelly had never been taught to obey, and could not be made to understand why she should not have her own way, as she had done at home. There was another thing which made her aunt feel very badly. She found that, young as Nelly was, she had already learned to deceive, and no one could trust her word a moment. Then she was selfish, and while she would not oblige her cousins by lending them her books or toys, she was very angry if they did not at once yield theirs to her, when she asked for them. She was so pert and uncivil in her talk, that Sally, and even Jane, disliked to have her about; and at last her aunt was obliged to shut her in her own room, she spoke so impudently to the servants. Instead of asking the nurse to do her a favor, as the other children did, she used to say, "Go right up stairs quick, Sally, and get my bonnet;" and once, when Sally did not start, she said, "You're an ugly girl," and struck her in the face. Nurse started forward to hold her hands, when at this moment Mrs. Gray entered the room. Nelly was ashamed that her aunt had heard her, for she loved her aunt better than any one in the house; but when the lady took her hand firmly to lead her up stairs, she screamed and struggled to get away. "I don't like to stay here," she cried; "this is an ugly house. I wish my mamma would come home and take me away." Mrs. Gray led her to a chair in her own room, and going out locked the door after her. But Nelly kicked and pounded the door so hard, and threw over the chairs, that her aunt was obliged to call Sally to help her tie the naughty girl to a chair. She was very sorry to do this, and the tears were in her eyes; but Sally was right glad to have the child punished as she deserved. Indeed, she had told Jane the day before that she did not see how mistress had so much patience with the naughty child. Mrs. Gray did not intend to hurt Nelly. She only meant to fasten her hands and feet to the chair so as to prevent her doing any more mischief. She took large towels from the washstand to do this; but Nelly kicked and screamed, and at last made a great scratch on her aunt's face. After that Sally took the child in her arms, and held her so tight she could not move. When they had fastened her firmly to her seat, they went out, and left her to think of her bad conduct. Mrs. Gray went into her closet, and asked God to direct her what to do in order to make Nelly a good, obedient child. After an hour she went back, and said, "Are you sorry, my dear, that you have been so naughty?" "I don't love you. I want to go to Maria," was the only reply. Her aunt sighed, when she found the little girl was not at all subdued, and she went out again. If Nelly could have put her finger in her mouth, it would have been no punishment for her to stay there, for she could lie back in the chair and go to sleep. When her uncle came home to dinner, he found Willie, and Frankie, and mamma, sitting silent and sad in the parlor, while from above stairs came the sound of loud and angry crying. The lady wept as she told her husband how naughty Nelly had behaved. "I had no idea," she said, "that she had so bad a temper." "Shall I go up and talk with her?" asked the gentleman. "If you think it best," replied mamma; "but I fear it will do no good. I have already been to her three times." "Well, perhaps I had better leave her with you, then. I hope this will be a good lesson to her." After dinner, Mrs. Gray carried a plate full of pudding to Nelly, and offered to feed her with it; but the stubborn child refused to eat. She made up faces at her aunt, and said many naughty words, which I should not want any little boy or girl to hear. The lady came out of her room looking very pale and anxious, and at last began to cry. She was quite discouraged, and thought she would write to her brother, and tell him she could do nothing with his child. But if I do so, she thought, Nelly will be ruined. If she grows up with such a bad temper, is so untruthful and selfish, she will be a trial to herself and to her parents; and what is more than that, she can never have the blessing of God. "I will not give up yet," she said, aloud. "I will try her a little longer." She then went down stairs, and told Frankie he might go out doors and play with his wheel-barrow; but the little fellow said, "I want to stay with you, mamma. Nelly makes my head ache." Poor child, he did not feel like play while his cousin was so naughty. It was almost time for tea, when the lady, having once more asked God to direct her, entered the little chamber where her niece was sitting. Nelly was quiet now; but her lips stuck out with an ugly pout. "My dear child," said the lady, sitting down near her, "it makes us all very unhappy to have you up here by yourself, when you might be playing and enjoying yourself with your cousins. When you came to live with us, we thought it was so pleasant to have a dear little girl running and dancing about the house! But now it seems sad because we know by your naughty temper you have not only offended us, but you have displeased God. I wish you would let me untie your hands, and see you my darling little Nelly once more." "I'm sorry now," said Nelly, her lip quivering. "I will be good, aunty." The tears ran down the little girl's cheeks, but this time they were not angry tears. Her aunt made haste to untie the towels, and took Nelly in her arms. "I love you now," sobbed Nelly; "I love you dearly." "And I love you, my dear, or I could not have kept you here so long," said her aunt, kissing her again and again. "I came a great many times to the door, and longed to take you from this great chair, and hear your happy voice once more; but I knew it would be wrong in me to do so until you were ready to say you were sorry, and to promise to be a good girl. You have offended God, my dear child. Shall I ask him to forgive you?" "Yes, aunty." Mrs. Gray then knelt with Nelly by the chair, and prayed God to forgive all her sins, and to help her to keep her new resolution to be good. CHAPTER V. TAKING MEDICINE. AFTER tea Nelly had a fine romp with her cousins on the lawn. Margie and Ponto were there too; and papa and mamma sat on the front steps, laughing and enjoying their sport. As the children ran round and round, the lady saw that Nelly's apron was unbuttoned, and that it troubled her as she played. She called, "Nelly, come here a minute." The little girl stopped at once, and then ran to her aunt. Before this, when any one called her, she would say, "I can't come now;" or, "In a minute I will." The lady was very much pleased to see that the child obeyed promptly. When she had fastened the apron, Nelly clasped her arms about her aunt's neck, and kissed her. Her uncle smiled, and said, "You look very happy now, Nelly; I wish your mamma could see your rosy cheeks." "Come, Nelly, it's your turn now," shouted Willie from the lawn. A few days after this, Mrs. Gray sat busily sewing, while Frankie made a barn with his blocks, in which to put up the pedler's cart, and Nelly was undressing her doll. The sleeve did not come off easily, and as she pulled it roughly it tore. The little girl was angry, and began to cry. "What is the matter?" asked her aunt. "Dolly's dress is ugly, and it's all torn." "Should you like to have a needle, and mend it, my dear?" "O, yes, aunty." "May I sew some too?" asked Frankie. "Yes, darling, you may mend this stocking." She then threaded a needle for the little girl, and showed her how to put the stitches through, and afterwards gave Frankie a darning needle with some yarn. He had often sewed before, and he liked the business very much. There was no knot in the thread, and so he pulled it through and through. But he thought it was sewing for all that. Nelly sat steadily at her work for a minute; but at last she threw it on the floor, and said, "I hate sewing, it's so hard." "Let me see it, dear," said aunty. Nelly picked it up, and put it into her hand. She laughed when she looked at it, and Nelly laughed too; and then Frankie said, "O, what funny sewing!" "I'll baste you some easier work," said her aunt; "and you shall have a little thimble to put on your finger. Then you will like to sew." Nelly had behaved much better since she was punished, so that her uncle, aunt, and cousins loved her better than ever. Still there were many things in which they hoped she would improve. One day her aunt found her sitting on the piazza alone, eating something, and as soon as she saw some one coming, she put it hastily in her pocket. It was not more than an hour before she complained of a bad pain in her stomach. "What have you been eating, my dear?" asked her aunt. "Nothing," said Nelly. "Are you sure?" and the lady looked earnestly in her face. "Yes, I am very sure," answered Nelly. Mrs. Gray sent Sally for some warm peppermint water, and then laid the child on the lounge. For some time she lay quite still, sucking her finger; but when her aunt glanced toward her to see if she were asleep, she noticed that Nelly looked very pale about the mouth; and presently she jumped up, and carried her to the closet, where she threw up a great quantity of raisins, which she had stolen from her aunt's box. She continued very sick all that night, and in the morning the doctor came, and said she must take a large dose of castor oil. The sight of oil always made the lady very sick, and so her uncle said he would give it to her. He poured it out, and mixed it with a little hot milk, and held it to her lips. But she would not take it. He tried to persuade her, promised her a ride, told her she would be very sick if she did not obey the doctor, but all was of no use. She shut her teeth, and would not touch it. Then Sally tried her skill. "I'll make your great dolly a new dress," she said; "come, now, be a good girl, and then I'll tell you how Frankie took his medicine." It was all in vain; Nelly still shook her head, and refused to obey. Mrs. Gray then took the child in her lap, and spread a large cloth under her chin, at the same time telling Sally to bring a cup of blackberry jelly from the store closet. "Now, my little Nelly," she said, "you must take this to make you well. If you will open your mouth and swallow it all down like a good girl, I will give you some nice jelly to take the taste out, for it is very bad. But if you don't take it before I count three, I shall hold you and force it down your throat." Then she began to count,--"one, two,"--but before she could say three, Nelly caught the spoon and swallowed the medicine, and then took some jelly so quickly, that she hardly tasted the oil. "That was a right good girl," said her uncle. "I couldn't have taken it any better myself." When Nelly was well, her aunt kindly talked with her of the great sin which she had committed. "You have done just as naughty Moses did," she said. "First, you stole the raisins, as he stole the orange; and then you told a wicked lie to hide it from me, as he did to hide his sin from his mother." Then she told Nelly, "God hears all we say, and sees all we do. We can hide nothing from him; and he says in his holy book, 'liars shall have their portion in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone.'" Nelly cried; and promised over and over again to be a good girl, and she really tried to improve. She saw how happy her cousins were, and how every body loved them, and she said to herself, "I mean to try to be just as good as I can." CHAPTER VI. THE LOST ORANGE FOUND. WHEN little girls or boys try to do right, every body loves to help them. Mrs. Gray knew that for six years her little niece had been indulged in every wish, and that she had never been taught to restrain her ill humor. She could not, therefore, expect her to be cured at once of all her bad habits; but she was much pleased to see that Nelly grew every day more amiable, more ready to give up her own wishes, and to try to make others happy. Sometimes, in playing with Frankie, she would forget, and say an unkind word; but the moment she saw the eye of her aunt fixed mournfully upon her, she would say, "I'm sorry, Frankie." When she said this, the dear child always put up his little red lips to kiss her, and say, "I sorry, too, Nelly." Sometimes he would add, "God is sorry, too." It was very rainy one morning, and the children were obliged to keep in doors. Frankie had for some time been amusing himself by hiding a ball, which he made Ponto find and bring to him in his teeth, while Nelly shouted and danced at every new discovery, saying "I never saw such a funny dog before." At last they grew tired of this, and even Ponto began to think they had played this game quite long enough; so Frankie sat down on the floor, and putting one arm around the dog's neck, said, "Mamma, I want to hear a toly." "You said some time you would tell us some more about Moses," exclaimed Nelly. "So I will," said mamma. "I told you that his mother counted the oranges, and found there were but twelve. 'I'm sorry,' she said to Moses, 'because I wanted one for Sarah Christie; but I suppose your father forgot to get it, and I'll send her one another time.' "'You can give her some figs,' said Moses. "'So I can,' replied his mother; and then she went on cutting the peel and tearing it down a little way, so that, when they were put into the large glass dish, they looked like great yellow flowers. "'O, how pretty they are!' said Moses. "His mother then set all the dishes on the sideboard, and covered them over with a clean table cloth. After tea, she said, 'I will set them out on the table, and then when the children have done playing, they can come here and eat them.' "When Moses' father came home from the city, the lady said, 'I'm sorry you forgot to get thirteen oranges. There were only twelve in the basket.' "'There were thirteen when I brought them home,' said papa; 'I am sure of it, because I counted them myself, and they were nice ones too; I had to give three cents apiece for them, though they are quite plenty now.' "'I don't know where the other can have gone,' said mamma, looking very sober, as a painful suspicion flashed through her. "'I hope Moses wouldn't take one without leave,' said the gentleman. "'I asked him,' replied mamma, 'and he said he hadn't touched them.' "'Where is he?' asked papa, 'I will ask him. I don't care at all about the orange, because I can easily get another; but somebody must have taken it, and I am afraid it was our little boy.' The gentleman then went to the door and called, 'Moses! Moses!' "Presently Moses came, and his father took him in his lap, and said, 'Tell me, my dear, have you taken an orange from the basket?' "'No, papa,' said the boy, his face growing very red. 'I told mamma I hadn't touched them.' "The gentleman couldn't think that his darling child would tell a lie; so he put him down to the floor, and inquired, 'Have you asked cook?' "'No,' said mamma; 'I am quite sure she wouldn't meddle with my things.' "'Just then, cook came in with the cloth for supper, and mamma said to Moses, 'I shall have time, I think, to dress you before tea. Run up quick to my room, and I will get a clean ruffle, and baste it in your new sack." "While she was doing this, he pulled off his sack and pantaloons that he had worn every day, and threw them on the floor. Then his mother washed his face, and neck, and arms, and hands, very clean, and brushed his hair smoothly off his forehead, so that he looked very nicely indeed. And all the time Moses was talking about his party, and telling what a pleasant time he should have. "'It's your birthday,' said his mother, kissing him, 'and you must remember to be a very good boy. Be kind to your dear little cousins and playmates, and let them play with any of your toys. Here, let me hang up your clothes, and we will go down to tea.' "She took the pantaloons from the floor, and said, 'Why, Moses, what have you stuffed into your pocket? Here is your handkerchief wet through.' She pulled out first an India rubber ball, and then--O, what do you think?--why, the lost orange, all sucked and gone except the peel. "'O Moses!' was all the poor mother could say. She sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands; but the tears trickled down through her fingers. "The little boy began to cry; he wished his mother had not found him out, because it made her feel so badly. Presently the tea bell rang; but the lady never stirred from her seat. She was mourning over her son, and thinking what she ought to do to punish him for his great sin. "'Supper is ready,' called out papa from the stairs. "'Don't wait for me,' answered the lady; 'I can't go down.' "'What is the matter?' asked the gentleman, springing up the stairs and coming into the room. "Mamma began to weep again. She could not speak, but she held up the skin of the orange, and glanced toward Moses, who was sitting in a chair by himself crying bitterly. "'So he did take it, after all,' said papa, in a stern voice. "'I'm sorry, papa,' sobbed the boy. "'What a wicked boy you must be, to steal and lie, and on your birthday too,' said his father, 'when we were trying to make you so happy!' "'I never will do so again,' said Moses. "'You must be punished, so that you will remember it,' said his father. "'Stay here,' said his mother; 'I will send cook up with some supper for you.'" CHAPTER VII. THE BIRTHDAY PARTY. "SHE sat down at the table, and poured the tea, but she could not eat. Her heart was too sorrowful. She arose, and returned to the chamber, where Moses was eating a slice of bread and butter. When he had finished it, she said, 'Wipe your hands on the towel, and take off your clothes.' "'Are you going to whip me, mamma? I never will be so naughty again,' exclaimed the boy, beginning to cry louder than ever. "'No,' said his mother, 'I am going to put you to bed.' "'I can't see my party, then,' screamed Moses, catching hold of his mother's dress. "'Nor eat any of the good things, my child. You have been a wicked boy, and broken God's holy commands; and I must punish you. You don't know how you've made mother's heart ache,' said the lady, trying to keep back her tears. 'I did not think you could be so naughty. When I know how displeased the dear Saviour must be, I tremble for you.' "'I didn't mean to eat the orange, mamma; it smelled so good, I only thought I would suck it a little.' "'If you had told me that at first, I would gladly have forgiven you,' said mamma; 'but you told wicked lies to hide your sin. You forgot that God was looking at you all the time, and knew all that was in your heart. You must pray to him to forgive you, and to make you a good boy.' "Moses cried so that he could hardly stand. His mother took off his clothes, put on his night gown, and helped him into bed. Then she knelt by his bed side, and prayed that the means used to punish him might help him to remember what a great sin lying is. She asked God to forgive him, and help him from that hour to be an honest, truthful boy. "Moses slept in a small room, next to her own, and as the lady thought some of the little party might run up there, she locked the door, and went herself down the back way. "Pretty soon the bell rang, and Moses stopped crying to listen. He heard happy voices of children running through the hall. Then they asked, 'Where's Moses?' But he could not hear what his mother answered. "In a few minutes a carriage drove up, and there was another ring of the bell. This time it was his cousins, and he heard them laughing and talking together. "Before half an hour all the company had assembled. Some of the little girls went up to the front room, and he could hear his mother's voice as she went with them. She was talking very kindly, but he thought she did not feel happy, it was so sad. "O, what a long evening that was! He could not go to sleep, for every few minutes there was a merry burst of laughter from the room below; and he knew that his papa was teaching them some pretty games. Every time he heard this he began to cry again. And then he wondered whether his mother would tell them why he was not there, and what they would say. "At last he heard them all walk out into the dining room, and papa's voice saying, 'I will take Katy because she is the youngest.' Now he knew they were going to sit at table and eat the nice fruit. "'O, dear!' he sobbed, 'how sorry I am!' And then, for the first time, he began to think how wicked it was to deceive his dear parents, who had been so kind to him all his life. 'I made mamma cry,' he said softly. 'I'm sorry for that, too.' "As soon as Satan heard Moses say that, he ran away and hid; and the good Spirit came, and whispered to Moses, and presently he got out of his bed, and knelt down by his low chair, and prayed softly. But Jesus heard what he said, and looked into his heart, and saw he was really sorry he had been a wicked boy, and then God forgave him. "Pretty soon the children all came rushing up the stairs to put on their clothes, for the carriages had come to take them home. Moses was not crying now. He lay quiet and still; and he heard them say, 'Good by! good by! Please give my love to Moses;' and then the door was shut, and the house all still again. "When mamma came up stairs she carried the light into her little boy's room to see if he was awake. His eyes were wide open, and as soon as he saw her, he said, 'You might give my orange to Sarah Christie, mamma, because I wasn't down there to eat it.' "Then mamma put up her handkerchief quick to wipe the tears from her eyes; and she went up to the bed and kissed her boy, for she knew that he had repented of his sin. "'I am sorry, very sorry,' he said, pulling her face down to his; 'I prayed hard to God to forgive me, and make me good. Will you forgive me, mamma?' "'Yes, my darling. I will gladly forgive you, and I hope this may be a lesson to you as long as you live.'" Nelly looked very sober while her aunt was telling this story. She began to see how naughty she had been, and to hope that God would forgive her too. As soon as his mother had finished, Frankie said, "O, I'm so glad Moses became a good boy! Did he ever steal or tell lies again?" "No, my dear, I am happy to tell you that from the hour when he so heartily repented of his great sin, and so earnestly asked God to forgive him, he became an honest and truthful boy. But I have talked a long time, and can only add one incident, which occurred nearly six months later than the birthday party. "Moses had a cousin whose name was Eugene. He lived in a city many hundred miles distant. He was also an only child; but unlike Moses, he had been foolishly indulged in every desire of his heart, until he had become exceedingly selfish, wilful, and passionate. Eugene accompanied his parents on a visit to his aunt, and though younger than his cousin, began at once to tyrannize over him. "One day a loud cry was heard from the play room, and presently Eugene came running to his mother, complaining that Moses had broken his little wagon, and then had struck him with his Indian bow. "'How is this, Moses?' asked his mother; 'did you strike your cousin?' "The little fellow fixed his large, earnest eyes full upon hers, as he exclaimed, 'O, no, indeed, mother! Eugene knows I did not touch him. We were playing together, when the wagon wheel hit the trunk and broke it. Then he got angry, and pinched me on my arm. "'I don't mind that,' he added, as his aunt pointed to a large red spot near his elbow; 'but I'm dreadfully sorry he didn't tell the truth.'" * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 108, word "to" added to text (next to her own) 
12260	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 12260-h.htm or 12260-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/2/2/6/12260/12260-h/12260-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/2/2/6/12260/12260-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the Florida Board of Education, Division of Colleges and Universities, PALMM Project, 2001. (Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1850-1869.) See http://fulltext10.fcla.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c= juv&idno=UF00001875&format=jpg or http://fulltext10.fcla.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c= juv&idno=UF00001875&format=pdf JONAS ON A FARM IN WINTER. BY JACOB ABBOTT Author of the Rollo Books MDCCCLI. [Illustration: Jonas stopping at the house of Mr. Edwards.] PREFACE. This little work, with its companion, _Jonas On A Farm In Summer_, is intended as the continuation of a series, the first two volumes of which, _Jonas's Stories_ and _Jonas A Judge_, have already been published. They are all designed, not merely to interest and amuse the juvenile reader, but to give him instruction, by exemplifying the principles of honest integrity, and plain practical good sense, in their application to the ordinary circumstances of childhood. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Morning CHAPTER II. Commanding And Obeying CHAPTER III. Franco CHAPTER IV. Dog Lost CHAPTER V. Signs Of A Storm CHAPTER VI. The Rescue CHAPTER VII. A Fire CHAPTER VIII. The Carding-Mill CHAPTER IX. Difficulty CHAPTER X. A Surprise CHAPTER XI. The Snow Fort, Or Good For Evil CHAPTER I. MORNING Early one winter morning, while Jonas was living upon the farm, in the employment of Oliver's father, he came groping down, just before daylight, into the great room. The great room was, as its name indicated, quite large, occupying a considerable portion of the lower floor of the farmer's house. There was a very spacious fireplace in one side, with a settle, which was a long seat, with a very high back, near it. The room was used both for kitchen and parlor, and there was a great variety of furniture in different parts of it. There were chairs and tables, a bookcase with a desk below, a loom in one corner by a window, and a spinning-wheel near it. Then, there were a great many doors. One led out into the back yard, one up stairs, one into a back room,--which was used for coarse work, and which was generally called the kitchen,--and one into a large store closet adjoining the great room. Jonas groped his way down stairs; but as soon as he opened the great room door, he found the room filled with a flickering light, which came from the fireplace. There was a log there, which had been buried in the ashes the night before. It had burned slowly, through the night, and the fire had broken out at one end, which now glowed like a furnace, and illuminated the whole room with a faint red light. Jonas went up towards the fire. The hearth was very large, and formed of great, flat stones. On one side of it was a large heap of wood, which Jonas had prepared the night before, to be ready for his fire. On the other side was a black cat asleep, with her chin upon her paws. When the cat heard Jonas coming, she rose up, stretched out her fore paws, and then began to purr, rubbing her cheeks against the bottom of the settle. "Good morning, Darco," said Jonas. "It is time to get up." The cat's name was Darco. Jonas took a pair of heavy iron tongs, which stood by the side of the fire, and pulled forward the log. He found that it had burned through, and by three or four strokes with the tongs, he broke it up into large fragments of coal, of a dark-reddish color. The air being thus admitted, they soon began to brighten and crackle, until, in a few minutes, there was before him a large heap of glowing and burning coals. He put a log on behind, then placed the andirons up to the log, and a great forestick upon the andirons. He placed the forestick so far out as to leave a considerable space between it and the backlog, and then he put the coals up into this space,--having first put in a slender stick, resting upon the andirons, to keep the coals from falling through. He then placed on a great deal more wood, and he soon had a roaring fire, which crackled loud, and blazed up into the chimney. "Now for my lantern," said Jonas. So saying, he took down a lantern, which hung by the side of the fire. The lantern was made of tin, with holes punched through it on all sides, so as to allow the light to shine through; and yet the holes were not large enough to admit the wind, to blow out the light. Jonas opened the lantern, and took out a short candle from the socket within. Just as he was lighting it, the door opened, and Amos came in. "Ah, Jonas," said he, "you are before me, as usual." "Why, the youngest hand makes the fire, of course," said Jonas. "Then it ought to be Oliver," said Amos,--"or else Josey." "There! I promised to wake Oliver up," said Jonas. "O, he's awake; and he and Josey are coming down. They have found out that there is snow on the ground." "Is there much snow?" asked Jonas. "I don't know," said Amos; "the ground seems pretty well covered. If there is enough to make sledding, you are going after wood to-day." "And what are you going to do?" said Jonas. "I am going up among the pines to get out the barn frame, I believe." Here a door opened, and Oliver came in, followed by Josey shivering with the cold, and in great haste to get to the fire. "Didn't your father say," said Amos to Oliver, "that he was going with me to-day, to get out the timber for the barn frame?" "Yes," said Oliver, "he is going to build a great barn next summer. But I'm going up into the woods with Jonas, to haul wood. There's plenty of snow." "I'd go too," said Josey, "if it wasn't so cold." "It won't be cold in the woods," said Jonas. "There's no wind in the woods." While they had been talking thus, Jonas had got his lantern ready, and had gone to the door, and stood there a minute, ready to go out. "Jonas," said Josey, "are you going out into the barn?" "Yes," said Jonas. "Wait a minute, then, for me, just till I put on my other boot." Jonas waited a minute, according to Josey's request, and then they all went out together. They found the snow pretty deep, all over the yard, but they waded through it to the barn. They had to go through a gate, which led them into the barn-yard. From the barn-yard they entered the barn itself, by a small door near one corner. There were two great doors in the middle of the barn, made so large that, when they were opened, there was space enough for a large load of hay to go in. Opposite these doors there was a space floored over with plank, pretty wide, and extending through the barn to the back side. This was called the barn floor. On one side was a place divided off for stables for the horses, and on the other side was the _tie-up_, a place for the oxen and cows. There was also the bay, and the lofts for hay and grain; and at the end of the tie-up there was a door leading into a calf-pen, and thence, by a passage behind the calf-pen, to a work-shop and shed. The small door where the boys came in, led to a long and narrow passage, between the tie-up and the bay. They walked along, Jonas going before with his lantern in his hand. The cattle which had lain down, began to get up, and the horses neighed in their stalls; for the shining of the lantern in the barn was the well-known signal which called them to breakfast. Jonas clambered up by a long ladder to the hay-loft, to pitch down some hay, and Josey and Oliver followed him; while Amos remained below to "feed out" the hay, as he called it, as fast as they pitched it down. It was pretty dark upon the loft, although the lantern shed a feeble light upon the rafters above. "Boys," said Jonas, "it is dangerous for you to be up here; I'd rather you'd go down." "Well," said Oliver, and he began to descend. "Why?" said Josey; "I don't think there's any danger." "Yes," said Jonas, "a pitchfork wound is worse than almost any other. It is what they call a _punctured_ wound." "What kind of a wound is that?" said Josey. "I'll tell you some other time," said Jonas. "But don't stay up here. You don't obey so well as Oliver. Go down and give the old General some hay." The old General was the name of a large white horse, quite old and steady, but of great strength. When he was younger, he belonged to a general, who used to ride him upon the parade, and this was the origin of his name. Josey, at this proposal, made haste down the ladder, and began to put some hay over into the old General's crib. He then went round into the General's stall, and, patting him upon the neck, he asked him if his breakfast was good. In the mean time, Oliver opened the great barn doors, and, taking a shovel, he began to clear away the snow from before them. The sky in the east was by this time beginning to be quite bright; and a considerable degree of light from the sky, and from the new-fallen snow, came into the barn. Josey got a shovel, and went out to help Oliver. After they had shoveled away the snow from the great barn doors, they went to the house, and began to clear the steps before the doors, and to make paths in the yards. They worked in this way for half an hour, and then, just as the sun began first to show its bright, glittering rays above the horizon, they went into the house. They found that the great fire which Jonas had built, was burnt half down; the breakfast-table was set, and the breakfast itself was nearly ready. The boys came to the fireplace, to see what they were going to have for breakfast. "Boys," said the farmer's wife, while she was turning her cakes, "go and call Amos in to family prayers,--and Jonas." "You go, Oliver," said Josey. Oliver said nothing, but obeyed his mother's direction. He went into the barn-yard, and he found Amos and Jonas at work in a shed beyond, getting down a sled which had been stowed away there during the summer. It was a large and heavy sled, and had a tongue extending forward to draw it by. "What are you getting out that sled for?" said Oliver. "To haul wood on," said Jonas. "We're going to haul wood after breakfast, and I want to get all ready." There was another smaller and lighter sled, which had been upon the top of the heavy one, before Amos and Jonas had taken it off. This smaller sled had two shafts to draw it by, instead of a tongue. Jonas knew by this, that it was intended to be drawn by a horse, while the one with a tongue was meant for oxen. "Oliver," said Jonas, "I think it would be a good plan for you and Josey to take this sled and the old General, and go with me to haul wood." "Well," said Oliver, "I should like it very much." "We can all go up together. You and Josey can be loading the horse-sled, while I load the ox-sled, and then we can drive them down, and so get two loads down, instead of one." "Well," said Oliver, "I mean to ask my father." "Or perhaps," continued Jonas, "you can be teamster for the oxen, and Josey can drive the horse, and so I remain up in the woods, cutting and splitting." "No," said Oliver, "because we can't unload alone." "No," said Jonas; "I had forgotten that." "But I mean to ask my father," said Oliver, "to let me have the old General, and haul a load down when you come." So saying, the boys walked along towards the house. The sun was now shining beautifully upon the fresh snow, making it sparkle in every direction, all around. They walked in by the path which Oliver and Josey had shoveled. "Why didn't you make your path wider?" said Amos. "This isn't wide enough for a cow-path." "O, yes, Amos," said Jonas, "it will do very well. I can widen it a little when I come out after breakfast." When they got to the door, Jonas stopped a moment to look around. The fields were white in every direction, and the branches of the trees near the house were loaded with the snow. The air was keen and frosty, and the breaths of the boys were visible by the vapor which was condensed by the cold. The pond was one great level field of dazzling white. All was silent--nothing was seen of life or motion, except that Darco, who came out when the door was opened, looked around astonished, took a few cautious steps along the path, and then, finding the snow too deep and cold, went back again to take her place once more by the fire. CHAPTER II. COMMANDING AND OBEYING About an hour after breakfast, Jonas with the oxen, and Oliver and Josey with the horse, were slowly moving along up the road which led back from the pond towards the wood lot. The wood lot was a portion of the forest, which had been reserved, to furnish a supply of wood for the winter fires. The road followed for some distance the bank of the brook, which emptied into the pond at the place where Jonas and Oliver had cleared land, when Jonas first came to live on this farm. It was a very pleasant road. The brook was visible here and there through the bushes and trees on one side of it. These bushes and trees were of course bare of leaves, excepting the evergreens, and they were loaded down with the snow. Some were bent over so that the tops nearly touched the ground. The brook itself, too, was almost buried and concealed in the snow. In the still places, it had frozen over; and so the snow had been supported by the ice, and thus it concealed both ice and water. At the little cascades and waterfalls, however, which occurred here and there, the water had not frozen. Water does not freeze easily where it runs with great velocity. At these places, therefore, the boys could see the water, and hear it bubbling and gurgling as it fell, and disappeared under the ice which had formed below. At last, they came to the wood lot. The wood which they were going to haul had been cut before, and it had been piled up in long piles, extending here and there under the trees which had been left. These piles were now, however, partly covered with the snow, which lay light and unsullied all over the surface of the ground. The sticks of wood in these piles were of different sizes, though they were all of the same length. Some had been cut from the tops of the trees, or from the branches, and were, consequently, small in diameter; others were from the trunks, which would, of course, make large logs. These logs had, however, been split into quarters by a beetle and wedges, when the wood had been prepared, so that there were very few sticks or logs so large, but that Jonas could pretty easily get them on to the sled. Jonas drove his team up near to one end of the pile, while Josey and Oliver went to the other, where the wood was generally small. While Jonas was loading, he heard a conversation something like this between the other boys:-- "Let's put some good large logs on our sled," said Josey. "Well," said Oliver, "as large as we can; only we'd better put this small wood on first." "I wish you'd go around to the other side, Oliver," said Josey again; "you're in my way." "No," said Oliver, "I can't work on that side very well." "Then I mean to move the old General round a little." "No," said Oliver, "the sled stands just right now; only you get up on the top of the pile, and I'll stay here." "No," said Josey, "I'd rather stand here myself." So the boys continued at work a few minutes longer, each being in the other's way. At length, Josey said again,-- "O, here is a large log, and I mean to get it out, and put it upon our sled." The log was covered with smaller wood, so that Josey could only get hold of the end of it. He clasped his hands together under this end, and began to lift it up, endeavoring to get it free from the other wood. He succeeded in raising it a little, but it soon got wedged in again, worse than before. "Come, Oliver," said Josey, "help me get out this log. It is rock maple." "No," said Oliver, "I'm busy." "Jonas," said Josey, calling out aloud, "Jonas, here's a stick of wood, which I can't get out. I wish you'd come and help me." In answer to this request, Jonas only called both the boys to come to him. They accordingly left the old General standing in the snow, with his sled partly loaded, and came to the end of the pile, where Jonas was at work. "I see you don't get along very well," said Jonas. "Why, you see," said Josey, "that Oliver wouldn't help me put on a great log." "The difficulty is," said Jonas, "that you both want to be master. Whereas, when two people are working together, one must be master, and the other servant." "_I_ don't want to be servant," said Josey. "It's better to be servant on some accounts," said Jonas; "then you have no responsibility." "Responsibility?" repeated Josey. "Yes," said Jonas. "Power and responsibility always go together;--or at least they ought to. But come, boys, be helping me load, while we are settling this difficulty, so as not to lose our time." So the boys began to put wood upon Jonas's sled, while the conversation continued as follows:-- "Can't two persons work together, unless one is master, and the other servant?" asked Josey. "At least," replied Jonas, "one must take the lead, and the other follow, in order to work to advantage. There must be subordination. For you see that, in all sorts of work, there are a great many little questions coming up, which are of no great consequence, only they ought to be decided, one way or the other, quick, or else the work won't go on. You act, in your work, like Jack and Jerry, when they ran against the horse-block." "Why, how was that?" said Josey. "They were drawing the wagon along to harness the horse in, and the horse-block was in the way; so they both got hold of the shafts, and Jack wanted to pull it around towards the right, while Jerry said it would be better to have it go to the left. So they pulled, one one way, and the other the other, and thus they got it up chock against the horse-block, one shaft on each side. Here they stood pulling in opposition for some time, and all the while their father was waiting for them to turn the wagon, and harness the horse." "What did he say to them," said Oliver, "when he found it out?" "He made Jack bring it round Jerry's way, and then made Jerry draw it back again, and bring it along Jack's way. "When men are at work," continued Jonas, "one acts as director, and the rest follows on, as he guides. Then all the unimportant questions are decided promptly." "Well," said Josey, "let us do so, Oliver. I'll be director." "How do they decide who shall be director?" said Oliver. "The oldest and most experienced directs, generally; or, if one is the employer, and the others are employed by him, then the employer directs the others. If a man wants a stone bridge built, and hires three men to do it, there is always an understanding, at the beginning, who shall have the direction of the work, and all the others obey. "So," continued Jonas, "if a carpenter were to send two of his men into the woods to cut down a tree for timber, without saying which of them should have the direction,--then the oldest or most experienced, or the one who had been the longest in the carpenter's employ, would take the direction. He would say, 'Let us go out this way,' and the other would assent; or, 'I think we had better take this tree,' and the other would say, perhaps, 'Here's one over here which looks rather straighter; won't you come and look at this?' But they would not dispute about it. One would leave it to the other to decide." "Suppose," said Josey, "one was just as old and experienced as the other." "Why, if there was no reason, whatever, why one should take the lead, rather than the other, then they would not either of them be tenacious of their opinion. If one proposed to do a thing, the other would comply without making any objection, unless he had a very decided objection indeed. So they would get along peaceably. "Now," continued Jonas, "boys are very apt to have different opinions, and to be very tenacious of them, and so get into disputes and difficulties when they are working together. Therefore, when boys are set to work, it is generally best to appoint one to take charge; for they haven't, generally, good sense enough to find out, themselves, which it is most proper should be in charge. "For instance, now," continued Jonas, "which of you, do you think, on the whole, is the proper one to take the direction of the work, when you are set to work together?" "I," said Josey, with great promptness. Oliver did not answer at all. "There's one reason why you ought _not_ to be the one," said Jonas. "What is it?" said Josey. "Why, you don't obey very well. No person is well qualified to command, until he has learned to obey." "I obey," said Josey, "I'm sure." "Not always," said Jonas. "This morning, when you were upon the haymow, and I told you both to go down, Oliver went down immediately; but you remained up, and made excuses instead of obeying." Josey was silent. He perceived that Jonas's charge against him was just. "Besides," continued Jonas, "there are some other reasons why Oliver should command, rather than you. First he understands more of farmer's work, being more accustomed to it; secondly, he is older." "No," interrupted Josey, "he isn't older. I'm the oldest." "Are you?" said Jonas. "Yes," replied Josey. "I'm two months older than he is." Oliver had so much more prudence and discretion, and being, besides, a little larger than Josey, made Jonas think that he was older. "Well," said Jonas, "at any rate, he has more judgement and experience, and he certainly obeys better. So you may go back to your work, and let Oliver take the command, and then, after a little while, if Oliver says that you have obeyed him well, I'll try the experiment of letting you, Josey, command." The boys accordingly went back, and finished loading up the old General. Oliver took the direction, and Josey obeyed very well. Now and then he would forget for a moment, and begin to argue; but Josey would submit pretty readily, for he was very desirous that Jonas would let him command next time; and he thought that he would not allow him to command until he had learned to obey. They had the two sleds loaded nearly at the same time, and then went down. When they were going back after the second load, they all got on to Jonas's sled, which was forward, to ride, leaving the old General to follow with his sled. He was so well trained that he walked along very steadily. Oliver fastened the reins to one of the stakes, so that they should not get down under the horse's feet. The boys all got together upon the forward sled, in order that they might talk with one another as they were going back to the woods. "Now, Josey," said Jonas, "we will let you have the command for the next trip, and, while we are going back, I will give you both some instructions." "About obeying?" said Josey. "Yes, and about commanding too," said Jonas. "It requires rather more skill to know how to command, than how to obey; to know how to direct work, than to know how to execute it. A good director, in the first place, takes care to plan wisely, and he feels a responsibility about the work, and a desire to have it go on to good advantage. If some men build a way, and, after it is finished, it tumbles down, the man who had charge of the work would feel more concerned about it than any of the others, because the chief responsibility comes upon him. So with your work,--if you have the command, and you and Oliver idle away the time, and when my sled is loaded, yours has but little wood in it, you would be more to blame than Oliver." "What, if I didn't play any more than Oliver?" "Yes," said Jonas, "because you are responsible. It is your duty to be industrious, and it is also your duty to see that Oliver is industrious, if you are the director,--so that you neglect two duties. "It is a good plan, too," said Jonas, "for a director to give his directions in a mild and gentle tone. Some boys are very domineering and authoritative in their manner." "How do you mean?" said Josey. "Why, they would say, for example, 'Get out of the way, John, quick.' Whereas, it would be better to say, 'John, you are in the way, where we want to come along.' Some men give their directions with great noise and vociferation, and others give them quietly and gently." "I shouldn't think they'd mind 'em," said Josey. "Yes," said Jonas. "Directions ought to be given very distinctly, so as to be plainly understood; but they are not obeyed any better for violence and noise in giving them. "A commander ought to have a regard for those under him," continued Jonas, "and deal justly by them. If a number of boys were going to ride a wagon, and their father put one of them in charge, he ought not to keep the best seat in the wagon for himself." While talking thus, the oxen continued slowly advancing along the road. Their previous trip had broken out the road, but the pathway was filled with loose snow of a pure and spotless white, through which the great sled runners, following the oxen, ploughed their way. On each side of the track which they had made, the surface was smooth and unbroken, excepting under some of the trees, where masses of snow had fallen down from above. They saw, at length, as they were passing along by the brook, a little track, like a double dotting, running along, in a winding way, under the trees,--then crossing the road, and disappearing under the trees upon the other side. "What's that?" asked Josey. "That's a rabbit track," replied Oliver. "Let's go and catch him," said Josey. "No," said Jonas, "we must go on with our work." At a little distance farther on, they saw another track. It was larger than the first, and not so regular. "What sort of a track is that?" said Josey. "I don't know," said Oliver; "it looks like a dog's track; but I shouldn't think there would be a dog out here in the woods." They found that this track followed the road along for some distance. The animal which made it, seemed sometimes to have gone in the middle of the road, and sometimes out at the side; and Jonas said that he had passed there since they went down with the first load of wood. "How do you know?" said Oliver. "Because," said Jonas, "his track is made upon the broken snow, in the middle of the road." They watched the track for some time, and then they lost sight of it. Presently, however, they saw it again. "I wonder which way he went," said Oliver. "I'll jump off, and look at the track," said Jonas. So saying, he jumped off the sled, and examined the track. "He went up," said Jonas, "the same way that we are going. It may be a dog which has lost his master. Perhaps we shall find him up by our wood piles." Jonas was right, for, when the boys arrived at the wood piles, they found there, waiting for them, a large black dog. He stood near one end of a wood pile, with his fore feet upon a log, by which his head and shoulders were raised, so that he could see better who was coming. He was of handsome form, and he had an intelligent and good-natured expression of countenance. He was looking very intently at the party coming up, to see whether his master was among them. "Whose dog is that?" said Josey. "I don't know," said Oliver; "I never saw him before." "I wonder what his name is," said Josey. "Here! Towzer, Towzer, Towzer," said he. "Here! Caesar, Caesar, Caesar," said Oliver. "Pompey, Pompey, Pompey," said Jonas. [Illustration: "He was looking very intently at the party coming up, to see whether his master was among them."] The dog remained motionless in his position, until, just as the boys had finished their calls, and as the foremost sled was drawn pretty near him, he suddenly wheeled around with a leap, and bounded away through the snow, for half the length of the first wood pile, and then stopped, and again looked round. "I wish we had something for him to eat," said Jonas. "I've got a piece of bread and butter," said Josey. "I went in and got it when you and Oliver were unloading." So Josey took his bread and butter out of his pocket. There were two small slices put together, and folded up in a piece of paper. Jonas took a piece, and walked slowly towards the dog. "Here! Franco, Franco," said Jonas. "He's coming," said Josey, who remained with Oliver at the sled. The dog was slowly and timidly approaching the bread which Jonas held out towards him. "He's coming," said Josey. "His name is Franco. I wonder how Jonas knew." "Franco, Franco," said Jonas again. "Come here, Franco. Good Franco!" The dog came timidly up to Jonas, and took the bread and butter from Josey's hand, and devoured it eagerly. While he was doing it, Jonas patted him on the head. "He's very hungry," said Jonas; "bring the rest of your bread and butter, Josey." So Josey brought the rest of his luncheon, and the dog ate it all. After this, he seemed to be quite at ease with his new friends. He staid about there with the boys until the sleds were loaded, and then he went down home with them. There they fed him again with a large bone. Jonas said that he was undoubtedly a dog that had lost his master, and had been wandering about to find him, until he became very hungry. So he said they would leave him in the yard to gnaw his bone, and that then he would probably go away. Josey wanted to shut him up and keep him, but Jonas said it would be wrong. So the boys left the dog gnawing his bone, and went up after another load; but before they had half loaded their sleds, Oliver saw Franco coming, bounding up the road, towards them. He came up to Jonas, and stood before him, looking up into his face and wagging his tail. CHAPTER III. FRANCO Franco followed the boys all that forenoon, as they went back and forth for their wood. At dinner, they did not say any thing about him to the farmer, because they supposed that he would go away, when they came in and left him, and that they should see no more of him in the afternoon. But when Jonas went out, after dinner, to get the old General, to harness him for work again, he found Franco lying snugly in the General's stall, under the crib. At night, therefore, he told the farmer about him. The farmer said that he was some dog that had strayed away from his master; and he told Jonas to go out after supper and drive him away. Josey begged his uncle to keep him, but his aunt said she would not have a dog about the house. She said it would cost as much to keep him as to keep a sheep, and that, instead of bringing them a good fleece, a dog was good for nothing, but to track your floors in wet weather, and keep you awake all night with his howling. So the farmer told Jonas to go out after supper, and drive the dog away. "Let us give him some supper first, father," said Oliver. "No," said his father; "the more you give him, the more he won't go away. I expect now, you've fooled with him so much, that it will be hard to get him off, at any rate." "_Jonas_ has not fooled with him any," said Oliver. "Nor I," said Josey. After supper, Jonas went out, according to orders, to drive Franco away. It was a raw, windy night, but not very cold. Franco was in a little shed where there was a well, near the back door. He was lying down, but he got up and came to Jonas when he saw him appear at the door. "Come, Franco," said Jonas, "come with me." Franco wagged his tail, and followed Jonas. Jonas walked out into the road, Franco after him. He walked along until he had got to some distance from the house, Franco keeping up with him all the way, sometimes on one side of the road, and sometimes on the other. At length, when Jonas thought that he had gone far enough, he stopped. Franco stopped too, and looked up at Jonas. "Now, Franco, I've got to send you away. It's a hard case, Franco, but you and I must both submit to orders. So go off, Franco, as fast as you can." So saying, Jonas pointed along the road, in the direction away from the house, and said, "St---- boy! St---- boy!" Franco darted along the road a few steps, barked once, and then turned round, and looked eagerly at Jonas, as if he did not know what he wanted him to do. "_Get home_!" said Jonas, in a stern and severe tone; "_get home_!" and he stamped with his foot upon the ground, and looked at Franco with a countenance of displeasure. Franco bounded forward a few steps over the smooth and icy road, and then he turned round, and stood in the middle of the road, facing Jonas, and looking very much astonished. "Get home, Franco!" said Jonas again; and, stooping down, he took a piece of hardened snow or ice from the road, and threw it towards him. The ice fell, before it reached Franco, and rolled along towards his feet, which made him scamper along a little farther; and then he stopped, and turned around, and looked at Jonas, as before. Jonas began slowly to turn backwards, keeping his eye on Franco. "It's a hard case, Franco, I acknowledge. If I had a barn of my own, I'd let you sleep in a corner of it; but I must obey orders. You must go and find your master." So saying, Jonas turned round and walked slowly home. Just before he turned to go into the house, he looked back, to see what had become of the dog. He was standing motionless in the place where Jonas had left him. "I wish the farmer would let me give him a bone," said he to himself; and then he turned away, and walked slowly around to the barn, to fodder the cattle. That night, just before bed-time, he went to the front door, and looked out into the road, and all around, to see if he could see any thing of Franco. It was rather dark and windy,--though he could see the moon shining dimly through the broken clouds, which were driving across the sky. The roads looked black, as they do about the commencement of a thaw. Presently the moon shone out full through the interstices of the clouds. Jonas took advantage of the opportunity to look all up and down the road; but Franco was nowhere to be seen. The next morning, however, when he went out into the stable to give the cattle some hay, he found Franco in his old place, under the General's crib. "Why, Franco," said Jonas, "how came you here?" Franco said nothing, but stood looking up into Jonas's face, and wagging his tail. "Franco," said Jonas, "how could you get in here?" Franco remained in the same position; the light of the lantern shining in his face, and his tail wagging a very little. He could not tell certainly whether Jonas was scolding him or not. Franco remained about the barn until breakfast-time, and then Jonas, at the table, told the farmer that he tried to drive the dog away the night before, but that in the morning he found him in the barn. "I don't believe you really tried," said the farmer's wife. "_I_ can drive him away, I know,--as I'll show you after breakfast." Accordingly, after breakfast, putting on hastily an old straw bonnet, she went out into the yard and took a small stick from the wood pile, to use for a club, and then called to Franco. "Franco," said she, "come here." Franco looked first at her, and then at Jonas, who was standing in the door-way, as if at a loss to know what to do. "Go, Franco," said Jonas. The farmer's wife walked out in front of the house into the wind, calling Franco to follow. She then attempted to drive him along the road, much as Jonas had done. She brandished her stick at him, and, when she had succeeded in getting him as far from her as she could, by stern and threatening language, in order to drive him farther, she threw the stick at him with all her force. Franco jumped out of its way. The stick rolled along the road before him. He sprang forward to it, seized it in his mouth, and came trotting back to the farmer's wife, and laid it down at her feet; and then, standing back a few steps, he looked up into her face, with a very earnest expression of countenance, which seemed to say,-- "What do you want me to do next?" This very act of Franco's embarrassed the woman considerably. She could not bear to take up the very stick, which Franco had himself brought to her, and throw it at him again; and, on the other hand, she could not bear to give up, and let Franco remain. She, however, picked up the stick, and brandished it again towards Franco, and, stamping with her foot at him, she said,-- "Away with you, dog; get home!" What the result of this contest would have been, it is very difficult to say, had it not been that it was soon decided by the occurrence of a singular incident; for, as the farmer's wife nodded her head, and stamped at the dog, the jar or the motion seemed to give the wind a momentary advantage over her bonnet, which, in her haste, she had not tied on very securely. A strong gust carried it clear from her head, and blew it away over Franco, upon the snow by the side of the road beyond. Franco, who was all ready for a spring, bounded after it, and pursued it at full speed. The snow was nearly level with the top of the stone walls, and the wind carrying it diagonally from the road, it rolled over the little ridge of stones which remained above the drifts, and then swept across the field, down a long descent, like a feather before the gale. Franco pursued it with flying leaps over the snow, which had become sufficiently consolidated to support his steps. He gained upon it rapidly, and at length overtook and seized it; and then, turning round, he trotted swiftly back, leaped over the top of the wall, and brought the bonnet, and laid it down at its owner's feet, with an air of great satisfaction. The good woman took up her bonnet, and threw her stick away, and, turning around, walked back to the house. The farmer, who had been looking out at the window, was laughing heartily. She herself smiled as she returned to her work, saying,-- "The dog has something in him, I acknowledge; go and see if you can't find him a bone, Jonas." "Yes, Jonas," said the farmer, "you may have him for your dog till the owner comes and claims him." And this is the way that Jonas first got his dog Franco. He told Oliver that morning, as he was patting his head under the old General's crib, that the dog had taught them one good lesson. "What is it?" asked Oliver. "Why, that the Christian duty of returning good for evil, is good policy as well as good morals." [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. DOG LOST About the middle of the winter, the farmer went to market with his produce. The vehicle on which he carried it was a kind of box upon runners, with a pole in front, to which two horses were fastened. He was gone three days. When he came back, he said that he had bargained for another load of his produce, at the market town, and that he was going to send Jonas with it. Jonas was very glad when he heard this. He liked to take journeys. "What day shall I go, sir?" said Jonas. "Day after to-morrow," said the farmer, "as early as possible. We'll let the horses rest one day." About the middle of the afternoon, on the day following the one on which this conversation had taken place, Jonas and the farmer began to load up the box sleigh, in order to have it ready for the morning. He had about forty miles to go, and he wanted to get to market, deliver his load, and return five or ten miles that same evening. It was quite cold that afternoon, and it seemed to be growing colder and colder. Jonas got the box sleigh ready under a shed, first shoveling in some snow under the runners, in order that the horses might draw the sled out easily, when it was loaded. He put in the various articles of produce, which were contained in bags, and firkins, and boxes. Over these he spread blankets and buffalo-skins, and put in a bag of oats for his horses, and a box of bread and cheese for himself. He did not know whether Franco was to go with him, or not; but he arranged the bags in such a way, that he could easily make a warm nest for him in one corner, if the farmer should allow him to go. The farmer helped him about all the arrangements, and, when they were completed, he told Jonas to go in and get his supper, and go to bed, so as to get up and set off early in the morning. "It will be a fine starlight night," said he, "and you'd better be ten miles on your way by sunrise." When Amos got up the next morning, and went out with his lantern, to go to the barn, as he passed by the shed on his way, he saw that the sleigh was gone. He proceeded to the barn, and, as he opened the door, he was startled at something which suddenly darted past him and rushed out. "What's that?" said Oliver, who was behind him. "It is Franco," said he. "Where is he going?" Franco ran off to the shed where Jonas had harnesses his horses, and began smelling around upon the ground. He followed the scent along the yard, up to a post by the side of the house, where Jonas had stopped a moment ago to go in and get his great-coat, when all was ready; and then, after pausing here a moment, he darted off towards the road. "Here! Franco, Franco," said Amos, "come back here." "Franco, Franco," repeated Oliver, "here--here--here--here." Franco paid no attention to these calls, but ran off along the road at full speed. In the mean time, Jonas had traveled rapidly onward, by the light of the stars, over the glittering and frosty road. The keen air made his ears tingle a little, but he rubbed them, and they soon became warm. His feet were comfortably stowed away down in his box, among the bags and buffalo-skins, so that they were warm and comfortable. The horses trotted along at good speed, and soon brought Jonas and his load to the village at the mill. The street was vacant, and the houses dark, excepting that a faint light shone behind a curtain in one chamber window. Jonas supposed that somebody was sick there. Even the mill was silent, and the gate shut down; and, instead of the ordinary roar of the water under the wheel, only a hissing sound was heard, where the imprisoned water spouted through the crevices of the flume. Vast stalactites of ice extended continuously along the whole face of the dam, like a frozen waterfall, behind which the water percolated curiously down into the foaming abyss, at the bottom of the fall. Jonas thought that all this, seen by starlight, looked very cold. The horses trotted across the bridge with a loud sound, which reverberated far and wide in the still night. He ascended the hill beyond, and drove on. His woollen comforter, tied about his neck, became frosted over from his breath; and the breasts, and mane, and sides, of the horses were gradually sprinkled with white, in the same way. They were both black horses,--the General having been left at home. They trotted down the hills and along the level portions of the road, and wheeled around the curves, with great speed. Jonas found that he had no occasion for his whip, and so he put it away behind him, under the buffaloes. He went on in this way, without any special adventure, for a couple of hours, and then began to see a gray light appearing in the eastern sky. About the same time, the windows of the farm-houses, which he passed on the road, began to be illuminated by the fires, which they were kindling within. Now and then, he could see a man hurrying out to a barn, to feed the cattle. Jonas thought that they ought to be up earlier. The sun rose soon after, and the fields on every side sparkled by the reflection of his rays, from the crystalline surface of the snow. Tall columns of dense white smoke ascended from the chimneys, some erect, others leaning a little, some one way, some another. In a word, it was a cold, still, winter morning. At length, as Jonas was walking his horses up a long hill, he heard light footsteps behind him. He turned round to see what was coming, and, to his utter astonishment, he saw Franco, coming up, upon the full run, and close behind the sleigh. He came to the side of it, and looked up, with every appearance of exultation and joy. "Why, Franco," said Jonas, "how came you here?" He stopped his horses, and Franco leaped up before him. His ears, and the glossy black hair which curled under his neck and upon his sides, were tipped with frost. Jonas patted him upon his head, saying,-- "Why, Franco, how did you get out of the barn? and how did you find out which way I came?" Franco wagged his tail, and curled down around Jonas's feet, but he made no reply. Jonas was very much surprised, for, as he had no permission to take Franco, he had concluded that it was his duty not to take him; and when he found that he was inclined to come with him, at the time that he was harnessing the horses, he conducted him back into the barn, and, to make it secure, he fastened up the place where he had got in, the first night that he lodged there. He knew that the barn would be opened when Amos came out in the morning, to take care of the old General and the oxen, but said he to himself, "I shall by that time be ten miles off, and it will be too late for him to follow or find me." Jonas was therefore very much surprised, when he found that Franco had contrived to make his escape, and to track his master so many miles. Jonas drove on very prosperously, until it was about time for him to stop and give his horses some breakfast. As for himself, he ate his breakfast from his box, when they were coming up a long hill. He accordingly stopped at a tavern, and took his horses out of their harness, and rubbed them down well, and gave them a good drink of water, and plenty of oats, which he bought of the tavern-keeper. He kept the oats in his bag to use in the town. By the time that he stopped, he was comfortably warm, for he had taken some exercise walking up the hills. Franco always got out when Jonas did, at the bottom of the hills, and then got in again at the top. He remained in the sleigh, however, at the tavern, keeping guard, while Jonas went into the house; and he would growl a little if any body came near the sleigh, and thus warn them not to touch any thing that was in it. While the horses were eating, Jonas went into the tavern, and sat down by the kitchen fire. The fire was very large, and many persons were busy getting breakfast. Jonas wished that he was going to have a cup of the coffee that they were making; but he thought it better that he should content himself with what the farmer had provided for him. There was a young woman in the back part of the room, at a window, sewing. She asked Jonas how far he had come that morning, and he told her. Then she said that he must have set out very early; and she said that he had a pair of very handsome black horses. She had seen them as Jonas passed the window. There was a small girl sitting near her, with a slate, ciphering. She seemed very busy for a few minutes, and then she looked up to the young woman, and said,-- "My sum does not come right, aunt Lucia." "Doesn't it? I'm sorry, but I can't help you now, very well," replied aunt Lucia. "I am very busy with my sewing." The little girl then got up, and came towards the fire, with her slate hanging by a string from her finger, and her Arithmetic under her arm. "Where are you ciphering?" asked Jonas. "In fractions," said the girl. "If you will let me look at your sum, perhaps I can tell you how to do it," replied Jonas. The girl handed her book to him, and showed him the sum in it. She also let him see the work upon her slate. Jonas looked it over very carefully, and then said,-- "You have done very well indeed, with such a hard sum. There is only one mistake." And Jonas pointed out the mistake to her, and she corrected it, and then the answer was right. She then went and put away her slate and book, with an appearance of great satisfaction. As she passed by the window, aunt Lucia whispered to her, to say,-- "I think you had better thank that young man, and give him a mug of coffee." "Well," said the little girl, "I will." So she went to a cupboard at the side of the room, and took down a tin mug. She poured out some coffee from a coffee-pot, and put in some milk and sugar, and then brought it to Jonas, and asked him if he wouldn't like a little coffee. Jonas thanked her, and took the coffee; and he liked it very much. After this, Jonas harnessed his horses again, and went on. He traveled until nearly noon, and then he arrived at the town where he was to leave his load. He had a letter to a merchant, who had bought the produce of the farmer, and, in a very short time, his load was taken out, and the other articles put in, which he was to carry back in exchange. He had some money given him by the merchant, in part payment for his load of produce. It was in bank-notes, and he put it into his waistcoat pocket, and pinned it in. Then he set out on his return. His load was light, the road was smooth, and his horses, though they had traveled fast, had been driven carefully, and they carried him rapidly over the ground. It was the middle of the afternoon, however, before he set out, and the days were then so short, that the sun soon began to go down. He had to ride quite into the evening, before he reached the place where he was to stop for the night. He put up his horses, and then went into the house. He called for some supper, for his own provisions had long since been exhausted. After supper, he carried out something for Franco, whom he had left in the sleigh in the barn, lying upon a good warm buffalo, to watch the property. "Franco," said he, "here is your supper." Franco jumped up when he heard Jonas's voice, and leaped out of the sleigh. He took his supper, and Jonas, after once more feeding his horses, went out, and shut the door, leaving Franco to finish his bone by himself. Jonas went back into the tavern, and took his seat by the fire. There was a table before the fire, with a lamp upon it; and there were one or two books and an old newspaper lying upon another table, in the back part of the room. Jonas looked at the books, but they were not interesting to read. One was a dictionary. He read the newspaper for some time, and then he took the lamp up, and began to look at some pictures of the prodigal son, which were hung up upon the wall over the mantel-piece. Beyond the pictures were some advertisements. One was for a farm for sale. Jonas read the description, and he wished that he was old enough to buy a farm, and then he would go and look at that. The next advertisement was about some machinery, which a man had invented; and the next was headed, in large letters, _Dog Lost._ This caught Jonas's attention immediately. It was in writing, and he could not read it very easily, it was so high. So he got a chair, and stood up in it, and read as follows:-- "'DOG LOST. "'_Strayed or stolen from the subscriber, a valuable dog, of large size and black color_.' "I wonder if it isn't Franco," said Jonas, interrupting himself in his reading. "'_He had on a brass collar marked with the owner's name_.' "No," said Jonas, "there was no collar. But then the man that stole him might have taken it off. "'_Answers to the name of Ney_.' "Ney, Ney," said Jonas,--"I never called him Ney. I wonder if he would answer, if I should call him Ney. "'_Is kind and docile, and quite intelligent_.' "Yes," said Jonas, "I verily believe it is Franco. "'_Any person who will return said dog to the subscriber, at his residence at Walton Plain, shall be suitably rewarded_. "'JAMES EDWARDS.' "I verily believe it is Franco," said Jonas, as he slowly got down from the chair,--"Walton Plain." He stood a moment, looking thoughtfully into the fire. "Yes," he repeated, "I verily believe it is Franco. I wonder where Walton Plain is." Jonas had learned from Mr. Holiday, that it was never wise to communicate important information relating to private business, unless necessary. So he said nothing about Franco to any of the people at the tavern, but quietly went to bed; and, after thinking some time what to do, he went to sleep, and slept finely until morning. About daylight, he arose, and, as he had paid his bill the night before, he went to the barn, harnessed his horses, and set off. At the first village that he came to after sunrise, he stopped at a store, and inquired whether there was any such town as Walton Plain, in that neighborhood. "Yes," said the boy, who stood with a broom in his hand, with which he was sweeping out the store,--"yes, it is about five miles from here, right on the way you are going." Jonas thanked the boy, got into his sleigh, and rode on. "Poor Franco," said he, "I am afraid I must lose you." He had hoped that Walton Plain would have proved to be off of his road, so that he could have had a good reason for not doing any thing about restoring the dog, until after he had gone home, and reported the facts to the farmer. But now, as he found that it was on his way, and as he would very probably go directly by Mr. Edwards's door, he concluded that he ought, at any rate, to call and let him look at Franco, and see whether it was his dog or not. When he reached Walton Plain, he inquired whether Mr. James Edwards lived in the village. They told him that he lived about half a mile out of the village. They said it was a handsome white house, under the trees, back from the road, with a portico over the door. Jonas rode on, observing all the houses as he passed; and he at once recognized the one which had been described to him. He stopped before the great gate, and fastened his horses to a post. He then walked along a road-way, which led in by the end of the house, and presently came to a door, where he stopped and knocked. A girl came and opened the door. "Is Mr. Edwards at home?" "Yes," said the girl. "Will you ask him to come to the door a minute?" "You'd better walk in, and I'll speak to him." [Illustration: Jonas stopping at the house of Mr. Edwards.] Jonas stepped into an entry, which was carpeted, and which had a large map, hanging against the wall. The girl opened a door into a little room, which looked somewhat like Mr. Holiday's study. There was a great deal of handsome furniture in it, and book-shelves around the walls. A large table was in the middle of the room, covered with books and papers. The girl handed Jonas a seat. "Who shall I say has called?" said she to Jonas, as she was about to go out of the room. "Why--I--my name is Jonas," he replied; "but I don't suppose Mr. Edwards knows me. I came to see him about his dog." At this remark, the girl looked around towards the fire, and Jonas involuntarily turned his eyes in the same direction. He saw there a large dog, very much like Franco in form and size, lying upon the carpet. He was as handsome as Franco. Jonas was surprised to see him. The girl, too, looked surprised. She, however, said nothing, but went out, and shut the door. In a few minutes, the door opened, and an elderly gentleman, with grayish hair, and a mild and pleasant expression of countenance, came in. He nodded to Jonas as he entered, and Jonas rose to receive him. The gentleman then took a seat by the fire, and asked Jonas to sit down again. "I came to see you, sir, about your dog," said Jonas. "Well, my boy," replied the man, "and what about my dog?" and, as he said this, he looked down at the dog, which was lying upon the floor. "I don't know but that I have got him." "You have got him?" repeated Mr. Edwards. "Yes, sir; a dog like that one came to me in the woods one day this winter." "O," said Mr. Edwards, "you mean the dog that I lost.--Yes,--I had forgotten that, it is so long ago. When did you find him?" Jonas then told the whole story of the dog's coming to them, and of their attempt to drive him away; and also of his seeing the advertisement in the tavern. Mr. Edwards asked him a great many questions, such as what his name was, where he lived, and how long he had lived there, and how he happened to be journeying now. At last he said,-- "I think it very probable that it is my dog. I lost one of that description six or eight months ago, and advertised him; but I couldn't hear any thing of him, and so I got another as much like him as I could. It is probable yours is the same dog; but I don't know that there is any particular proof of it. You haven't called him Ney, have you?" "No, sir," said Jonas; "we call him Franco." "If he should come at the call of Ney, that would be proof. Where is he now?" "He is with me, sir; he is out in my sleigh." "O, well, then," said the man, "we can tell in a moment. I'll step to the door and call him." So Mr. Edwards put on his hat, and stepped to the door. The dog was standing up in the sleigh, and looking wildly around. When he saw Mr. Edwards, he seemed more excited still. "Here, Ney," said Mr. Edwards. The dog leaped down from the sled, and came bounding up the road. He leaped first about Mr. Edwards, and then about Jonas, as if at a loss which was his master. "Why, Ney," said Mr. Edwards,--"poor Ney,--have you got back at last? Come, walk in, Ney." Ney slipped in through the door, and turned immediately into the little room, as if he was perfectly familiar with the localities. Jonas and Mr. Edwards followed. They shut the door, and took their seats again. Ney ran around the room, and examined every thing. He looked at the strange dog lying so comfortably in his old place upon the warm carpet, and then came and gazed up eagerly into his old master's face a moment. He came to Jonas, and wagged his tail, and then he went to the door and whined, as if he wanted to go out. "Won't you let him out?" said Mr. Edwards. "We will see what he will do." Jonas opened the door, and the dog ran out into the entry, and then made the same signs to have the outer door opened. Jonas opened it, and let him out. Jonas stepped out himself a moment, to see what he would do, and presently returned again to the room where he had left Mr. Edwards. "Where did he go?" said Mr. Edwards. "He has run to the sleigh," said Jonas, "and jumped up into it, and is lying down on the buffalo." "The dog seems to have become attached to you, Jonas," said Mr. Edwards, "and I presume that you have become somewhat attached to him." "Yes, sir, very much indeed," replied Jonas. Mr. Edwards was silent a few minutes, appearing lost in thought. "I hardly know what to say about this dog," he continued, at length. "You did very right to come and let me know about him. I am afraid that some boys would have kept him, without saying any thing about it. I am glad that you were honest. I valued the dog very much, and would have given a large sum to have recovered him, when he was first lost. But I have got another now, and don't really need two. Should you be disposed to buy him?" "Yes, sir," said Jonas, "if I could. But I haven't got but a dollar at my command, and I suppose he is worth more than that." Jonas had a dollar of his own. Mr. Holiday had given it to him when he left his house, thinking it probable that he would want to buy something for himself. Jonas had taken this money with him when he left the farmer's, intending to expend a part of it in the market town; but he did not see any thing that he really wanted, and so the money was in his pocket now. "Why, yes," said Mr. Edwards, "I gave a great deal more for him than that. Haven't you any more money with you?" "Not of my own," said Jonas. "I suppose you got some for your produce." "Yes, sir," said Jonas; "but it belongs to the farmer that I work with." "And don't you think that he would be willing to have you pay a part of it for the dog?" "I don't know, sir," said Jonas. "I know he likes the dog very much, but I have no authority to buy him with his money." If Jonas had been willing to have used his employer's money without authority, Mr. Edwards would not have taken it. He made the inquiry to see whether Jonas was trustworthy. After a few minutes' pause, Mr. Edwards resumed the conversation, as follows:-- "Well, Jonas," said he, "I have been thinking of this a little, and have concluded to let you keep the dog for me a little while,--that is, if he is willing to go with you. But remember he is my property still, and I shall have a right to call for him, whenever I choose, and you must give him up to me." "Yes, sir," said Jonas, "I will. And I wish that you would not agree to sell him to any body else, without letting me know." "Well," replied Mr. Edwards, "I will not. So you may take him, and keep him till I send for him,--that is, provided he will go with you of his own accord. I can't drive him away from his old home." Jonas thanked Mr. Edwards, and rose to go. Mr. Edwards took his hat, and followed him to the door, to see whether the dog would go willingly. When he was upon the step, he called him. "Ney," said he, "Ney." Ney looked up, and, in a moment afterwards, jumped out of the sleigh, and came running up to the door. "Now," continued Mr. Edwards, "if you can call him back, while I am standing here, it is pretty good proof that you have been kind to him, and that he would like to go with you." So Jonas walked down towards the gate, looking back, and calling,-- "Franco, Franco, Franco!" The dog ran down towards him a little way, and then stopped, looked back, and, after a moment's pause, he returned a few steps towards his former master. He seemed a little at a loss to know which to choose. Jonas got into his sleigh. "Franco!" said he. Franco looked at him, then at Mr. Edwards, then at Jonas; and finally he went back to the door, and began to lick his old master's hand. Jonas turned his horses' heads a little towards the road, and moved them on a step. "Come, Franco," said he; "Franco, come." Franco, hearing these words, and seeing that Jonas was actually going, seemed to come to a final decision. He leaped off the steps, and bounded down the road, through the gate, and jumped up into Jonas's sleigh. Mr. Edwards continued to call him, but he paid no attention to it. He curled down before Jonas a moment, then he raised himself up a little, so as to look back towards the house; but he showed no disposition to get out again. Jonas put his hand upon his head, and patted it gently as he drove away; and, when he found that Franco was really going with him, he turned his head back, and said, with a look of great satisfaction,-- "Good-by, sir. I'm very much obliged to you." "Good-by, Jonas. Take good care of Ney." "Yes, sir," said he, "I certainly will." "You're a good dog, Franco," he continued, patting his head, "to come with me,--very good dog, Franco, to choose the coarse hay for a bed under the old General's crib, rather than that good warm carpet, for the sake of coming with me. I'll make you a little house, Franco,--I certainly will, and I'll put a carpet on the floor. I'll make it as soon as I get home." And Jonas did, the next evening after he got home, make Franco a house, just big enough for him; and he found an old piece of carpet to put upon the floor. He put Franco in; but the next morning he found him in his old place under the General's crib. Franco liked that place better. The truth was, it was rather warmer; and then, besides, he liked the old General's company. [Illustration] CHAPTER V. SIGNS OF A STORM One evening early in February, the farmer told Jonas that his work, the next day, would be to get out four or five bushels of corn and grain, and go to mill. Accordingly, after he had got through with his morning's work of taking care of the stock, he took a half-bushel measure, and several bags, and went into the granary. The granary was a small, square building, with narrow boards and wide cracks between them on the south side. The building itself was mounted on posts at the four corners, with flat stones upon the top of the posts, for the corners to rest upon. The open work upon the side was to let the air in, to dry the corn; and the high posts and the flat stones were to keep the mice from getting in and eating it up. Jonas put a short board across the top of the half-bushel, and sat upon it. Then he began taking the corn and shelling it off from the cob, by rubbing it against the edge of the board. As he sat thus at work, he occasionally looked up, and he could see out of the open door of the granary, into the farm-yards. It was a very pleasant morning. The sun shone beautifully; and now and then a drop fell from the roof on the south side of the barn. The cattle were standing, basking in the sun, in the barn-yard, and in the sheds, where the sun could shine in upon them. The whole area of the barn-yard was trodden smooth and hard by the footsteps of the cattle; and broad and smooth paths had been worn in every direction, about the house. Behind the barn was a large sheep-yard, also well worn with the footsteps of the sheep. A great many sheep were there,--now and then eating hay from a long rack, which extended across the yard. When Jonas had shelled out the corn, he carried the bags, and put them into the sleigh, which was generally used in going to mill. Then he locked the granary, and put the key away, and afterwards went to the barn, and opened the great doors, which led in to the barn floor. He climbed up a tall ladder to a loft under the roof of the barn, and threw down some sheaves of wheat,--as many as he thought would be necessary to produce the quantity of grain which the farmer had ordered. He then descended the ladder, and got a flail, and began to thresh them out. Standing, now, in a new position, he had a different prospect before him. Beyond the barn-yard he could see another larger yard nearer the house, in which the snow had also been beaten down by the going and coming of teams, sleds, and all sorts of travel, for two or three weeks, during which there had been no new falls of snow. Upon one side of this yard was an enormous heap of wood, which Jonas and Oliver had been hauling nearly all the winter. On the other side was a quantity of timber, of all sizes and lengths, which the farmer and Amos had been getting out for the new barn. Some of it was hewed, and some not; and several large pieces were laid out upon the level surface of the yard, and the farmer and Amos were sitting upon them, working upon the frame. Amos was boring holes with an auger, and the farmer was cutting the holes thus made into a square form with a chisel. Josey was there, too, and Amelia. They were building a house of the blocks which had been sawed off from the ends of the timbers. When, however, they heard the sound of Jonas's flail, they left their play, and came along to the barn to see him. Josey came into the barn; Amelia remained at the door. "What are you doing, Jonas?" said Josey. "Threshing some wheat," replied Jonas; "but stand back, or I shall hit you with the flail." "Are you going to mill?" said Josey. "Yes, I or somebody else. I am getting a grist ready." "Here comes uncle," said Josey; "I mean to ask him to let me go." The farmer came in, and told Jonas that he expected that they were going to have a snow-storm, and, therefore, as soon as his grist was ready, he might harness a horse into the sleigh, and drive directly to mill. "Then," said he, "you may come directly back, and not wait to have it ground; for I want you to go up to the woods this afternoon, and bring down a load of small spruces, which I cut for rafters. I want them down before the road gets blocked up with snow." The farmer had reflected that, about this time in the winter, they were generally exposed to long and driving snow-storms, by which the roads were often blocked up. He usually endeavored to get all out of the woods which he had to get, early in the season, while the snow was not deep. He had now got down all his wood, and all his timber, except one or two loads of rafters; and he wished, therefore, to get those down, so that, in case of a severe storm, he would not have to break out the road again. Jonas accordingly despatched his preparations for going to mill, as rapidly as possible, and soon was ready. In driving out, he stopped opposite the place where the farmer was at work upon his frame. "All ready, I believe, sir," said Jonas. "Very well," said the farmer. "The pond road is a little the nearest, isn't it?" "Yes, sir," said Jonas. "And Josey wants to go with you; have you any objection to take him?" "No, sir," said Jonas; "I should like very much to have him go." "Well, Josey, get your great-coat, and come." "O, no, sir," said Josey; "I don't need any great-coat; it isn't cold." "Very well, then; jump in." Josey got in upon the top of the bags, and Jonas drove on. After riding a short distance, they turned down by a road which led to the pond, which was now covered with so thick and solid a sheet of ice, that it was safe travelling upon it, and it was accordingly intersected with roads in every direction. They rode down at a rapid trot to the ice, followed by Franco, who was always glad to go upon an expedition. The road led them over, very nearly, the same part of the pond that Jonas had navigated in his boat, when he fitted a sail to it,--though now the appearances were so different all around, that one would hardly have supposed the scene to have been the same. There was the same level surface, but it was now a solid field, white with snow, instead of the undulating expanse of water, of the deep-blue color reflected from the sky. There were the same islands, and promontories, and beaches; but the verdure was gone, and the naked whiteness of the beach seemed to have spread over the whole landscape. It was a very pleasant ride, however. The road was level, though very winding, as it passed around capes and headlands, and now and then took a wide circuit to avoid a breathing-hole. The sun shone pleasantly, too. "I don't see what signs there are of a snow-storm," said Josey. "Such a calm and pleasant day in February portends a storm," said Jonas. "Besides, the wind, what there is, is north-east; and don't you see that snow-bank off south?" Josey looked in the direction in which they were going, which was towards the south-west, and he saw a long, white bank of cloud, extending over that quarter of the heavens. "Is that a snow-bank?" asked Josey. "It is a bank of snow-clouds, I suppose," said Jonas. "They call it a snow-bank." By the time that the boys reached the mill, a hazy appearance had overspread the whole sky. They took out the grist, and left it to be ground, and then immediately got into the sleigh again, and commenced their return. Before they had gone far, the sky became entirely overcast, and the distant hills to the south-east were enveloped in what appeared to be a kind of mist, but which was really falling snow. "How windy it is!" said Josey. "No," said Jonas, "it is not much more windy than it was when we came; but then we were riding with it, and now we are going against it. You feel cold, don't you?" "Why, yes, a little," said Josey, "now the sun has gone, and the wind has come." "Well, then," said Jonas, "get down in the bottom of the sleigh, and I'll cover you up with buffaloes." So Josey crept down into the bottom of the sleigh, and Jonas covered him up; and he found his place very warm and comfortable. "How do you like your place?" said Jonas. "Very well," said Josey, "only I can't see where we are going." "Trust yourself to me," said Jonas. "I'll drive you safely." "I know it," said Josey, "and I wish you'd tell me, now and then, what you see." "Well," replied Jonas, "I see a load of hay coming along on the pond before us." "A large load?" said Josey. "Yes," replied Jonas; "and now we're going pretty near the round island. There, the load of hay is turning off by another road. O, there is a sleigh behind it; it was hid before. The sleigh is coming this way." "I don't hear any bells," said Josey. "We are too far off yet; you'll hear them presently." Very soon Josey did hear the bells. They came nearer and nearer, and at last jingled by close to his ears. As soon as the sound had gone by, he threw up the buffalo with his arms, and looked out, saying to Jonas,-- "I guess they wondered what you had got here, covered up with the buffalo, Jonas." Jonas smiled, and Josey covered himself up again. Not long after this, it began to snow, and Jonas said that he could hardly see the shore in some places. "Suppose it should snow so fast," said Josey, "that you could not see the land at all; then, if you should come to two roads, how could you tell which one to take?" "Why, one way," replied Jonas, "would be to let Franco trot on before us; and he'd know the way." "Is Franco coming along with us?" said Josey. "Yes," said Jonas, "he is close behind." "Why don't you call him Ney?" asked Josey; "that is his real name." "I was uncertain which to call him for some time," said Jonas; "but finally I concluded to let him keep both names, and so now he is Franco Ney." "Well," said Josey, "I think that is a good plan." A short time after this, Jonas turned up off from the pond, and soon reached home. [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. THE RESCUE Jonas found, when he reached home, that it was about dinner-time. The farmer said that the storm was coming on sooner than he had expected, and he believed that they should have to leave the rafters where they were. But Jonas said that he thought he could get them without any difficulty, if the farmer would let him take the oxen and sled. The farmer, finding that Jonas was very willing to go, notwithstanding the storm, said that he should be very glad to have him try. And Josey, he said, might accompany him or not, just as he pleased. "I wouldn't go, Jonas," said Josey, "if I were you. It is going to be a great storm." He, however, walked along with Jonas to the barn, to see him yoke the oxen. The yard was covered with a thin coating of light snow, which made the appearance of it very different from what it had been when they had left it. The cows and oxen stood out still exposed, their backs whitened a little with the fine flakes which had fallen upon them. Jonas went to the shed, and brought out the yoke. "Jonas," said Josey, "I wouldn't go." "No, I think it very likely that you wouldn't. You are not a very efficient boy." "What is an _efficient_ boy?" asked Josey. "One that has energy and resolution enough to go on and accomplish his object, even if there are difficulties in the way." "Is that what you mean by being efficient?" said Josey. "Yes;--a boy that hasn't some efficiency, isn't good for much." As he said this, Jonas had got one of the oxen yoked. He then went to bring up the other. When the other ox was up in his place, Jonas raised the end of the yoke, and put it over his neck. "You see," continued he, "your uncle wants all those rafters got down. It will be a little harder getting them, in the storm; but I care nothing for that. It will be a great satisfaction to him to have them all safe down here before it drifts. He doesn't _require_ me to go; but if I go voluntarily and bring them down, don't you think that, to-morrow morning, when he finds two feet of snow on the ground, he'll be glad to think that all his rafters are safe in the yard?" "Why, yes," said Josey. "I've a great mind to go with you." "Do just as you please," said Jonas. "Well, do you want me to go?" "Yes, I should like your company very well; and, besides, perhaps you can help me." "Well," said Josey, "I'll go." He accordingly followed Jonas as he drove the oxen along to the sled. Jonas held up the tongue, while Josey backed the oxen, so that he could enter the end of the tongue into the ring attached to the lower side of the yoke. He then put the iron pin in, and all was ready. Jonas drove the oxen along, till he came to the great gate in the back yard, and then he stopped to go and get some chains. The chains he fastened to the stakes, which were in the sides of the sled. Then he opened the great gate, and the oxen went through; after which he seated himself upon the sled by the side of Josey, and so they rode along up into the woods. The storm increased, though very slowly. The road into the woods, which had become well worn, was now beginning to be covered, here and there, with little white patches, wherever new snow, driven along by the wind, found places where it could lodge. At length, however, they came to the woods; and there they were sheltered from the wind, and the snow fell more equally. Josey had found it quite cold riding in the open ground, for the wind was against them; but under the shelter of the trees he found it quite warm and comfortable. The forest appeared very silent and solitary. It is true they could hear the moaning of the wind upon the tops of the trees, but there was no sound of life, and no motion but that of the fine flakes descending through the air in a gentle shower. The whole surface of the ground, and every thing lying upon it, was covered with the snow; for the branches, and the stumps, and the stems trimmed up for timber, and the places where the old snow had been trampled down by the oxen and by the woodcutters, were now all whitened over again and concealed. "Who would think," said Jonas, "that there could be any thing alive here?" "Is there any thing?" said Josey. "Yes, thousands of animals, all covered up in the snow,--mice in the ground, and squirrels in the hollow logs, and millions of insects, frozen up in the bark of the dead trees." "And they'll be covered up deeper before morning," said Josey. "Yes," said Jonas, "and so would our rafters, if we didn't get them out. We could not have found half of them, if we had left them till after this storm." The rafters were lying around upon the old snow, wherever small trees, from which they had been formed, had fallen. They could be distinguished very plainly now, although covered with an inch of snow. Jonas and Josey immediately went to work, getting them together, and placing them upon the sled. When they had been at work in this way for some time, Jonas said,-- "We shall not get half of them, at this load." "Then what shall you do?" said Josey. "O, come up again, and get the rest." "But then it will be dark before you get home." "That will be no matter," said Jonas. "Only you'll get lost, and buried up in the snow." "No," said Jonas; "there might be some danger to-morrow evening, after it shall have been snowing four and twenty hours; but not to-night. The snow will not be more than a foot deep at midnight." When they had got as many of the rafters upon the sled as Jonas thought the oxen could conveniently draw, he secured the load by the chains, and collected the rest of the sticks together a little, on the ground. Then he told Josey to climb up to the top of the load and ride. He said that he would walk along by the side of the oxen. Josey found it more comfortable going back, than it was coming up, for the wind was now behind him, and the snow did not drive into his face. Jonas walked along in the snow, which was now nearly ankle deep, and after they had got out of the woods, there were some places where it had drifted much deeper. "Do you suppose that uncle has got his frame done?" said Josey. "I presume he has left it, if he hasn't finished it," said Jonas. "Why? Why couldn't he stay out in the storm to work, as well as we?" "Because," said Jonas, "the snow would wet his tools, and fill up his mortises, and so trouble him a great deal more than it does us. You can't do carpenter's work out of doors in a snow-storm." "Do you mean to go after the other load?" asked Josey. "Yes," replied Jonas. The boys found, when they reached the yard, that it was as Jonas had predicted. The farmer and Amos had left their work and gone in. They were in the shop grinding their tools. The farmer asked Jonas if he had got all the rafters. "No, sir," said Jonas; "there is another load." "Well, we'll let them go," said the farmer. "I'm very glad you've got one load down." "I think, sir," said Jonas, "if you have no objection, I'd better go and get the rest. I know just where they are, and I can get them all down here before night." "You won't have time to get down before it will be dark," said the farmer. "Just as you think best, sir," said Jonas, "but I think I can get out of the woods before dark; and it is of no consequence about the rest of the way." "Very well," said the farmer, "you may go. Don't you want Amos to go with you?" "No, sir, it isn't necessary." "No, sir," said Josey, "I can go with him." So Jonas threw off his load, and then turned his team about, and once more set out for the woods. He and Josey sat upon the sled, talking by the way,--the storm continuing without much change. The snow gradually increased in depth, but the oxen walked along without difficulty through it. Sometimes they came to a drift where the snow was so deep as to come in a little upon the bars, where the boys were sitting; but in general the sled runners glided along through it very smoothly. The woods appeared still more somber and solitary than they had done before. The new snow was deeper, and it was falling faster; and, besides, as it was now nearly sundown, there was only a gloomy sort of twilight, under the trees. Jonas and Josey loaded the sled as fast as they could. They put on the last of the rafters, which Jonas had collected, with great satisfaction. Josey, especially, began to be in haste to set out on his return. "Now," said Jonas, "I'll look around a little, just to see that there are none left behind." "O, no, I wouldn't," said Josey; "let us go. We've got them all, I know." "I want to be sure," said Jonas, "and make thorough work of it." So saying, he began wading about in the snow, to see if he could find any more rafters. He, however, soon satisfied himself that they were all upon the sled. He then secured his load carefully, with the chains, and they set out upon their return, as before. It grew dark rapidly, and the wind and storm increased. When they came out of the woods, they found that the air was very thick with the falling flakes, and the drifts had begun to be quite large, so that sometimes, in plunging through them, the snow would bank up quite high, before the sled, against the ends of the rafters. Jonas said that, if they had been two hours later, they could not have got along. "You said that the snow wouldn't be a foot deep by midnight," said Josey. "It is coming faster than I thought it would," said Jonas. "It is almost a foot deep now." The road by which the boys were advancing, led along the bank of the brook, until it reached nearly to the shore of the pond, and then it turned off, and went towards the house, at a little distance from the shore. When they reached this part of the road, the storm, which here swept down across the pond, beat upon them with unusual fury. The wind howled; the snow was driven through the air, and seemed to scud along the ground with great violence; and the drifts, running diagonally across the road, were once or twice so deep, that the oxen could hardly get the load through. It was now almost dark, too, and all the traces of the road were obliterated,--though Jonas knew, by the land and fences, how to go. Just at this time, when the wind seemed to lull for an instant, Jonas thought he heard a cry. He stopped his oxen to listen. "No," said Josey, "I don't believe it is any thing; let us go on." In fact, Josey was afraid, and wanted to get home as soon as he could. "Wait a minute," said Jonas. He listened again, and in a moment he heard the cry again. It seemed to be a cry of distress, but he could not distinguish any words. "It is somebody off upon the pond," said Jonas. "Is the pond out that way?" asked Josey. "Yes," said Jonas, "and I verily believe somebody is out on it, and has lost his way." "Well," said Josey, "let us go home as fast as we can, and tell uncle." "No," said Jonas, "that won't do." Jonas turned in the direction from which the sound appeared to come, and, putting his hands up to his mouth in the shape of a speaking-trumpet, he called out, as loud as he could call,-- "Hal--loo!" He listened after he had thus called, but there was no answer. In a few minutes, the cry which he had heard first was repeated, in the same tone as before. "They don't hear me," said Jonas. "Hal--loo!" cried out Josey, as loud as he could call. There was no answer; but, in a few seconds afterwards, the cry was repeated, as at first. "You see," said Jonas, "that the wind blows this way, and they can't hear us. We must go out after them." Josey tried to dissuade Jonas from this plan; but Jonas said he must go, and that, as they had oxen with them, there would be no danger. "First," said he, "we must throw off our load." So he and Josey went to work, and threw off the rafters, as fast as they could. Jonas reserved four or five rafters, which he left upon the sled. Then he turned the oxen in the direction from which the cry had come. They continued to hear it at moderate intervals. They descended gradually a short distance across the field, and then they came to the shore of the pond. Here Jonas took off one of his rafters, and laid it upon the shore, with one end raised up out of the snow. "What is that for?" said Josey. "To show us the way back to our road," said Jonas. "I place it so that it points right back,--the way we came." "We can tell by our tracks," said Josey. "No," said Jonas; "our tracks will all be covered up before we come back." Jonas then drove down upon the pond, guiding his oxen in the direction of the cry. He kept Josey upon the sled, so as not to exhaust his strength. He rode himself, too, as much as he could; but he was obliged to jump off very frequently, to keep the oxen in a right direction. He stopped occasionally to put down a rafter, placing it so that its length should be in the line of his road, and taking care to sink one end into the snow, so as to leave the other out as far as possible, to prevent its being all buried up before they should return. Every now and then, too, he would answer the cry, as loud as he could call. At last, after they had toiled along in this way for some time, Jonas thought that he succeeded in making the travellers hear; for, immediately after his call, he would hear a calling from them, following it, and speaking in a different way, though Jonas could not understand what was said. He kept pressing forward steadily, and, before long, he found that the travellers were silent, excepting immediately after he called to them,--when there was a sound as if intended for a response, though Jonas could not tell what was said. "We shall get to them, Josey," said he. "Who do you suppose it is?" said Josey. "I don't know; very probably some travellers lost upon the pond." Jonas was right in his conjecture: as they came nearer and nearer, the sounds became more distinct. "Hal--loo!" vociferated Jonas. "Hal--loo!" was the answer. "Can--you--come--and--help--us?" "Ay, ay," said Jonas; "we're coming." "Ay, ay," shouted Josey, in his loudest voice, which, being more shrill than that of Jonas, was perhaps heard farther. Still nothing was to be seen. Besides being dark, the atmosphere was thick with snow. So it was not until they got very near to the travellers, that they could see them at all. They saw at last, however, some dark-looking object before them. On coming up to it, they found that it was a horse and sleigh. The horse was in a very deep snow-drift, and was half lying down. There was a woman in the sleigh, with a small child in her arms, and a boy, about as large as Josey, standing at the horse's head. "O, I am so glad you have got some oxen, sir!" said the woman. "We couldn't have got out without oxen." "I don't see how the snow happens to be so deep just here." "Why, it's that island," said the woman; "I suppose there is an island off there. I told Isaiah it would be drifted under this island; and now the horse is all beat out; and, besides, we don't know the way." "Well," said Jonas, "I'll hook the oxen on, and we'll soon get you to the land. Isaiah, you take your horse out of the sleigh." So Isaiah went to work to unhook the traces and the hold-backs, in order to get the horse free from the sleigh. "I'll get out," said the woman. "No," said Jonas; "you sit still, and keep your child warm." As soon as Isaiah had taken the horse out, Jonas told him to lead him around behind the sleigh, while he turned the shafts over back against the dasher, and then he brought the oxen up in front of the sleigh. He first, however, drove the oxen out of the road with the sled, so as to leave that where it would not be in the way. Then he took two chains from the sled, and attached the oxen, by means of them, to the forward part of the sleigh. When all was ready, he put Josey in with the woman, and let Isaiah lead his horse behind. He then started the oxen. "Are you going to leave the sled here?" said Josey. "Yes," said Jonas, "we can come and get it after the storm is over." The oxen drew the sleigh along very easily. The snow was quite deep for a little distance, and then it became less so; but it was very dark, and it was difficult for Jonas to follow his track. The snow blew across it with great violence, and was fast filling it up. However, Jonas soon came to his first rafter, and this encouraged him. It was a good deal covered with snow, but the end was out, and the direction of it showed him which way to go, in order to find the next one. After he had passed this guide, the path was no more to be distinguished. He went on, however, as nearly as he could in the direction indicated by the rafter; and, after going the proper distance, he began to look out before him for the second. He began to be a little anxious lest he had missed it, when he observed something dark in the snow, at a little distance on the right. He went to it, and found that it was the rafter. Thus he was upon his track again; but his having so narrowly escaped missing it, made him afraid that he should not be able to follow the train very far. His fears proved well grounded. All his efforts to discover the third rafter were entirely unavailing. "'Tis of no consequence," said Jonas; "we can't be far from the shore. I'll keep straight on, and we shall strike the land somewhere, not far from the house." But it is much easier to get bewildered in a storm than Jonas had supposed. The darkness, the obscurity produced by the falling snow, the perfect and unvarying level of the surface, in every direction the same, and the agitation of mind which even the most resolute must experience in such a situation, all conspired to make it difficult, in a case like this, to find the way. Jonas drove on in the direction which he thought would have led to the shore; but, after going amply far enough to reach it, no shore was to be seen. The fact was, that he had insensibly deviated just so far from his course, as to be going along parallel with the shore, instead of in the direction towards it. Jonas began to be somewhat concerned, and Josey was in a state of great anxiety and fear. He rose up in the sleigh, and attempted to look around; and his fear was suddenly changed into terror, at seeing a large black animal, like a bear, coming furiously up behind them, bounding over the snow. Josey screamed aloud. "What is the matter?" said the woman. "Why, Franco! Franco!" said Jonas, "how could you get here?" It was Franco, true enough. He came swiftly along, leaping and staggering through the deep snow; and he seemed delighted to have found Jonas and his party at last. Jonas patted his head. Both Jonas and Franco were overjoyed to see each other. [Illustration: "'That can't be the way, Franco,' said Jonas."] Jonas patted Franco's head and praised him, while the dog wagged his tail, whisked about, and shook the snow off from his back and sides. "What dog is that?" said the woman. "This is Franco," said Jonas. "Franco Ney is his name. Now we shall have no trouble in getting out." Franco turned off, short, from the road in which Jonas was going. He knew by instinct which way the shore lay from them. Jonas at first hesitated about following him. "That can't be the way, Franco," said he. But Franco, after plunging on a few steps, looked round and whined. Then he came back towards Jonas again a few steps, looking him full in the face, and then whisked about again, and went on farther than before,--and then stopped and looked back, as if to see whether Jonas was going to follow him. Jonas stood just in advance of the oxen, hesitating. "That must be the way," said Jonas. "Franco knows." "No, that isn't the way," said the woman; "the dog don't know any thing about it. We must go straight forward." "No," said Jonas, "it will be safest to follow Franco." And so saying, he began to turn his oxen in the direction indicated by Franco. The woman remonstrated against this with great earnestness. She said that they should only get entirely lost, for he was leading them altogether out of their way. But Jonas considered that the responsibility properly belonged to him, and that he must act according to his own discretion. So he pushed forward steadily after Franco. But his progress was now interrupted by hearing another loud call behind him, back upon the pond. "What's that?" said Josey. "Somebody calling," said Jonas. "More travellers lost," said the woman.--"O dear me!" He listened again, and heard the calls more distinctly. He thought he could distinguish his own name. He answered the call, and was himself answered in return by men's voices, which now seemed more distinct and nearer. "I know now who it is," said Jonas. "It is your uncle and Amos, coming out after us. Franco was with them." Jonas was right. In a few minutes, the farmer and Amos came up, and they were exceedingly surprised when they saw Jonas with his oxen, drawing a sleigh, with a woman in it, off the pond, instead of a sled load of rafters from the woods. "Jonas," said he with astonishment, "how came you here?" "I came to help Isaiah get off the pond," said Jonas. "But how did you find out where we were?" "Franco guided us," said the farmer. "He followed the road along some time, and then he wanted to turn off suddenly towards the pond. We wouldn't follow him for some time; but he _would_ go that way, and no other. When he came to the shore of the pond, we found your rafter laid there, and that made us think you must have gone upon the ice, but we couldn't imagine what for. At last, we found where you had left the sled, and then we began to halloo to you." "But, uncle," said Josey, "didn't you see our heap of rafters, by the road where we turned off?" "No," said his uncle. "We put a load there." "Then they must have got pretty well covered up," said he, "for we didn't observe them." The whole party followed Franco, who led them out to the shore the shortest way. They took Isaiah and his mother to the house, and gave them some supper, and let them stay there that night. The next morning, when Jonas got up, he found that it was clearing away; and when, after breakfast, he looked out upon the pond, to see if he could see any thing of his sled, he observed, away out half a mile from shore, two short rows of stakes, sticking up in the snow, not far from on island. The body of the sled was wholly buried up and concealed from view. CHAPTER VII. A FIRE The last of February drew nigh, which was the time fixed upon for Josey to go home. He had remained with his uncle much longer than his father had at first intended; but now they wanted him to return, before the roads broke up in the spring. The evening before Josey was to go, the farmer was sitting by the fire, when Jonas came in from the barn. "Jonas," said the farmer, "I have got to write a letter to my brother, to send by Josey to-morrow; why won't you take a sheet of paper and write for me, and I'll tell you what to say. You are rather handier with the pen than I am." Jonas accordingly brought a sheet of paper and a pen and ink, and took his place at a table at the back side of the room, and the farmer dictated to him as follows: "Dear Brother, "I take this opportunity to inform you that we are all alive and well, and I hope that you may be the same. This will be handed to you by Josey, who leaves us to-morrow, according to your orders. We have been very glad to have him with us, though he hasn't had opportunity to learn much. However, I suppose he'll fetch up again in his learning, when he gets home. He has behaved pretty fair on the whole, as boys go. He will make a smart man, I've no doubt, though he don't seem to take much to farming. "We hope to have you, and your wife and children, come and pay us a visit this coming summer,--say in raspberry time, which will be just after haying." "There," said the farmer, "now fold it up, and write my brother's name on the back, and to-morrow morning I'll look it over, and sign my name to it." Jonas accordingly folded the letter up, and wrote upon the back, _Joseph Jones, Esq., Bristol._ When it was done, he laid it on the table. Amos came and took it up. "Jonas," said he, "I wish I could write as well as that." The farmer had a daughter whose name was Isabella. She was about eighteen years old. She was at this time spinning in a corner of the room, near a window. She came forward to look at the letter. "Yes, Jonas," said she, "you write beautifully. I wish you'd teach me to write like that." "Very well," said Jonas, "that I can do." "How can you do it?" said Isabella. "Why, we can have an evening school, these long evenings," replied Jonas. "You get through your spinning in time to have half an hour for school before bed-time." "Half an hour wouldn't be enough," said Amos. "O, yes," replied Jonas; "half an hour every day will amount to a great deal in three months." "Yes," said the farmer, "that's a very good plan; you shall have an evening school, and Jonas shall teach you;--an excellent plan." "What shall we study?" said Isabella. "Whatever you want to learn," replied Jonas. "You say you want to learn to write; that will do for one thing." "And I want to learn more arithmetic," said Amos. "Very well," said Jonas. "We'll have an evening school, half an hour every evening, beginning at eight o'clock. Have you got any school-books in the house, Isabella?" Isabella said there were some on a shelf up stairs. "Well," said Jonas, "bring them to me, and I'll look over them, and form a plan." Isabella brought Jonas the school-books, and he looked them over, but said nothing then about his plan. He reflected upon the subject until the next day, because he did not wish to propose any thing to them, until it was well matured. The next evening, at eight o'clock, Isabella put up her spinning, and took a seat by the fire, to hear Jonas's plan. Amos sat by a table at the back side of the room. The farmer's wife was sitting upon the settle, knitting; and the farmer himself was asleep in his arm-chair, at the opposite corner. "Now," said Jonas, "I like the plan of having an evening school, and I am willing to be either teacher or pupil; only, if I am teacher, I must _direct_, and you must both do as I say." "No," said Isabella, "you mustn't direct entirely; we'll talk over the plans, all together, and then do as we all agree." "No," said Jonas, "I have no idea of having all school-time spent in talking. I'm perfectly willing that either of you should be teacher, and I'll obey. I'll set copies, or do any thing else you please, only I won't have any responsibility about the arrangements. Or, if you wish, I'm willing to be teacher; but then, in that case, I must direct every thing, just as I think is best,--and you must do just as I say." "Well," said Isabella, "what are your orders? We'll obey." Amos and Oliver also agreed that they would obey his directions. Jonas then consented to take the station of teacher, and he proceeded to give his directions. "I have been looking at the books," said he, "and I find we haven't got but one of each kind." "Then we can't have any classes in our school," said Oliver. "Yes we can," said Jonas. "The first evening, Amos may take the arithmetic and the slate, and cipher, while Isabella writes, and Oliver studies a good long spelling lesson. Then, the second evening, Amos shall study the spelling lesson, and Isabella cipher, and Oliver write." "But I don't want to cipher," said Isabella. "I don't like arithmetic; I never could understand it." "You promised to obey my orders," said Jonas. "Well," said Isabella, "I'll try; but I know I can't do the sums." "Then, the third evening," said Jonas, "Isabella shall study the spelling lesson, Oliver the arithmetic, and Amos take the writing-book." "What, ain't you going to have but one writing-book?" "No," said Jonas; "one is enough; because you won't all write the same evening. So you can write one page, Oliver another, and Amos the third." "No," said Isabella; "I don't like that. I want every scholar to have his own book." "If you'll be the teacher," said Jonas, "you can have it so." "But I want to have it so, and you be the teacher," said Isabella. "No," said Jonas; "if I have the responsibility of teacher, I must have the power too." "Well," said Isabella, "I suppose we had better submit." "But what's the reason, Jonas," said Oliver, "that you ain't willing that we should all have writing-books of our own?" "There are two or three reasons," said Jonas. "But it is very poor policy for a schoolmaster to spend his time in convincing his scholars that his regulations are good. He must make them obey, and let them see that the regulations turn out to be good in the end." "But it seems to me, you've grown arbitrary all at once," said Amos, with a smile. "Yes," said Jonas, "I'm always arbitrary when I'm in command; if you mean, by arbitrary, determined to have my own way. I won't _usurp_ any power; but, if you put it upon me, I shall use it, you may depend upon it." Jonas had two good reasons why he wanted to have only one writing-book for all his scholars. One was, that he thought it uncertain how long their school plan would last, and he did not want to trouble the farmer to look up some paper, and then make a parade of preparing so many writing-books; and then, perhaps, the whole plan might be abandoned, when they had written four or five pages in each. And, therefore, as he found one old writing-book of Oliver's, half full, he determined to make the blank leaves of that answer for all. But he had another reason still. He thought that, if all his scholars should write, in succession, in the same book, their writing would come into such close juxtaposition and comparison, that each one would be stimulated to write with greater attention and care; as each one would wish his or her own page to look as neatly written as the rest. He knew that Isabella, when it came to her turn to write, would naturally, without any thing being said, look at Amos's work on the page before, and that she would observe its excellences and its faults, and that her page would probably be written better, in consequence of her criticism upon his. Thus, though Jonas had good reasons, he chose not to give them. He preferred, if he was going to be teacher, that they should not be in the habit of expecting him to give reasons for all his directions. So he simply expressed his decision upon the subject, by saying,-- "You may do just as you please about making me teacher; but, if you put me into the office, you must expect to have to obey." "That's right, Jonas," said the farmer's wife: "I am glad to see you make 'em mind." It was settled, without any further discussion, that Jonas's plan in regard to the writing should be adopted, and that his scholars would obey his directions in other things, whatever they might be. Jonas then proceeded as follows:-- "Now, you see that, if we go on so three evenings, you will all have got three lessons, and the fourth evening we will have for recitation. I will hear you spell, and examine your writing, and see if your sums are done right." Jonas's exposition of the plan of his school was here interrupted by the farmer's wife, who, as she sat at the end of the settle towards the fire, had her face somewhat turned towards the window, and she saw a light at a distance near the horizon. "What light is that?" said she. Jonas and all his school rose, and went to the window to see. The window looked towards the pond. They looked off across a sort of bay, beyond which there was a long point of land,--the one which the boys had had to sail around when they went to mill. Just over this land, and near the extremity of it, a light was to be seen, as if from a fire, beyond and behind the land. "That's exactly in the direction of the village," said Amos. "It is a house on fire, I know," said Oliver,--"or a store." "It looks like a fire, certainly," said Jonas. "Yes," said the farmer's wife; "and you must go, boys, and help put it out." "It is several miles off," said Amos. "Yes, but put Kate into the light sleigh, and she'll carry you there over the pond in twenty minutes.--Here, husband, husband," she continued, calling to the farmer, who was still asleep in his chair, "here's a fire." The farmer opened his eyes, and sat upright in his chair, and asked what was the matter. "Here's a fire," she repeated, "over in the village; hadn't the boys better go and put it out?" The farmer rose, walked very deliberately to the window, looked a minute at the light, and then said,-- "It's nothing but the moon." "The moon?--no, it can't be the moon, husband," said she. "The moon don't rise there." "Yes," said the farmer, "that's just about the place." "Besides," said she, "it isn't time for the moon to rise. It don't rise now till midnight." He turned away, and walked slowly across the room, to where the almanac was hanging. He seemed very sleepy. He turned over the leaves, and then said, "Moon rises--eight hours and fifty minutes; that is,--let's see,--ten minutes before nine." "Well," said his wife, "and 'tisn't much past eight now." "It's the moon, you may depend," said the farmer; "perhaps our time is a little out." So he returned to the chair, sat down in it, and put his feet out towards the fire. "Well," said his wife, "we shall know pretty soon; for, if it is the moon, it will soon rise higher." So they all stood a few minutes, and watched the light. It seemed to enlarge a little, and to grow somewhat brighter; but it did not move from its place. "It certainly must be a fire," said the farmer's wife again; "and I wish, husband, that you'd let the boys take Kate in the sleigh, and go along the pond and see." "I've no objection," said the farmer, "if they've a mind to take that trouble; but they'll find nothing but the moon, they may depend." "Let's go," said Amos. "Very well," said Jonas; "I'm ready." "We'll go too, boys," said the farmer's wife, "Isabella and I. You can put in two seats. There are no hills, and Kate will take us all along like a bird. I never saw a fire in my life." The boys hastened to the barn, and got Kate out of the stall. Franco, who knew that something extraordinary must have taken place, though he could not tell what, came out from his place, leaped about, and indicated, by his actions, that, wherever they were going, he meant to go too. The sleigh was soon harnessed. They drove up to the door, and found Isabella and her mother all ready. They took their places upon the back seat, while Amos and Jonas sat upon another seat, which they had placed in, before. Oliver came running with a bucket, which he put in under the forward seat, and then he jumped on behind, standing upon the end of the runner, and clinging to the corner of the sleigh, close to Isabella's shoulder. Kate set off at a rapid trot down the road, which led to the pond. The sleigh went very easily, for the road was smooth. There had been rain and thaws lately, and cold weather after them, so that the surface of the road had melted, and then become frozen again; and this made it icy. They found the ice of the pond in the same state. The rain and the thaws had melted the snow, upon the top of the ice, and made it a sheet of water. Then this had frozen again, so that now the surface of the pond was almost every where hard and smooth; and when they came down upon it, and turned to go across the bay, the horse being at his full speed, the sleigh swept round sideways over the ice, in a great circle, and made the farmer's wife very much afraid that she should be upset. It seemed as if the sleigh was trying to get before the horse. However, Amos, who was driving, contrived to get the horse ahead again, and then they went on with great speed. It was a mile across to the end of the point of land; but Kate carried them over this space in a very few minutes. As they drew near to the point, they watched the light. It did not rise at all. "It cannot be the moon," said Jonas, "for it is now full a quarter of an hour since we first saw it." "Yes," said the farmer's wife, "I knew it couldn't be the moon." Just at this moment, the sleigh came around the point with great speed, and brought into view a very bright but distant fire, far before them. "It is a fire!" they all exclaimed. "But it isn't in the direction of the village," said Jonas. "It must be some farm-house," said the farmer's wife, "on the shore." "No," said Jonas, "I think it is on the ice." It very soon became evident that the fire was upon the ice. It was plainly a large fire, though the distance made it look rather small. It was very bright, and it flashed up high; and a cloud of illuminated smoke arose from it, and floated off to the northward. The party in the sleigh could soon perceive, also, a number of small, bright spots near it, which seemed to be in motion about the fire. They looked like the moons about the planet Jupiter, seen through a telescope. "I wonder what it is," said Isabella. "I presume," said Jonas, "that the boys are out skating, and this is a fire on the ice, which they have built." "And are those the boys moving about?" asked Oliver. "Yes," said Jonas. "When they are near the fire, the light shines upon their faces." As they rode on, it became gradually more and more evident that Jonas was right. The forms of the skaters, as they stood before the fire, or came wheeling up to it, became more and more distinct, and, in fact, the ringing sound of the skates soon became audible. The horse, in the mean time, went on, with great speed, directly towards the fire. When they arrived near the fire, the skaters came around them in great numbers, wondering who could have come. Jonas asked them where they got the wood to build their fire. "All along the shore," said a large boy, with a long stick in his hand. "Let's go and get some more, boys," he added, "and brighten up our fire." So saying, he wheeled round and skated away, the whole crowd of skaters, small and great, following him at full speed. As they swept round by the fire, the light glared brightly upon their faces and forms, but they soon disappeared from view in the darkness beyond; only Jonas could hear the sound of their skates, ringing over the ice, as they receded. "What a great, hot fire!" said Oliver. "Yes," said Isabella, "I never saw such a large fire on the ice. I don't see how they got all the wood." "I suppose," said Jonas, "that they got out the wood from the forest, along the shore, and threw it out upon the ice, before they put on their skates, and then they could easily bring it to the fire. But hark! they are coming back again." The fire was so bright where they were, and it flashed so strongly upon the ice around, that they could not see the skaters until they came pretty near. The dark figures, however, soon began to appear. The foremost was a tall young man, who came forward with great speed, pushing before him a long and slender log, half decayed and dry. One end he held before him in his hands, and the other glided along upon the smooth ice towards the fire. There followed close behind him another skater, with the fragment of an old stump upon his shoulder; then several others, with branches, sticks, dry bushes, and fragments of every shape and size. These they piled upon the fire as they swept up alongside of it, and then wheeled away back from the heat which radiated from it. Two large boys came on, bringing a long log between them, one at each end. It looked large, but it was really not very heavy, as it was hollow and decayed. They hove it up, with great effort, upon the fire, and its fall upon the heap threw up a large, bright column of sparks and flame. Another boy had the top of a young spruce, which he had cut off with his knife, by dint of great labor; it made a great roaring and crackling when it was put upon the fire. And, finally, behind all the rest, there came a little boy not so big as Oliver, tugging away at a long branch, which he dragged behind him, and put it upon the fire too. "Well," said the farmer's wife, after a little time, "we mustn't stay here much longer." "We'll drive around the fire, in one great sweep," said Jonas. So he started the horse on, and took a great circuit about the fire. The skaters went with him on each side of the sleigh. Then they turned their course towards home again. The light of the fire shone upon the distant point of land, and illuminated it faintly, but in a very beautiful manner, and showed Jonas which way to drive. Isabella turned back her head repeatedly, to look at the fire, as they rode on and left it far behind them. It seemed to grow smaller and smaller, as they receded; and at length, when Jonas turned around the point of land, it disappeared entirely. In a few minutes afterward, the moon arose, and lighted them the rest of the way home. [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII. THE CARDING-MILL Jonas was often sent away to transact business for the farmer. He was a very excellent hand to do business. It requires several qualities to make a boy good at business. He must be gentlemanly in his manners, so as to speak to the persons that he is sent to, in a respectful and proper manner; he must be faithful, so as not to neglect what is intrusted to him; and he must be patient and persevering. Then he must also have considerable judgment and discretion; for when he is sent away from home on business, he must often be placed in circumstances that are unforeseen, and where he must act without instructions. In such cases, he will have to exercise his own judgment and discretion. Jonas was placed in such circumstances at one time, when he was sent to the carding-mill to get some rolls for Isabella. The rolls which Isabella wanted were rolls of wool, as they are prepared at the mill ready for spinning. The wool is carded very fine, and then, by curious machinery, it is rolled out into rolls about three feet long, and as large round as a whip-handle at the middle. These rolls Isabella used to spin into yarn, at her spinning-wheel. Isabella had spun nearly all her rolls, and she wanted Jonas to carry some wool to the carding-mill, and get some more. The carding-mill was not in the village upon the outlet stream; but it was upon another stream, which emptied into the pond, instead of flowing from it. It was the same stream that flowed by the land which Jonas and Oliver had cleared when he first came to live with the farmer; only the mill was at some distance from the mouth of the stream, back towards the high land. It was more than two miles, by the road, from the farmer's house. The farmer told Jonas where to get the wool, and then gave him some more business, at a place in the woods, about two miles beyond the mill. Oliver wanted to go too, and his father gave him leave. Oliver always liked to go to the mill, as the machine for carding the wool was a great curiosity. Jonas put up the wool in a very large bundle, which almost filled up the bottom of the sleigh. Jonas himself sat upon the seat, with his feet under the bundle; but Oliver sat upon the bundle. He said it made a very soft seat. They rode along pleasantly towards the mill. The snow-drifts were very high in some places on each side of the road; and the fences and walls were almost buried up. "I wish that Josey was here," said Oliver. "I think that he would like to see the carding-mill very much indeed." "Yes," said Jonas. "Only," replied Oliver, "perhaps it would be dangerous to take him." "Why?" said Jonas. "Why, because," said Oliver, "I suppose he would touch the machinery, and perhaps get his hands torn off." "Yes," said Jonas, "boys sometimes do get very badly hurt in mills,--careless and disobedient boys especially." "I think that he is a careless and disobedient boy," said Oliver. [Illustration: "He said it made a very soft seat."] "Yes, but it is his misfortune, rather than his fault," replied Jonas. "His misfortune?" repeated Oliver. "Yes," said Jonas; "his father's situation is such, that it is very unfortunate for him. I expect he is very unhappily situated at home, in many respects." "How?" said Oliver. "Why, in the first place," said Jonas, "he lives, I'm told, in a large and handsome house." "Yes," said Oliver. "And then," continued Jonas, "your aunt, I have heard, is a very fine woman, and has a great deal of company." "Well," said Oliver. "And then," continued Jonas, "they can buy Josey any thing he wants, for playthings." "Yes," said Oliver; "he told me he had got a rocking-horse. But I don't call that being unfortunate." "It is very fortunate for the father and mother, but such a kind of life is generally unfortunate for the child. You see, if a man has been industrious himself, when he was a boy, and has grown up to be a good business man, and to acquire a great deal of property, and builds a good house, and has plenty of books, and journeys, it is all very well for him. He can bear it, but it very often spoils his children." "Why does it spoil his children?" asked Oliver. "In the first place, it makes them conceited and vain,--not always, but often. The children of wealthy men are very often conceited. They wear better clothes than some other boys, and have more books and prettier playthings; and so they become vain, and think that they are very important, when, in fact, they owe every thing to their fathers. "Then, besides," continued Jonas, "they don't form good habits of industry. Their fathers don't make them work, and so they don't acquire any habits of industry, and patience, and perseverance." "If I was a man, and had ever so much money," said Oliver, "I would make my boys work." "That is very doubtful," said Jonas. "Why is it doubtful?" asked Oliver. "Because," said Jonas, "you would be very busy, and couldn't attend to it. It would be a great deal more trouble to make your boys do any thing, than it would be to hire another man to do it; and so you would hire a man, to save your trouble." "Yes; but then, Jonas, farmers are very busy, and yet they make their boys work." "True," replied Jonas; "but farmers are busy about such kind of work as that their boys can help them do it,--so they can keep them at work without any special trouble. But men of property are employed in such kind of business as boys cannot do; and so they must work, if they work at all, at something else; and that makes a good deal of trouble." "Then I'd send my boys to some farmer, and let him make them work," said Oliver. "Yes," said Jonas, "that would do pretty well." So saying, Jonas stopped the horse a moment, and stepped out of the sleigh. He was at the foot of a long, steep hill in the woods. He was going to walk up. Oliver remained in the sleigh, and rode. When they reached the top, Jonas got in again, and they rode on. "But then, Jonas," said Oliver, "there is one thing to be thought of, and that is, that rich men's sons will not have to work when they grow up; and so they don't need so much to grow industrious." "O, yes, they will," said Jonas. "Why, Josey told me that he didn't expect to work when he should be a man." "No, he doesn't _expect_ to work, but he'll find that it is different from what he had expected, when he grows up." "How?" said Oliver. "Why, a great many rich men's boys find, when they get to be twenty-one, that they have to go out into the world, and earn their own living, without any money." "Why?" said Oliver; "won't their fathers give them any money?" "Their fathers cannot generally give them enough to support them," said Jonas, "even if they are disposed to do it; because, you see, they have their own families still to support. Besides, if they were to divide their property at once among all their children, it would only be a small portion for each one. It wouldn't be enough for the boys to live as expensively as they have been living while at home. Therefore, as fast as they grow up young men, they have to go away into the world, and earn their own money by some kind of work, head work or hand work." Jonas would probably have given Oliver some further explanations on this subject, were it not that about this time they arrived at the mill. Oliver tied the horse at a post, while Jonas took out the great bundle of wool, and went in. Oliver followed immediately after him. The machinery made a heavy, rumbling sound, which grew louder and louder as the boys went up stairs. Jonas opened a door into a large room, and at this the noise increased very loudly, so that Oliver and Jonas could hardly hear each other talk. Jonas put down the bundle of wool by the door, and then he and Oliver went in among the wheels and machinery. There were a great many separate machines at different parts of the room, with girls tending them. There was a large, round beam of wood, overhead, slowly revolving. There were wheels upon it in different parts, with straps passing around these wheels, and also around other wheels connected with the machines below. Oliver saw Jonas walk to a man who was writing at a desk in the corner of a room, and say something to him. Oliver could not hear what it was. Jonas pointed, while he was talking to the man, to the great bundle of wool. Presently the man came and took the bundle of wool, and dragged it off to one of the machines, which was not in motion. He called a girl to come and tend it. At one end of the machine was a broad band of cloth, passing around two rollers. One roller was close to the wheels and other large rollers of the machine itself. The other was back from it a little; and the cloth, being extended from one of these to the other, formed a sort of flat table just before the machine. The girl who came to tend the machine immediately opened the great bundle of wool, and then she took up a handful of it, and began to spread it evenly over the cloth. When she had got the cloth pretty nearly covered she pulled a handle pretty near her, and that, in some mysterious way or other, set the machinery a-going. The cloth, with all the wool upon it, began to move towards the great rollers of the machine. These rollers were covered with card teeth, and the wool, as it was drawn in between them, was carded fine, and spread evenly over all the surface; and in a few minutes Jonas and Oliver found that it began to come out at the other end, in the shape of rolls. One roll after another dropped out, in a very singular manner. Oliver thought that it was a very curious machine indeed, to take in wool in that way at one end, and drop it out in beautiful long rolls at the other. "Now," said Jonas, after a few minutes, to Oliver, "I am going away farther, and shall come back here in about an hour. You may go with me, or you may stay here,--just which you prefer." "Well," said Oliver, "I'll stay here." "Good-by, then," said Jonas; "I shall be back again in about an hour." So Jonas went down stairs, and Oliver began to walk about the room a little. There was a window in the back side of the room, which he happened to pass pretty near to, and he stopped to look out at it. He saw the dam and the waterfall below. There was a large pond above the fall, which was made by the dam. The pond was frozen over, and the ice was covered with snow. The water was open for a short distance above the edge of the fall, and it was also open below the fall, where there was a great foaming, and tumbling, and whirling of currents. Oliver looked at it a moment, and then he concluded that it would be better for him to go with Jonas. "I have seen," said he to himself, "pretty much all of the machinery, and I shall be very tired of waiting here an hour." So he concluded that he would run down, quick, and see if Jonas had gone. When he got down stairs, and out at the door, he found that the sleigh was not at the post. He ran around the corner, and saw Jonas at some distance, just at the foot of a hill. He ran after him, calling, "Jo-nas! Jo-nas!" Just at this time, Jonas stopped to let his horse walk up the hill, and so he heard Oliver calling; for the bells did not make so much noise when the horse was walking, as they did before. So Jonas stopped until Oliver overtook him; and they went on the rest of the way together. [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. DIFFICULTY Although it was winter when the boys were taking this ride, yet the sun was shining in a very warm and pleasant manner, and the snow was every where softening in the fields and melting in the roads, indicating that the spring was coming on. There was a little stream of water, coming down the hill in the middle of the road, and forming a long pool at the bottom. Jonas turned his horse to one side, to avoid this pool of water, and waited until Oliver came up. "Well, Oliver," said he,--"tired of the mill already?" "Why, no," said Oliver, "only I thought that, on the whole, I'd rather go with you. I didn't think that you were going to be gone so long." "It is about two miles," said Jonas. "Where are you going?" said Oliver. "O, to see about some logs. I thought you heard your father tell me to go and see about some logs." "What about the logs?" said Oliver. "Why, to make the boards of, for the barn." "O," replied Oliver, "I didn't know that." "Yes," continued Jonas, "when we want boards, we have to go to somebody who owns some pine timber in the woods, and get him to cut down some of them, and haul them to the mill. Then they saw them up, and make boards." "What mill?" said Oliver. "At that saw-mill near the carding-mill. The mill down in the village, you know, is a grist-mill." By this time, the boys had got to the top of the hill, and they got into the sleigh, and rode along. Presently, they came to a place where Jonas was going to turn off, into a sort of by-road which led away into the woods, where the pine-trees grew. The man that owned the trees lived pretty near, in a farm-house. "Is that the road that we are going in?" asked Oliver. "Yes," said Jonas, "but it does not look very promising." The road was filled up nearly full of snow. It had been hard, so that they could travel upon it pretty well; but the warm sun had softened the snow so much, that the horses' feet sunk down into it, in some places, very deep. However, Jonas went along as well as he could. "Let us get out and walk, Jonas," said Oliver. "No," said Jonas, "that will not do much good; for it is the weight of the horse himself, that makes him sink into the snow, not the weight of the sleigh." So the boys both continued to ride in the sleigh. They soon came into the woods, where, the ground being sheltered by the trees above, the snow lay more evenly upon it; and, though the horse slumped a little, yet he got along very comfortably. At length, however, they came out of the woods into an opening. The road went along under a high bank, with a deep brook on the other side. The wind, during the storms in the winter, had blown in over this bank, and filled up the road entirely. "Now," said Jonas, "I am afraid we're in difficulty." "Why?" said Oliver; "is that a very bad place?" "Yes," said Jonas, "it looks like a very bad place." Oliver saw that the snow was very deep on the upper side of the road, and that it sloped away in such a manner that it would be very difficult for them to get along, even if the road-way was hard. "Perhaps it is hard," said Oliver. "No," said Jonas, "I think it cannot be, for the bank slopes to the south, and the sun has been shining upon it all day. However, we must try it." The horse hesitated a moment when he came to this place, for he knew by instinct that it would be very hard for him to get through it. "Come, General," said Jonas. "Though, stop a moment, Oliver; perhaps we had better get out and walk, or the sleigh may upset." So they got out. Oliver walked by the horse, keeping on the upper side of the road. Jonas went behind, taking hold of the back part of the sleigh, so as to hold it in case it should tip down too far. They went on thus for some distance tolerably well. The horse sometimes got in pretty far, and for a moment would plunge and stagger, as if he could hardly get along; but then he would work his way out, and go on a little farther. At length, however, the old General came to a full stop. He sank down, shoulders under, in the snow. The more he struggled to get free, the deeper he got in. Jonas stepped on before him, and patted him on the head, and tried to quiet him. "Jonas," said Oliver, "let us stop; I don't believe we can go any farther." "Nor I," said Jonas. "At least I don't think we can get the old General any farther." "Nor back again either," said Oliver, "as I see." The boys stood still, looking upon the horse a moment, utterly at a loss what to do. "Oliver," said Jonas, "should you be willing to stay here and take care of the horse, while I go on and see about the logs?" "Why--I--don't know," said Oliver. "I'm afraid he won't stand quiet." "O, I shall get him out of the snow, first," said Jonas, "and take him to some level place, where he'll stand well." "How shall you get him out?" asked Oliver. "Why, we will unharness him first," said Jonas, "and then draw the sleigh back out of the way." So Jonas began to unbuckle the straps of the harness, in order to liberate the horse. Oliver tried to help him, but he could not do much, the horse was so deep in the snow. And, besides, he was standing, or rather lying, in such a position, that many parts of the harness were drawn so tense, that Oliver had not strength enough to unbuckle them. However, Jonas at length got the sleigh separated from the horse, and drew it back out of the way. He trampled the snow down around the horse, as much as he could, and then the horse, with a leap and a plunge, recovered his footing. He stood deep in the snow yet, however. "Now," said Jonas, "where shall we put him till I come back?" Oliver looked across the brook, and saw there, upon a bank, under some trees, a spot which was bare. The reason why it was bare was, that the snow had nearly all blown off during the storms; and then the sun, which had been shining for some days so pleasantly, had melted away what there had been left; and now the ground was bare, and almost dry. But the difficulty was to get to it; for it was upon the other side of the stream, and the bed of the stream was filled with water and ice. "I wouldn't lead him over there," said Oliver. "I think you had better go home, and not do any thing about the timber." "No," said Jonas. "Why, father will not think you did wrong to give it up, when we got into such trouble," said Oliver. "No, I don't suppose he would; but I'd rather carry him back an answer, if I can." "Then let me go with you," said Oliver. "Why, it is a long and very hard walk," said Jonas. "There is no work so hard as travelling in soft snow, without snow-shoes. If we had a pair of snow-shoes, we could get along very well." "Did you ever see any snow-shoes?" said Oliver. "No," replied Jonas, "but I have read about them. They are very large and flat, and your foot stands in the middle of them, and so presses them upon the snow; and they are so large that they will not sink in very far." While Jonas was saying this, he was climbing down to the bank of the brook, with a pole in his hands, with which he was going to see if he could find firm footing, for the horse to go across. "Yes," said he, punching his pole down to the bottom of the brook; "yes, it isn't deep. The old General will get down here very well, I think." So he and Oliver trampled a sort of path down to the brook, and then they led the old General down. He seemed a little reluctant, at first, to step into the water. However, he soon went in, and walked over, and Oliver fastened him to a tree, so that he could stand upon the bare piece of ground. Jonas then pulled the sleigh out of the road, so that it should not be in the way, if any body should come along with any other team; then he bade Oliver good-by, and went on alone. Jonas traveled along, as well as he could, through the snow, though he found it very laborious walking. In some places, he found hard footing for some distance; but then he would sink down again for several successive steps. After a short distance, he got out of the deep drift, which had prevented the horse from going on, and then he could advance faster. There was a singular-looking track in the road. It consisted of a smooth groove in the snow, as if the end of a large log had been dragged along. It was, in fact, made by a log which had been drawn along that road towards the mill. One end of the log had been placed upon a sled, and the other left to drag along in the snow; and this was what made the smooth groove, which Jonas observed. He did not see it before, because the man who drove the sled had turned out of the main road, into a by-way across the fields, to avoid the deep drift where Jonas's horse got into difficulty. Jonas found it pretty good walking after this. The snow was not so deep as it had been; and the path which the log had made was hard and smooth. He concluded that it must have been made by such a log, and, of course, if he followed it, that it would take him directly to the house of the man whom he wanted to see. After walking about a mile, he came to the house. It was a small farm-house, in the woods. There were a great many large logs, lying each side of the road near it, ready to be drawn to the mill. Jonas went up towards the door, which was in the end of the house. As he drew near to it, he saw a boy's head behind an enormous pile of wood. He went around it, and found that the boy was about as big as Jonas himself. He was rolling down a large stick of wood, and had an axe in his hand, as if he was going to chop it. "Does Mr. Woodman live here?" said Jonas. "Yes," said the boy; "but he isn't at home." "Where is he?" said Jonas. "He is out in the lot, falling trees," said the boy. "How far is it from here?" asked Jonas. "O, about a good half mile." "Which way?" said Jonas. "Out yonder," said the boy; and he pointed back of the house, where a rough sled-road led into the woods. "You can hear his axe." Jonas listened, and he heard distinctly the sound of an axe in the woods behind; presently it ceased. Immediately after, there was a prolonged crash, which echoed back from the mountains. "There goes a tree," said the boy. Jonas was sorry to have to leave Oliver so long, but he wished to persevere until he should find the man, as he knew that the farmer was very desirous of having the business done that day. So he told the boy that he believed he would go and see if he could find Mr. Woodman; and then he set off in the direction which the boy had indicated. This road was so sheltered by the woods, that the snow was not much drifted; and, besides, it had been kept open by the teams, which had been employed in hauling out pine logs. When Jonas got in to the end of the road, he heard the strokes of the axe, at a short distance on the right. He looked that way, and found that the man was standing at the foot of a tall tree, of very large size; and he was cutting through the trunk of it, about two feet from the top of the snow. He saw that it was nearly off, and so he thought he would wait a moment, where he was, and see it fall. He observed that Mr. Woodman occasionally looked up the stem of the tree, between the strokes of his axe, as if to see whether it was beginning to fall. After a few strokes more, he stepped back from the foot of the tree to one side. Jonas wondered why he left his work before the tree fell. He looked up to the top of it, and he perceived that it was moving. It was bending over very slowly indeed. It moved, however, faster and faster, and presently began to come tearing down between the branches of the other trees, and, at length, descended with a mighty crash to the ground. Jonas thought that it was a very fine spectacle indeed. He wished that Oliver had been there to see it. Jonas then went to Mr. Woodman, and transacted his business successfully, according to the farmer's directions. Then he turned around, and began to walk back, as fast as he could go. "I am afraid," said he to himself, "that Oliver is almost out of patience waiting for me." [Illustration] CHAPTER X. A SURPRISE Jonas walked on until he came out of the woods, at the house where he had seen the boy cut wood. As he approached the place, he saw that the boy was there still; but there was a man with him. The man had a goad-stick in his hand. "He is driving a team somewhere," said Jonas to himself. "I wonder where his oxen are." A moment afterwards, Jonas came in sight of the oxen, which were in the road, having been hid from his view before, by the wood pile. The man and the boy looked at Jonas, as he walked towards them. The man smiled a little, as if he knew Jonas; but Jonas thought that he had never seen him before. "Well, Jonas," said the man, "did you find Mr. Woodman?" "Yes, sir," replied Jonas. He wondered how the man happened to know his name. "I'm glad of it," said he; "and you'd better make haste back. Rollo is almost tired of waiting for you." "Oliver, you mean," said Jonas. "No," said the man,--"Rollo; he said his name was Rollo." "Rollo?" said Jonas; "his name is Oliver. I don't see what made him tell you that his name was Rollo." So saying, Jonas walked thoughtfully away, wondering what this could mean. He had never known Oliver to do any such thing before. Oliver, he thought, would not tell a falsehood on any account. He was not inclined to say any thing of that kind by way of jest. He was a very sober and sedate, as well as honest boy. Besides, he could not think what should have put Rollo into Oliver's head. He did not recollect that he had said any thing of Rollo for a long time. In fact, he had seldom told Oliver any thing about him; and what could have induced him to call himself Rollo, he could not conceive. However, he had nothing to do but to go on, for the more he attempted to imagine some explanation of the mystery, the more he was puzzled. So he walked on as diligently as he could. He came, at length, in sight of the spot where he had left the horse and Oliver. The horse was there, but Oliver was not to be seen. "He has got tired of waiting, and has gone away," said Jonas; "or perhaps he is playing about near." This last supposition was pretty soon, for a moment, confirmed; for Jonas saw, very soon after, a boy's head on the bank of the brook, at a little distance below. "There he is now," said Jonas to himself. "No, it isn't he. That boy isn't dressed like Oliver. I wonder who it is." The boy had a long pole in his hand, and was pushing cakes of ice with it. He was so intent upon this amusement, that at first he did not see Jonas; but, presently, looking up, his eye suddenly caught a view of Jonas, coming, and he instantly dropped his pole, and ran towards him, shouting,-- "Jonas!" "Why, Rollo!" exclaimed Jonas, in his turn. "How came you to be here?" It was Rollo, indeed. Jonas was astonished. He could scarcely believe his senses. "Is it possible that this is you?" said he. "Yes," said Rollo, laughing with great delight, "I believe it is." "And how came you here? I left Oliver here an hour ago, little thinking that he would turn into Rollo while I was gone." "Oliver?" said Rollo, "who is Oliver?" "Why, don't you know Oliver?" said Jonas. "He is the farmer's son. He came with me, and I left him here to the care of the sleigh. Haven't you seen any thing of him?" "No," replied Rollo, "nothing; there was nobody here when I came." "What can have become of him, then?" said Jonas. "I hope he is not lost in the woods." So saying, Jonas began to call aloud, "Oliver! Oliver!" But no Oliver answered. "Let us see if we can find any tracks," said he; and he and Rollo began to look about for tracks. "What's this?" said Rollo, looking down intently upon the snow, pretty near where the horse had been tied. "Any tracks?" said Jonas. "No," said Rollo, "but some writing in the snow." So Rollo began to read the writing in a slow manner, as he walked along from one word to another; for, the letters being large, the sentence extended quite a distance from where it first attracted his attention. He read as follows:-- "'Jonas,--I--am--tired of writing,'--no, 'waiting. I am going--back--to--the--mill.'" "Let me see," said Jonas. So Jonas came to the place, and saw the writing. Rollo had read it correctly. "Yes," said Jonas, "he has gone back to the mill, no doubt. We will go, and we shall find him there;--but when did you come from home? and how did you find where I was?" Rollo, in answer to Jonas's question, explained to him that his father had given him permission to take the horse and sleigh and Nathan, and come and pay Jonas a visit. He had arrived at the farmer's that day, just after Jonas and Oliver had set out. The farmer told them where Jonas had gone, and he was very desirous of going after him. He said that he had no doubt that he could find him. The farmer had hesitated a little; but finally he gave his consent, and Rollo set off, leaving Nathan at the farmer's, as he was rather tired. He had followed Jonas to the mill, and then he inquired of the people whether Jonas had been there. A man in the road told him that he had seen Jonas ride away on a certain road; and so Rollo had followed on in the road pointed out to him, as he knew that it was not far that he was to go. When Rollo had got so far in his story, Jonas interrupted him to ask,-- "Were you on foot, Rollo?" "No," replied Rollo, "in my sleigh." "And where is your sleigh?" asked Jonas. "Why, I left it out here a little way. When I found that the snow was deep, and my horse slumped in pretty bad, I left him by the side of the road, and walked on to see if I could see any thing of you. I soon found your sleigh, run out of the path, and the horse tied under a tree over the brook. So I knew that you couldn't be far off." "And you did not go any farther." "No," said Rollo; "I thought it would be better for me to stay by the sleigh, and wait for you." Jonas asked Rollo a great many questions about all the people at home--his father and mother, and his cousin Lucy; and he said that he was very glad indeed, that Rollo had come to see him. "Do you have a pretty good time upon the farm?" said Rollo. "Yes," said Jonas, "very good indeed. You would like to be here very much." "Are there any boys for me to play with?" said Rollo. "Yes," said Jonas, "there is Oliver, though he don't play much. He works nearly all the time. But then there is Josey, though he has gone home now." "I saw a boy at the mill," said Rollo, "when I came along. I verily believe it was Oliver." "How big was he?" asked Jonas. "O, about as big as I am," said Rollo. "And what was he doing?" said Jonas. "O, he was playing about on the rocks, under the falls. But he didn't seem to have much to do. He stopped and looked at me when I was coming by." "Very likely it was he," said Jonas. "If he had only known who you were, he would have liked very much to have come along with you; and you would have been good company for each other. "And O, Rollo," said Jonas again, very eagerly, "there's somebody you'll like very much indeed." "Who is it?" said Rollo. "Franco Ney," said Jonas. "Franco Ney!" repeated Rollo; "I never heard a boy named Franco before. How old is he?" "I don't know," said Jonas. "Don't know? Well, where does he live?--at your house?" "No," said Jonas. Jonas was correct in this answer, for Franco was accustomed to live in the barn. After some other conversation, Rollo, suddenly looking up, said,-- "How far is it, Jonas, from your house to Mr. Ney's?" Jonas laughed very heartily at this question, but gave no answer. Rollo could not imagine what he could he laughing at. Jonas, however, would not tell him, but said that he would know all about it, when he should come to see Franco Ney. "Well," said Rollo, "I'll ask him why you wouldn't tell me where his father lives." Very soon Rollo and Jonas arrived at the mill. They found Oliver safe there, waiting for them; and the rolls, too, were ready. As they did not like to tumble the rolls, Oliver rode with Rollo in his sleigh, and Jonas took care of the rolls. Rollo was greatly astonished, as well as very much pleased, when he came to see Franco Ney. [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. THE SNOW FORT, OR GOOD FOR EVIL The next morning, after breakfast, Oliver proposed to Rollo, that they should go down to the pond, and build a snow fort. During the night, there had been a slight thaw, accompanied with some rain. The body of snow on the ground had become softened and adhesive by the moisture, and was, as Jonas said, "in prime condition for all sorts of snow work." Oliver borrowed of Jonas the large wooden snow-shovel, with a blade nearly two feet square, used in cutting out the paths around the house. Rollo assisted him to strap it on the hand-sled, together with some boards, two iron shovels, and a hoe. "The Conqueror"--for that was the name of his sled--"will have to be captive to-day," said Oliver, as he bound the load upon the sled, which he and Rollo were going to drag down to the pond. "You had better take the garden-reel and line," said Jonas to Oliver, "if you intend to make a good fort. You will want to stretch your line so as to make the sides square, and to guide you in cutting out your blocks of snow." "O, we don't want to be so particular as that," said Oliver. "But I thought," said Jonas, "that your plan last evening was, to do your work in a workmanlike manner. If you want a substantial fort to last all winter, you must lay a good foundation, and cut your courses true, so that they will rest firmly one upon the other,--and especially if you are going to have a roof." "We mean to have a roof," said Rollo, "or we cannot illuminate it in the evening." "Well, then," said Jonas, "I advise you to take the line, and build according to rule." Oliver had not forgotten what Jonas had often told him about doing his work like a workman. "_What is worth doing at all, is worth doing well_" Jonas used to say. So Oliver went to get the reel and line. While he was gone to the tool-house, Rollo thought of Franco Ney, and began to call aloud, "Franco! Franco!" Franco did not come. "Franco! Franco--o! Franco--o! Where _is_ Franco?" said Rollo; "we can't go without him." "He won't mind you," said Oliver, as he came running back. "You call him, then," said Rollo. Oliver whistled the dog call, and in a moment, Franco came running from the poultry yard with a bone in his mouth, which he had been gnawing for a breakfast. At that moment, Nathan came running out of the door, with a luncheon in his hand for them all. The farmer's wife had put up in a paper an apple turn-over and a nut-cake for each of the boys, as they were going on so important an expedition. Very soon, every thing was ready, and they started for the scene of operations, eager for their work, Oliver and Rollo drawing the sled, and Nathan and Franco following on behind. When they arrived near the pond, Oliver pointed to a little mound, not far from the edge of the water, which overlooked the principal skating-ground of the village boys in winter. "There, Rollo," said Oliver, "there's the place for a fort. Many a pleasant time we have had there, in a clear winter night, watching the skaters all the way up to the head of the pond. The fires look splendidly." "It is a good place for a lookout," said Rollo; "but then I wouldn't build it here. Let us go down nearer the pond." "No," said Oliver; "if we go down near the pond, as likely as not, the first skating night, some of the boys will tear our fort all to pieces." "What if they do?" said Rollo. "I want it to last all winter," said Oliver. Rollo yielded to Oliver's wishes, and they began together to unbind their load of boards and tools. "Come, Nathan," said Oliver, "we want you to help us now." Rollo and Nathan measured with the reel and line, while Oliver planted a stake firmly in the snow at the four corners of the square. According to Jonas's advice, the evening before, they had agreed to make their fortification twelve feet square, and the walls about one foot thick. Rollo and Nathan held the cord, stretched from corner to corner, just along the surface of the snow, while Oliver, with the shovel, cut the snow square down to the ground, more than a foot and a half deep. In this way they went round the whole enclosure, outside. They then went inside, and, by a similar process, cut away the snow so as to leave an unbroken line of snow wall about ten feet square and one foot wide. "There," said Oliver, "there are the sills, as Jonas called them. It is what _I_ call a good foundation." After this, Oliver asked Rollo to bring in the measuring-board inside of the fort. Oliver and Rollo remembered what Jonas had told them about "commanding and obeying," and agreed to take turns in being "director." It was Oliver's turn for the first hour, and Rollo was to obey him. Nathan was to assist them both, when he was wanted. Oliver, therefore, took the command, and directed where and how to cut out the snow, in the manner which Jonas had described. They proceeded with the measuring-board, to mark off, and cut out by it, solid blocks of snow about four feet long, one foot wide, and one thick. Rollo laid down the measuring-board on the snow, and then both of them, with the shovels, cut down the snow perpendicularly along the edges, so as to have all the snow-blocks of precisely the same length, breadth, and thickness. These they laid in courses, on the top of the foundation. It took just three blocks to form a side, excepting the side where the door was, which they left three feet wide. After working more than two hours, and laying two courses, they shoveled out all the broken snow that remained inside, and then sat down on the sled to eat their luncheon and rest. "How do you like the looks of it, Rollo?" said Oliver. "_Well_," said Rollo; "only I don't see how we can make a roof." "Jonas will help us do that," said Oliver, "if we do the rest of the work well." The boys, however, were now pretty tired. They had worked very hard. They pulled off their caps, and with their handkerchiefs wiped the perspiration from their foreheads. "Don't let us work any longer now," said Nathan, rubbing his hands, and knocking one foot against the other. "I think we have done enough for one day; and my feet are _so_ cold!" "_We've_ done enough!" said Oliver. "I think Rollo and I have had the principal _doing_ to do. You and Franco have been looking on." "'What you've to do Get done to-day, And do not for to-morrow stay; There's always danger in delay'"-- said Rollo. "I think we had better finish it now. Come, Nathan, jump about here on the sled, and you will soon be warm." So they went briskly at work again, Rollo taking the command. They found it very hard, after the second course, to get the snow-blocks up on the snowy wall. Often they would slip away out of their hands, just as they were lodging them safely on the top, and fall over on one side of the wall, and break to pieces. "Let us cut them in two," said Oliver; "we can handle them better so." Before they got through the fourth course, they were glad to cut all their materials into pieces of one foot square. "How high are the walls now?" said Rollo, as they stopped to look at the appearance of the last course. "Between five and six feet," said Oliver. "The foundation is at least a foot and a half high, and we have laid four courses." Oliver, Rollo, and Nathan went to work together, then, stopping up all the chinks in the wall, inside and out, with soft snow. When this was well done, Oliver took the hoe, and with the sharp edge shaved down all around on both sides, making the walls look even and true. "Well," said Rollo, "that is the best snow fort I ever saw. Jonas does know how to do things, doesn't he, Oliver? But I don't see how we are to get a roof on." "I don't care about a roof," said Oliver. "We don't want to play in it only in pleasant weather." "I'll tell you what we might do," said Rollo. "We could make a partition through the middle, and put a roof over half of it." "So we can," said Oliver. "We'll do that this afternoon. It's time to go to dinner now." The boys then gathered all the tools, &c., and laid them together, as Jonas had taught them to do, when they finished work, and then started for home. "Halloo, Franco," said Rollo, "are you here still?" They had been so busy at work, they had taken no notice of him. But Franco had watched their operations, and now went running on in the path before the boys, wagging his tail, as if he had as much pleasure as they, in contemplating the result of their morning's labor. When Jonas came home to dinner, at noon, the boys were impatient to tell him what they had done. But Jonas was too much engaged in some work about the new barn to listen to their story then. He told them, however, that he would go down about sunset, and look at their work, and hear the account, in the evening, of the experiment in doing work like workmen. After dinner, Oliver was excused from many of his regular duties, on account of the visit of Rollo and Nathan; and the three boys hastened to return to their fort. They were so intent on finishing it, that they lost all interest in playing with Franco, or each other. "What shall we call our fort?" said Oliver, as they walked along. "We don't want any name, do we?" said Rollo. "O, yes," said Oliver, "let us have a name. I always like to have a name. There's the old 'General,'--we have had many a good time with him; and my 'Conqueror,'--there isn't a boy in town that doesn't know my sled." "We might call it 'Gibraltar,'" said Rollo. "Yes, that's a good name," said Oliver. "How do you like 'Iceberg Castle'? Jonas was telling us all about the icebergs the other evening; and I read a story, about a famous 'Ice Palace' in Russia; how do you like that?" "I don't like that," said Rollo. "Ours is a _fort_; it isn't a palace." "If you are going to have it a palace," said Nathan, "whom will you have for a _king_?" "You may be king, Nathan," said Rollo, "and we will soon demolish your palace, and make a prisoner of you." "No, no," said Oliver, "the fort shall stand as long as ice will last. I mean to pour water all over it, and freeze it into solid ice; and I expect the last ice to be seen any where about next spring, will be the ruins of the old fort." After some discussion, the boys agreed to call it "Iceberg Castle." They then took a survey, inside and out, of their morning's work, and decided to proceed at once and build the partition which Rollo proposed before dinner. At Oliver's suggestion, Rollo was director. For more than an hour they continued their toil, in constructing the partition. Jonas had given them no instructions about this; and they found it much more difficult than the walls, on account of the small, low door, which they had to make, to lead from one apartment into the other. At last, as Oliver and Nathan were drawing through the outer door a small heap of loose snow, which they had gathered up from the floor of the inner room, Rollo followed them, shouting, as they emerged from the fort, "Done, boys, done!--Hurrah for Iceberg Castle!" "I wish Jonas was here now," said Oliver; "but I suppose it will be two or three hours before he can come down." "Can't we do something more?" said Rollo. "I wish we could put on a roof, before he comes." "I don't believe we can do that," said Oliver. The boys walked in and out, and all around the fort, again and again, admiring its appearance, and thinking what else they could do. "It wouldn't be a bad plan to have a king, as Nathan said, in our castle; would it, Oliver?" said Rollo. "Not at all," said Oliver. "Let us make a king, or a giant, to keep the premises for us, when we are away." So saying, they all set to work rolling snow-balls to make him. Oliver rolled up a huge mass, for his body, larger than they could at first get through the doors. Rollo rolled one for his head, and Nathan made several small ones. In one corner of the inner room, they laid a small platform, of several square, flat blocks of snow, for a throne, as Rollo called it; and here they placed his "Majesty." "It seems to me," said Oliver, "that the King of the Frozen Regions ought to have a crown and a court." No sooner said than done. A little band of snow-balls, in double rows, soon encircled his brow, surmounted, too, with icicles and stalactites, which Nathan brought from the brook. The opposite corners of the room were soon decorated with corresponding figures, whom Rollo introduced as Lord and Lady Frost. He had scarcely pronounced the names, when Jonas walked in, to the surprise and great delight of the boys. "Well done, boys," said Jonas; "I think you have followed directions this time. I give you credit for doing your work in a workmanlike manner. But I can't stay to talk with you about it now. Your father, Oliver, wishes me to go out on the pond, and bring home the sled we left there, the other night, in the storm. The wind has come out in the north-west, and there is every prospect of a bitter cold night. It has begun to stiffen already, and, before morning, the sled may be locked up in solid ice." Jonas hurried away, and the boys, not a little disappointed, gathered all their implements together to return home. "It _will_ be a cold night; won't it?" said Oliver, as he looked off to the north-west. How fast it grows cold! It freezes now. I was in hopes we should have one more mild day. But we can't get a roof on after this." "Won't it make good skating on the pond," asked Rollo, "if the water freezes now?" "Yes, indeed," said Oliver. "I shouldn't be surprised if there was skating there to-night. It's only a thin sheet of water over the ice and snow. Three or four hours of real cold will make ice enough for that. "Come, Nathan, jump on the sled, and you shall have a ride. Rollo and I will be your horses. Mother will have supper ready by the time we get home." Nathan, glad of a ride, took his seat, and they were soon at the house. Oliver took the snow-shovels and the other tools, and returned them to their proper places, and then drew up his sled into a corner of the wagon-house. After tea, Oliver and Rollo went out into the yard to feel the air, and judge of the impression the night would probably make upon "Iceberg Castle" and its inhabitants. It was clear and cold. The stars twinkled brightly. The moon was not up. "See there!" said Oliver; "I do believe they are building a fire down on the pond already. There'll be a skating party to-night, no doubt." The boys returned to a cheerful room with a good fire, and were seated round the table, to amuse themselves for the evening. They passed the time pleasantly until Jonas returned from the pond. "O Jonas, Jonas," they all said, as he came in, "what made you stay so long?" Jonas gave them an account of his adventures, and of his meeting a party of skaters, who were already on the pond, expecting to be joined, in the course of the evening, by a much larger number from the village. After Jonas had taken his supper, the boys gathered around him to talk about their fort, every now and then running to the door or window, to see the fire on the pond. Long before it went out, Oliver, Rollo, and Nathan, were in a sound sleep. The next morning, early, they appeared as impatient to run down to the "Castle," as if they had dreamed of it all night long; and before the fire was well burning in the great room, they all three came running back to Jonas, out of breath, and with sad faces, exclaiming,-- "O Jonas! Jonas! our fort is all torn to pieces!" True enough, some of the boys of the skating party had completely demolished the Castle. Oliver and Rollo were greatly excited; they were grieved, and they were angry, and could scarcely refrain from expressing wishes of vengeance which it was not in their power to execute. Jonas sympathized with them in their severe disappointment. "'Tis _too bad_," said Rollo. "'Tis _too bad_," repeated Oliver. "How shall we pay them for it? Jonas, tell us how?" "Pay them for it?" said Jonas; "that isn't the way I should do." "Well, I think they deserve it," said Rollo. "So do I," said Oliver. "What do you mean by paying them for it?" said Jonas; "giving them as much injury and pain as they have given you? Don't you remember the lesson that Franco taught us, that to return good for evil was good policy as well as good morals?" "Well, what would you do, Jonas?" they both asked together. "I don't know now," said Jonas, "what I would do. I will think of it. But this I know,--that we ought _never to be overcome of evil, but to overcome evil with good_." Oliver and Rollo wondered what Jonas would do. 
19889	----	NAUGHTY MISS BUNNY. [Illustration: THE BUTLER SURPRISES BUNNY.] NAUGHTY MISS BUNNY A STORY FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. BY CLARA MULHOLLAND Author of "The Little Bog-trotters," &c. [Illustration: Logo] LONDON BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED, 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C. GLASGOW AND DUBLIN CONTENTS. Chap. Page I. ONLY FOR FUN, 9 II. PLEASANT NEWS FOR BUNNY, 27 III. BUNNY GETS UP EARLY, 37 IV. BUNNY GETS A FRIGHT, 49 V. THE LITTLE INDIAN, 59 VI. BUNNY FORGETS AGAIN, 69 VII. IN MISS KERR'S ROOM, 83 VIII. BUNNY TRIES TO SHOW OFF, 99 IX. MISS KERR PROMISES A PRIZE, 125 X. ON OLIVER'S MOUNT, 138 XI. WAS IT CRUEL? 152 XII. THE FIREWORKS, 167 XIII. QUIET TIMES, 179 XIV. BUNNY'S IMPROVEMENT. HOME AGAIN, 185 ILLUSTRATIONS. Page THE BUTLER SURPRISES BUNNY, _Frontispiece_ 19 BUNNY WELCOMES HER FATHER, 50 FRANCIS SAVES BUNNY, 115 [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] NAUGHTY MISS BUNNY. CHAPTER I. ONLY FOR FUN. "How nice!" cried Bunny. "Mama has sent for Miss Kerr, so I can do exactly as I like for a little while. I am very glad papa brought us up here, for it is so pretty and so cool, and these gardens are so lovely;" and she gazed about her at the garden and the lawn and then at the distant sea that lay just beyond them, sparkling and dancing in the sunshine. "If I had no governess," continued the little girl, "and no lessons, and no nasty nurse to say, 'Sit still, Miss Bunny,' and 'Don't make dirty your frock, Miss Bunny,' I think I should be jolly--yes, that's papa's word, jolly. But, oh dear, big people are so happy, for they can do what they like, but _chindrel_ must do everything they are told." And quite forgetting her pretty white frock and dainty sash, and the many orders she had received not on any account to soil them, she lay back comfortably upon the grass. Bunny, whose real name was Ethel Dashwood, was six years old, and was one of the spoilt "_chindrel_," as she called children. If she had had brothers and sisters, very likely Bunny would have been kept in better order, but as she was quite alone no one could bear to correct her, and so she became very hard to manage indeed. Her papa indulged her, and thought she could do nothing wrong, whilst her mama was so delicate that she was very seldom able to look after her little girl, and left her to the care of a kind-hearted, but foolish old nurse, who allowed her to have her own way in everything and never for an instant thought of finding fault with her. This was all very well so long as Bunny was no more than a baby, but when she came to be six years old Mr. Dashwood suddenly found that her little girl was much too naughty, so she resolved to make a change in the nursery, that would, she hoped, have a good effect in every way. First of all old nurse was sent away, and a trim French maid, with a quick sharp manner, was engaged to take her place. Bunny was sorry to part with nurse, who had always been kind to her, but Sophie was so amusing, spoke such funny English, and sang such merry songs that the little girl soon ceased to fret, and became quite pleased with her new maid. The change of nurses Bunny bore in a quiet way that surprised everyone in the house; but when her mother told her that she had arranged with a young lady to come and live with them and be her governess, the little girl burst into a passion, and stamping her foot declared she would have no one to teach her, that she would say no lessons, and that her mama was very unkind to think of such a thing. Mrs. Dashwood was greatly shocked, and unable to understand such naughtiness, rang the bell and ordered Sophie to take the child away, and Bunny was carried off weeping bitterly. But this fit of anger only made her mama more anxious to have some one to look after her daughter, and in a few days the governess arrived, and Bunny was set down to learn to read and write. This was a great change for the neglected child, and had her teacher been a sensible person Bunny would doubtless have become a good little girl in time. But unfortunately the governess was very foolish, and thought it much easier to allow her pupil to have her own way than to take the trouble to make her do what was right, and so instead of doing the child good she did her harm, and Bunny became more and more naughty every day. This was in June, and as London grew very hot and dusty, Mrs. Dashwood declared they must all go away to the country, and her husband, who wished them to have a nice holiday, went off at once and took a beautiful house at Scarborough. Bunny was enchanted, and made up her mind to have great fun at the seaside, and as the very day before they left town, her governess was obliged to leave in a great hurry on account of a death in her family, the little girl made up her mind that she was going to have perfect freedom to do exactly what she liked and to play every day upon the sea-beach. Sophie did not trouble her much except when she was cross, and so Bunny set off to Scarborough in very high spirits. The house her papa had taken for them was a pretty rambling old place, standing on a height just above the sea, and surrounded by spreading trees and large gardens full of sweet-scented flowers. A most charming spot indeed, and to the little girl from hot dusty London it seemed a perfect paradise. The first days in the country passed away very happily, and Bunny was not as wild as might have been expected by those who knew her, when one day, as she ran through the hall, she stopped in astonishment before a large trunk, and cried out to the butler, who was standing near, "Who does that belong to, Ashton? Has a visitor come to stay with us?" "A visitor, miss? No, a new governess, miss--she's just gone in to speak to your mama;" and he hurried away to his pantry. "Nasty thing!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot and growing very red and angry. Just when I thought I was going to be happy all by myself! But I'll be so naughty, and so troublesome, that she'll soon go away. I'll be ten times as hard to manage as I was before. She'll not get hold of me to-night any way, and scampering off into the garden she hid herself among the trees. But the new governess, Miss Kerr, was a very different person from the last, and resolved to do her best to make her little pupil a good well-behaved child. She was a kind, warm-hearted girl, who had a great many small brothers and sisters of her own, and she never doubted that in a short time Bunny would become as good and obedient as they were. She soon found, however, that the task was not as easy as she had fancied, and when she had been a few days at Holly Lodge she began to fear that it would be a very long time before her lectures and advice would have the smallest effect upon the wayward little child. She had now been a whole week in charge of the girl, and she feared that Bunny would never learn to love her. About half an hour before our story begins, Bunny and her governess had been seated on the lawn together. Mrs. Dashwood sent to ask Miss Kerr to go to her for a few moments, and that young lady had hastened into the house, leaving her little charge upon the grass with her book. "Do not stir from here till I return, Bunny," she said; "you can go over that little lesson again, and I shall not be long." But as time went on and she did not return the child grew restless, and feeling very tired of sitting still, began to look about to see what there was for her to do. "Governesses are great bothers," she grumbled to herself as she rolled about on the grass. "And now as Miss Kerr does not seem to be coming back, I think I will have a climb up that tree--it looks so easy I'm sure I could go up ever so high. There's nobody looking, so I'll just see if I can go right away up--as high as that little bird up there." Bunny was very quick in her movements, and a minute later her white frock and blue sash were fluttering about among the leaves and branches of a fine old tree that grew in the middle of the lawn. "Oh, dear! How lovely it would be to be a bird--cheep, cheep! If I only had wings I should just feel like one this minute, perched up so high," she said with a merry laugh, as she jumped and wriggled about on the branch. But she quite forgot that the nursery window overlooked the lawn, and that Sophie was sure to be sitting there at her work. In a moment, however, this fact was recalled to her mind by the sound of a wild shriek from the terrified maid. "Mademoiselle! Miss Bunny, you want to kill yourself, or tear your sweet frock. Ah! naughty child, get down this instants, or I will tell monsieur your papa." This was the one threat that had any power to move Miss Bunny, so down she scrambled and ran away as fast as she could over the grass. There was still no sign of Miss Kerr, so the child wandered about, wondering what was keeping her governess, and wishing she had something to do, when all at once her eyes fell on a beautiful rose-tree, almost weighed down with the quantity of its flowers, and she flew at it in delight and began to pull off the lovely blossoms and pin one of them into the front of her frock. But like most foolish children she broke them off so short that there was no stalk left with which to fasten them, and so the poor rose fell upon the ground, and the little girl impatiently snatched at another and dragged it ruthlessly from the branch. This went on for some time, and would probably have gone on until not a flower remained upon the bush, had not Sophie again made herself heard from the nursery window. "Miss Bunny, how can you derange the beautiful roses?" she cried indignantly. "There will be not one left to give to your papa when he comes home, and you know he loves those sweet flowers so much." "Oh, I am so sorry," cried Bunny. "But there are some dear little buds, and I will just leave them for papa. Who knows perhaps they may be roses by to-morrow evening!" and away she flitted like a white-winged butterfly in search of some other sweet flowers that she might make her own, without fear of further interruption from sharp-tongued Sophie. At last, when she had such a large bouquet that her little hands could scarcely hold it, she wearied of her occupation, and stepping softly to the drawing-room window, she peeped in just to see what Miss Kerr and her mama could be doing that kept them shut up there for so long together. "I'll take mama these flowers," she said to herself, "and I am sure they will make her headache better. I'll just tap gently at the window and Miss Kerr will let me in, and I'll be so good and quiet that mama will not mind me being with her while she talks." Bunny waited for some minutes, hoping to be admitted to the room, but no notice was taken of her knocking--for the ladies were too much absorbed in their own affairs to trouble themselves about her. Mrs. Dashwood lay on the sofa, and her face had a flushed anxious expression, as she listened to Miss Kerr, who was seated on a stool by her side, and seemed to be talking very earnestly, but her voice was low, and as the window was shut Bunny could not hear a word she said. "Oh dear, what a lot Miss Kerr has got to say!" cried the little girl impatiently. "She seems as if she had forgotten all about me. I am tired of being out here all alone, so I'll just run in and play with my dollies." Now the nearest way into the house was up a flight of steps and in by the dining-room window, which was like a large glass door, and always lay open in the most tempting manner possible. So up these steps went Miss Bunny, her hands full of flowers and her mind bent on mischief, if she could only meet with anything to do that would amuse her and give her some fun. [Illustration: THE BUTLER SURPRISES BUNNY.] The room into which she stepped was a very pretty one. It was very nearly round, with many high windows looking out upon the pleasant grounds and blue sparkling sea. Upon the walls were pictures of fine thoroughbred horses, some of them with their little foals beside them, others with a surly-looking old dog or a tiny kitten, their favourite stable companion and friend. Bunny loved these pictures and had given the horses pet names of her own, by which she insisted on calling them, although their own well-known names were printed under them, for they were all horses that had won a great number of races during their lives, and so had become celebrated. The round table in the middle of the room was laid ready for dinner, and looked very inviting with its prettily arranged flowers, handsome silver, and shining glass. "Dear me, how nice it all looks!" said Bunny, as she marched round the table on tip-toe. "One, two, three, four places. Why, it must be for company. Well, I hope there will be somebody nice to talk to me. I must get Sophie to put on my pretty new frock. But oh, dear, what fun it would be just to put a tiny, little drop of water into every glass! Wouldn't old Ashton wonder--just when he thinks everything is nice for dinner? I will! I'll do it! It will be such fun! Oh, I'd like to see his face; won't he be horribly angry?" Throwing her flowers on the floor, Bunny sprang to the side-board, and seizing a water-jug she climbed up on each chair in turn and poured a few drops of water into every glass all round the dinner-table. Just as she came to the last wine-glass and held the jug ready to let the water fall into it, the door opened suddenly and the solemn-looking old butler entered the room. "Miss Bunny!" he exclaimed, and he looked so stern and angry that the little girl felt frightened, and dropping the jug, scrambled off the chair, seized her flowers, and ran out of his sight as fast as she could. "I only did it for fun, Ashton," she called back from the door. "It is clean water, so it won't do any harm." "Harm, indeed!" grumbled Ashton; "just as I thought I had everything done until dinner time. Now I must begin and rub up all this glass again;" and he began at once to remove the glasses from the table. "Little himp that she is, that Miss Bunny! A perfect himp, and if I had the governessing of her for sometime I'd--I'd--bah! there's that bell again! Some folks is in a mighty hurry," and full of anger and indignation against the little girl whom he could not punish for her naughty trick, Ashton hurried to the hall door, longing for something upon which he could vent his wrath. Bunny was skipping merrily in the hall, and the pretty roses that she had gathered with so much pleasure lay scattered on the ground. This sight did not tend to put the butler in a better temper, but he made no remark, and passing by the little girl without a word he opened the hall door with a jerk. A poor boy with a thin pinched face stood upon the step. "If you please, sir, will you give me a bit of bread, for I am very hungry?" he said in an imploring voice, as he gazed up into the butler's face. "There's nothing for you. How dare you come here with your wretched lies?" cried Ashton fiercely, and he shut the door with a bang. "That's not true, Ashton," cried Bunny darting forward and opening the door again. "Wait, little boy, and I will get you something!" and before the astonished butler knew where he was, she had rushed into the dining-room, and came back carrying a large loaf and a pat of butter that she had found upon the side-board. "You must not give that away, Miss Bunny," cried the man; "that is in my charge, and I cannot allow you to give it to a beggar;" and he tried to drag the bread from her hands. "You nasty man! I will give it to him if I like," she screamed. "My papa always lets me do what I like, and you are only a servant--and I will give it;" and she struggled to get away from him. "I only put the water in your glasses for fun--but I'm very glad I did it--and I wish I had put dirty water in--and I wish--let me go--I'll tell papa, and he'll be very angry and--" "Bunny," said a soft reproachful voice, "my dear child, what is the matter?" and Miss Kerr laid her hand gently upon the little girl's shoulder. "That nasty Ashton won't let me give this loaf to a poor boy who is there begging," cried Bunny; "he's very hungry and I want--" "Ashton is quite right, Bunny," said Miss Kerr gently; "give him back the loaf, dear. It is not yours, so you have no right to give it away. Have you no money of your own to give the boy?" "No, I have not," cried Bunny bursting into tears, "and I am sure papa would not mind my giving the loaf away--he never does. Ashton's a nasty, cross old thing;" and she flung the loaf on the floor. "Ashton is only doing his duty, Bunny, and you must not speak in that way." "Well, I wish he wouldn't do his duty then," sobbed the little girl; "it's a great shame of him to do his duty, when I tell him not." "Come, now, dear, dry your eyes and give this to the poor boy," said Miss Kerr kindly; "see, I will lend you threepence to give to him, and when your papa gives you some pocket-money you can repay me. The boy will like the money better than the bread, I daresay, and you will feel that you are giving something that is really your own." "Oh, thank you, thank you!" cried Bunny with delight, her tears drying up in an instant. "You are good! You are kind!" and throwing her arms round Miss Kerr's neck she kissed her over and over again; then seizing the pennies she flew to the door, and handing them to the boy said in a subdued voice: "Here, boy, a good lady gave me these pennies for you. I am a greedy little girl and spend all my own money on sweets, but I'll save up and pay Miss Kerr back very soon." "That is enough, Bunny," said the governess, taking the child by the hand. "I have something to tell you, dear, so come with me now." "Very well, I will come," answered Bunny quite meekly, and shutting the door, she followed Miss Kerr down the hall. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER II. PLEASANT NEWS FOR BUNNY. "And now, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, as she led the little girl into the library and took her on her knee, "I am afraid you have been a very naughty child. I do not like to scold you, you know, but when children are told to stay in one place they should do so, and not run about all over the house in the way you seem to have been doing." "But you were so long away," replied Bunny, "and I was tired sitting there all by myself. Sophie kept screaming at me not to touch the flowers, so I had nothing to do." "And what about the lesson? Did you learn that?" "No, I didn't, it was so stupid," said Bunny, "I got quite tired of it, and all the letters went wrong, so I thought I would go to the nursery and play with my toys, and then when I went into the dining-room there was nobody there, and I thought it would be great fun to tease old Ashton, so I jumped on the chairs and poured water into all the glasses, and he was so angry; and oh it was fun to see his face when he cried out, 'Miss Bunny!'" and carried away with delight at the recollection of her naughty trick, the little girl clapped her hands and laughed long and merrily. "But, my dear child, do you not know that that was extremely naughty conduct?" said Miss Kerr gravely. "It is very wicked to make anyone angry, and it was very unkind of you to play such a trick upon Ashton. How would you like if he were to spoil your toys or break your dolls for you?" "Oh, I shouldn't like it at all," answered Bunny; "I'd be awfully cross, and I'd get papa to send him away. That would be a good way to punish him, I know." "Well, Bunny, you think you could punish him but he has no way of punishing you, so you should always be very careful not to annoy or trouble him. Besides, my child, we should never do anything to other people that we know we would not like them to do to us. God wishes us to be good and kind to everyone about us, remember, and to be unkind is to disobey Him." "Oh, then, I'm very sorry that I was so naughty," cried Bunny, "for Sophie told me this morning that God has been good and kind to me always, for she says He gave me all the nice things I have, and my papa and mama, so I should not like to vex Him when He has been so kind to me." "If my little Bunny will just remember that, whenever she feels inclined to be naughty she will soon find it easy to be good, and she will be a much happier child, for then she will know that she is pleasing God who has been good to her." "Oh, I will try, dear Miss Kerr, indeed I will," said the little girl; "I'll be good and kind to God, and you, and papa, and mama, because you are all so good to me;" and she laid her soft cheek against Miss Kerr's face. "That is right, darling," said the governess with a smile; "and now that I have given you a little lecture, and you have promised to be good, I have a piece of news to tell you that will, I am sure, give you great pleasure;" and she smoothed the child's fair hair with her hand. "Good news! Oh, dear Miss Kerr, do tell me what it is," cried the little girl eagerly. "Well, I have been having a long talk with your mama, Bunny, and--" "Oh, yes, I know that. I saw you talk, talk, talk, only I couldn't hear what you were saying, because the window was shut." "No, I suppose not, dear, but listen. Your mama says you have an uncle in India who has a little son of seven years old--" "Oh, I know that, Miss Kerr! Why, that's no news! Of course I know about Uncle Jim and Cousin Mervyn. I never saw them though, but still I know they are in India, an awfully hot place it is, Sophie says." "Yes, so it is. But would you like to see this Cousin Mervyn, do you think?" "Oh, I'd just love to see him--but is he black? Sophie says the people in those countries are black. Oh, I shouldn't like a black cousin, Miss Kerr, indeed I should not," cried Bunny in a piteous voice. "You little goose, he's not black at all," cried Miss Kerr, laughing at the little girl's look of consternation; "I have never seen him, but his papa is supposed to be like your mama, so I daresay he will have fair hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks something very like your own." "Oh, I'm glad he is like that, for indeed I could not bear a black cousin. Once I had a black doll given to me for a present, and I screamed and screamed till nurse put it away out of the nursery." "It is certainly very lucky that your cousin is not black, for it would never do to scream at him, would it?" said Miss Kerr, "for he has arrived in London and is coming here with your papa to-morrow evening." "Oh, I am glad! Oh, I am glad!" sang Bunny, dancing round the room on the points of her toes. "What fun it will be to have a little cousin to play with! Will he stay long, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, a long time, Bunny," answered the governess. "It is too hot in India for him to stay there any longer--indeed they think he has stayed there too long already, and your mama has promised to take care of him until he is old enough to go to school." "Oh, that will be a nice long visit," said the little girl; "he'll be staying with us just as if it was home, and he was my own brother." "Yes, dear, just so. He will be like your brother, I am sure; and he is to have his lessons with you. I am to teach you both." "Yes, and I'll lend him my pony and I'll let him play with my kittens. And oh, Miss Kerr, I'll give him tea out of my own little tea-set; and we'll have such fun." "Yes, dear, it will be very nice, and I hope that little Bunny will be a good child and not make her cousin naughty and teach him mischievous tricks." "Oh, I'll be good, indeed, dear Miss Kerr. I won't want to be naughty so much when I have someone to play with, for it's always when I feel lonely that I want to play tricks on people." "Is that so really, you poor mite? Well, you will not be lonely any more, Bunny, and I hope you will try hard and learn to read soon. When children can read they do not want a companion so much, because they can read pretty stories about other children and so amuse themselves for hours together." "Oh, I don't want to read stories one bit," said Bunny with a pout. "Sophie and mama read lots of stories to me, so it doesn't matter whether I can read them for myself or not." "And what will you do when you grow up, Bunny? Don't you think you would feel very much ashamed if you could not read when you had grown to be a tall lady?" "Oh, no one would ever know, for I am sure people never ask grown-up ladies if they can read. Do they, now? No one ever asks you or mama if you know how to read." "No, people never ask us if we can read, certainly, Bunny," answered Miss Kerr laughing, "but they would soon find out if we did not, I can tell you. People who cannot read seldom learn those things that everyone should know, and so they are ignorant and stupid. Surely you would not like Mervyn to beat you at his lessons, would you?" "Oh, but he's older than me," said Bunny, "and, of course, he knows a great deal more than me, and----" "Than _I_, Bunny, say he is older than _I_ am," corrected Miss Kerr. "Yes, he is older, but I do not think he knows more than you do. His papa says he has never been taught anything but his letters, and he can hardly speak English." "Oh, dear! Does he only speak French then?" said Bunny with a look of alarm. "No, Hindustanee. That is the Indian language, you know, and as he always had a native nurse he does not know English very perfectly. But we will soon teach him, won't we, dear?" "Oh, yes, it will be fun, and I'll try very hard to learn to read well before he does! It will be nice to have a cousin, won't it? I wonder what he's like. But I'm sure he'll be nice. I know he will. Don't you think he'll be nice, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, dear, I think it is very likely, but you will know all about him to-morrow." "Oh, I wish to-morrow would come, quick, quick!" cried Bunny; "the days and the hours go over so slowly, and I do want to see that little Indian." "Poor little boy! I daresay he will be very tired and shy when he arrives. It is a sad thing to leave father and friends and come among strangers, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, and there were tears in her eyes as she gazed out over the garden. "Dear Miss Kerr, why should you feel sorry for Mervyn? I'm so glad that he is coming here," said Bunny softly, and she put her little hand into Miss Kerr's. "Why should you cry for him? We will be very kind to him, you and I, and papa and mama." "Yes, darling, of course," answered Miss Kerr stroking the little hand. "But I was not thinking of Mervyn, but of someone I know, who had to leave her dear home, her father and mother, and brothers and sisters, to go be governess to a wild little girl, who did not care to learn her lessons and did not love her at all." "Why, that's like me and you! But I do love you; oh, I do love you!" cried the child, and she flung her arms round Miss Kerr's neck. "You are so good and kind, and I am sorry you had to leave your little brothers and sisters, and I won't be wild, and I'll love you very much." "If you do, Bunny, you will make me very happy, and I think you will soon be a very good little girl," and Miss Kerr kissed the eager face over and over again. "But run away now and get ready for tea. I have some letters to write for the post, and I shall just have time if you run off at once." "Very well," said Bunny jumping off Miss Kerr's knee. "I must go to tell Sophie the news." And away she ran, calling, "Sophie, Sophie," as she went up the stairs. "She has a good little heart, and will become a fine character in time, if she is properly managed," said Miss Kerr to herself as the child left the room. "But she has been terribly spoilt and neglected. If the boy from India is as great a pickle as Miss Bunny, I shall have my hands very full indeed," and with something between a sigh and a laugh, Miss Kerr seated herself at the table and began to write her letters. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER III. BUNNY GETS UP EARLY. For a long time after she went to bed that night, Bunny could not go to sleep, and lay tossing about from side to side, wishing over and over again that it was morning, that she might get up and put all her toys and books in order, so that they should look as nice as possible when she came to show them to the new cousin. At last she dropped off into a sound sleep, and did not wake again until the sun was shining brightly into her room. She jumped up and looked about to see if Sophie had gone to get her bath ready. But the maid lay fast asleep in her bed at the other side of the room, and poor Bunny felt sure she would not get up for a very long time yet. She felt ready to cry at the thoughts of lying there for so long doing nothing, whilst the sun was shining so brightly over the sea and dancing so merrily up and down the nursery walls. Suddenly, however, a happy idea presented itself to her mind, and she sprang out of her crib with a soft well-pleased little laugh. "It will be such fun," she whispered to herself, "and Sophie will get such a start when she sees the crib empty! But I must go about very gently or she might wake up and send me back to bed." So the little girl slipped very quietly about the room, and struggled bravely with buttons and tapes, as she did her best to dress herself without the assistance of her maid. "They're all upside down and tied in big knots," she said ruefully, "but Sophie will just have to do them all over again when she gets up. Oh, dear, where are my boots, I wonder? I can't see them anywhere about. Well, I must go out in these, I suppose;" and sitting down on the floor she put on a pair of dainty Queen Anne shoes, with satin bows and steel stars, that she had worn the evening before when she went down to the drawing-room to see her mama. At this moment Sophie turned round with a loud snore, and Bunny gave a start of alarm, as she looked quickly towards the bed. If Sophie awoke and saw what she was doing, all her fun would surely be spoiled, and she would be sent back to her crib in disgrace. Very cautiously then she got up off the floor, seized her hat that lay on the chest of drawers, and opening the door as softly as possible, flew along the corridor and away down the stairs. Not a servant was to be seen about, for it was not yet seven o'clock, and so Bunny passed on without any interruption into the dining-room, and stood on tip-toe at the side-board looking anxiously to see if there was anything there for her to eat. But there was not even a crust to be seen. "Nasty old Ashton!" she cried, "he might have left a few pieces of bread for me; but he wouldn't, I'm sure, even if he had known I was coming. I must get something for my dear pony, now that I am up, so I'll go off to the larder and see what I can find there." So away went Bunny in high glee at her clever thought; but when she arrived at the larder door she found it locked, and she was about to turn away sad and disappointed when a sudden jingling of keys was heard in the passage, the kitchen door opened, and Mrs. Brown, the cook, appeared upon the scene. "Miss Bunny, dear, what brings you here at such an hour? And law but you are dressed queer! But, indeed, them Frenchies are little good with their new-fangled ways. It's nurse that used to dress you smart, deary, and as for Sophie, she beats all;" and the good woman held up her hands in dismay at the child's untidy appearance. "Oh, Sophie didn't dress me at all!" cried Bunny. "She doesn't even know I'm up, for she's fast asleep. But I was so tired lying there listening to Sophie snoring that I thought I would get up and go out. I want to take my pony a piece of bread, so please give me some for him and some for myself, Mrs. Brown, for I'm very hungry." "Bless your heart, of course I will," cried the good-natured woman, as she unlocked the door, and cutting two large slices of bread and butter, handed them to the little girl. "Oh, thank you," said Bunny; "Frisk will like this, I am sure. Good morning, Mrs. Brown, and mind you don't tell Sophie where I am, if she comes to look for me." "Don't be afraid, deary, I won't give her any news of you. I don't admire her and her stuck-up French airs, so she won't get much out of me." But Bunny did not wait to hear the end of the good woman's speech against poor Sophie; she had got all she wanted, so away she ran to pay her morning visit to her little pony. When Frisk heard the stable door opening and a footstep approaching his stall, he whisked his tail and twisted his head as well as he could, to see who was coming to visit him at such an early hour. And when he found it was his little mistress, and heard her voice at his ear he neighed with delight, and rubbed his velvety nose up and down her frock. "Dear old Frisk," she cried, patting his neck, "there's a little cousin coming all the way from India to stay with us. Sophie is not glad, but I am, and Miss Kerr is, and you must be glad too, old man. And he's not black at all, Frisk, oh, no, and it is very, very silly of you to think so, sir. You must be good to him, dear little pony, and give him nice rides, and then he'll love you, just as I do, and we'll all be friends together. So now eat this, little Frisk," she continued, and breaking off a piece of the bread, she held it up to the pony's nose. But suddenly Bunny gave a little shriek, and drew her hand quickly away; for without intending it, Frisk had actually bitten his kind little mistress. The bread she offered him was so small, and his mouth was so big, that the child's fingers got rather far in among his teeth, and when Frisk's white grinders came down upon the dainty offered him, they met rather sharply upon poor Bunny's thumb. The skin was slightly cut, and as a little stream of blood ran down her finger the child grew frightened and began to cry. "Oh, Frisk, Frisk, why did you bite? I never thought you would do such a thing," she cried reproachfully. "I never, never knew you do such a thing before;" and sinking down on the straw by his side, she tried to stop the blood by rolling her finger tightly up in the corner of her pinafore. "Just when I wanted to tell the new cousin that you were a good, kind pony, you go and bite me--oh dear, oh dear, I am very sorry, Frisk, I am indeed." But in spite of the little girl's sorrowful lecture, Frisk did not in the least know that he had done anything wrong, and poking his soft nose into Bunny's lap, he carried off the remaining piece of bread and ate it with much relish. "You artful old thing," cried Bunny, delighted with his cleverness, and smiling through her tears, "if you hadn't bit me I'd have said you were the best and dearest little pony alive;" and forgetting her anger at him for hurting her, she jumped up and patted and kissed his soft silky nose. "Where is Mademoiselle Bunny? Ah! that child will be the death of me. Jean, have you seen Meess Bunny anywhere about?" cried Sophie, just outside the stable door; and the little girl knew that her hour was come and that she was going to get a good scolding. "Oh, Miss Bunny is in there, talking to Frisk, Mamzelle Sophie," answered the groom. "Little naughty one! Ah, these English children are so dreadful!" cried Sophie, and in a moment Bunny was dragged out from her seat on the straw and carried away to the nursery. "Oh!" she screamed as soon as they were inside the door, "what is that I see on your dress, mademoiselle? Blood, I declare! Oh, what will your mama say? She will send away that beast of a pony I am sure, and then you will not make such early walks to the stable." "Oh, Sophie, Sophie, don't tell! don't tell!" cried Bunny, "Frisk did not mean to hurt me I am sure, and it's nearly well now. Look, it has stopped bleeding already, so don't tell mama, pray don't," and the little girl raised her eyes full of tears to the maid's face. "Well, I won't tell if you will promise me never to slip out of your bed and away out of the house again as you have done just now." "Oh, I never will, I never will, Sophie!" cried Bunny, "but do say you won't tell. I couldn't bear to see Frisk sent away." "Well, well, don't cry any more," said Sophie good-naturedly. "Be a good enfant, and I will say not anything about it." "Oh! you dear, darling Sophie, I'll be so good, so good!" cried the little girl, "I'll be so good that you'll never have to scold me any more." "Ma foi, what a change that will be!" cried Sophie, "if you get so good as all that I will send for the doctor." "For the doctor!" exclaimed Bunny in surprise. "Why would you send for him?" "Good gracious, mademoiselle, because I will surely think you are ill if you get to be an angel like that; but I am very certain I shall have to scold you many times before this evening comes." "Very likely, Sophie, but still I'm good now," said Bunny with a merry little laugh, and as the maid gave the last touch to her hair, the last pull to her sash, she ran out of the nursery and away to her mama with whom she always had her breakfast. Bunny was in a wild state of excitement all that day, and Sophie and Miss Kerr found it very hard to keep her in order and prevent her disturbing her mama, who was not well, and could not bear much noise. "Oh, dear, how long the day is! How long the day is!" she cried over and over again. "I don't think evening will ever come, Miss Kerr, I don't, indeed." "It will come fast enough, Bunny dear, if you will only have patience. Try and forget that you are expecting anything to happen." "I wish I could! I wish I could! But I do so wish to see what Mervyn is like." "You impatient little goose, do try and think of something else and time will go over much faster. But I tell you what, Bun," said Miss Kerr, when they had finished their early dinner, "we will go and take a good run on the sands and that will pass the afternoon very nicely for us." "But they might come when we are away, and that would be dreadful." "No, they won't, because they can't," said Miss Kerr with a smile. "The train does not come in until seven, and it is only three now, so you see we have plenty of time for a nice walk." [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER IV. BUNNY GETS A FRIGHT. "Do be quick, Sophie," cried Bunny as she rushed into the nursery after her walk upon the sands, "Miss Kerr says it is half-past five, and papa and Mervyn will be here at seven, so do be quick and dress me as fast as ever you can, for I want to be down in the hall, ready to jump out at them the minute they come to the door." "Indeed," said Sophie without moving from her chair at the window. "What haste we are in, certainly. But you may just keep still, Miss Bunny, for I am not going to touch you for one half hour. What is the use for me to dress you now, when long before seven you would be so black as a sweep again, I know." "Oh, what a bother!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot and flinging her pretty white hat upon the floor. "You are a nasty thing, and I wish you had not come to be my maid at all, for you never do anything I ask you to do. I wish dear old nurse was back with me again, she used to be so nice, and always did whatever I wanted." "Old nurse was an old silly," answered Sophie, stitching away at her work. "She neg-lect you and make you so naughty, and it is for me to keep you in order and make you good." "Well, I won't be kept in order, and I won't be made good--not one bit," cried Bunny bursting into tears. "It's very unkind of you not to dress me in time to see my papa, and he'll be very angry with you." [Illustration: BUNNY WELCOMES HER FATHER.] "Come, Miss Bunny, don't be a silly baby," said Sophie, "I'll dress you soon enough, do not fear that. You had so much best go and make tidy that doll's house, for the little cousin will be ashamed to see it in so much of disorder." "I don't want to tidy my doll's house, and I don't care whether Mervyn likes it or not, not a bit!" said Bunny, and taking off one little glove she threw it into the very furthest corner of the room, and then rolling the other into a ball she threw it at Sophie's head as she sat bending over her work. But the maid did not take the slightest notice of the young lady, and without another word went quietly on with her sewing. When Bunny saw that Sophie was really determined not to dress her for some time, she sat down on the floor in silence, and leaning her head up against the side of her crib, kicked about for some minutes in a very ill-tempered way indeed. After a while she grew tired of this conduct, which to her great surprise did not seem to make Sophie the least bit angry, and not knowing what to do with herself she sat staring about the room with a very sulky expression on her little face. But by degrees the tears dried up, the cross look disappeared, and jumping suddenly to her feet, she trotted off to the other end of the room. Pulling open the wide door of the doll's house, she set to work very industriously to put it in order. She brushed the carpets, dusted the chairs, shook out the dolls' dresses and set them out in the drawing-room as if they were waiting to receive their visitors. "Now it's tidy, Sophie," she cried with a bright little smile. "Mervyn will think it a very nice doll's house. Won't he?" "Yes, my dear enfant, I am sure he will," said Sophie kindly, "and now as you have been good and quiet for so long, I will begin to dress you if you like." "Oh, that is a dear good Sophie. I am so afraid that I shall not be ready when papa comes." "You will be ready, never fear," said Sophie, and taking off the child's frock, she began to wash her face and hands. "You hurt, Sophie, you hurt," cried Bunny pettishly, as the maid combed out her long fair hair. "Bah, no I don't hurt you, mademoiselle, except when you pull your head aside. But in truth it is hard to comb your hair properly when you move and fidget about. You are very difficult to manage to-day." "I tell you, you do hurt me--you pull as hard as anything," cried Bunny growing very red. "Very well, miss, if you are in such humour," cried Sophie, "you may just stand there till you get back to your temper again. I'm going into the next room to get your frock, and I hope that when I come back you will be quiet and let me dress your hair like a little lady," and the maid flounced out of the nursery, leaving Bunny standing before the glass in her short white petticoat, with one shoe off and the other on, her hair hanging in disorder about her shoulders, and her face puckered up in dismay at Sophie's sudden and unexpected departure. "Oh, why was I so cross about my hair?" she cried. "Papa and Mervyn will be here directly, and just look at the state I am in. What shall I do? What shall I do? Sophie, I'll be good. Do come back, and get me ready to go down." But Sophie did not answer, nor did she return, and poor Bunny sat down on the edge of her crib, and in spite of all the efforts she made to keep them back, the big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. Suddenly the sound of wheels was heard upon the gravel below, and brushing away her tears, the little girl started to her feet and ran over to the window. A cab covered with luggage was coming in at the big gate, and in a minute she saw her papa nodding gaily up to his little Bunny, with a bright well-pleased smile upon his dear face. Without a moment's thought as to the state she was in, or of what her papa or the little boy from India might think of her in such a condition, Bunny dropped the blind, and with a joyful cry of "Papa, papa, my own dear papa," she rushed out of the nursery and away down the stairs. "My little darling! My sweet little Bun," exclaimed Mr. Dashwood, as the small wild-looking figure came running along the hall and jumped into his arms. "Why, dear, why did you come out of the nursery before you were dressed?" he said, as he smoothed back the ruffled hair and kissed the hot cheeks of the excited child. "You are in a strange state to receive visitors, Bunny dear, and I am afraid cousin Mervyn will be shocked at my wild girl, for he is a very tidy little man, I can tell you. Mervyn, this is your cousin Ethel, commonly called Bunny, I hope you will be very good friends," and he put out his hand to a pale gentle-looking boy of about seven years old, who was clinging shyly to the skirts of an Indian Ayah, as though afraid to let her go from beside him for an instant. When Bunny raised her head from her papa's shoulder to look at her new cousin, her eyes suddenly lighted upon the grinning black face of the strange foreign-looking woman, and with one wild yell of terror she turned away, and buried her little face in her father's coat. "Oh, send that dreadful thing away!" she cried, "I'm not half so naughty as I used to be! And I have promised Miss Kerr to be so good! Oh, papa, papa, don't give your little Bunny to that dreadful black woman." "My darling, that is Mervyn's nurse, and he loves her very dearly. See how he clings to her and begs her to stay with him! Just look how kind she is to him!" "Oh, no, no, papa, she's a bogie, I am sure," cried the child, clinging to him more nervously than ever. "Sophie always tells me a bogie will come for me if I am naughty, and I was naughty just now because Sophie pulled my hair, and I was cross, and cried and stamped my foot and--" "My poor foolish little girl, she is not a bogie, but a good kind woman--her face is black, but she can't help that. It was very wrong of Sophie to frighten you about bogies, very wrong--there is no such thing in the world." "Ah, monsieur, monsieur, I'm so sorry Meess Bunny has been so naughty to run down to you in such a state," cried Sophie running into the hall with a very angry look on her face. "I just left her for a minute to get her frock, and when I came back she was gone." "Oh, Sophie, Sophie, don't scold me, please," cried Bunny, "I'll go back to the nursery, and let you dress me now. Oh, take me away quick, for if I see that dreadful face, I shall scream again, I know I shall;" and with one little hand over her eyes that she might not see the terrible creature again, Bunny flung herself into Sophie's arms and was carried off upstairs to have her toilet completed for dinner. "Poor little monkey!" said Mr. Dashwood laughing, "I never thought she would be so easily frightened. Ashton, take the nurse down to the housekeeper's room, and tell the servants to look after her, and give her her dinner. Come, Mervyn, my little man, I want to take you to see your aunt." "Yes, uncle," answered the little boy in a shy nervous voice, and looking up into the Ayah's face to see what she wished him to do. "Go at once," she said in Hindustanee, and then Mervyn went up to his uncle, and putting his little hand into his, allowed him to lead him down the passage to the drawing-room. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER V. THE LITTLE INDIAN. Mrs Dashwood lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, and Miss Kerr sat beside her reading aloud. The two children, Bunny and Mervyn, were seated side by side upon a large white woolly rug in the bow-window, and they whispered together in very low tones lest they should disturb the ladies by their noise. Bunny was nursing a pretty black kitten, with a red ribbon round its neck, whilst Mervyn sat with his little hands clasped over his knees, looking out at the blue sparkling sea, with a well-pleased expression on his thin pale face. "What a lovely cool place England is!" he whispered; "it feels so comfortable and nice here, and that sea is so beautiful to look at." "Yes, to look at," answered Bunny, nodding her head; "but, oh! Mervyn, wouldn't you feel afraid to go into it, and have your face stuck right under the water, and held there till you had no breath, and--" "Oh, that would be horrible!" cried Mervyn with a frightened look; "my papa would be angry if I were put into the sea in that way. Oh! I will write and tell him if--" "Well, I know he wrote to say that bathing would be very good for you," said Bunny, "and mama told Miss Kerr this very morning she was sure it would be. But I tell you, Mervyn, it's only Sophie that is so rough and nasty. One day I went to bathe with Miss Kerr, and it was lovely! She told me when she was going to dip me, and she let me play at the edge, and I took dolly in and I dipped her, and it was such fun." "Well, then, I will ask Miss Kerr always to bathe me," replied Mervyn; "I should die, I am sure, if I were pushed under the water and could not get my breath." "Oh! I was often and often pushed down that way by Sophie, and I didn't die at all; but I kicked and screamed most dreadfully," cried Bunny; "but then, mama says I am very strong, and Sophie said last night that you were a misserble creature, so thin and white." "Sophie is very rude!" exclaimed Mervyn with a slight flush; "I am not a miserable creature; I can't help being white; everyone is in India, because it's so hot." "That is funny!" cried the little girl, "for Sophie said all Indians were black, and I thought you would have a little black face like Pussy here, only Miss Kerr told me you would be as white as me; but you're whiter, much whiter," and she laid her small plump pink hand on Mervyn's thin white one. "I don't like your Sophie," cried Mervyn impatiently; "she talks in such a queer way, and she's not half so nice as my dear old Indian nurse. I do wish she had been able to stay in England with me." "Oh, I think she was a horrid fright!" cried Bunny, "with her nasty black face and her dreadful flappy wild dress, and I'm sure nobody could understand a word she said." "I could," said Mervyn with a sigh, "and I liked talking Hindustanee much better than English." "But it sounds so silly!" cried Bunny; "I think it's a great pity people shouldn't always speak English everywhere, for that would be so plain and easy." "Well, I would much rather everyone would speak Hindustanee, for that would be much nicer." "Oh, dear! I don't think so," said Bunny; "and I think you speak English very well." "Do you?" said Mervyn, smiling; "papa did not; and do you know, I can't always think of the right words for things." "Oh! just ask me and I will tell you," replied Bunny jauntily, "for I never have to think for my words at all." "Bunny, dear," said Mrs. Dashwood from her sofa, "I think you have nursed that kitten quite long enough; the poor little thing looks very tired. Put it into its basket like a good child." "Very well, mama," answered Bunny, and, jumping up, she ran over to a corner of the room where stood a pretty round basket, which was always used as a snug bed for Miss Puss. Bunny dropped her pet gently in upon the soft cushion, and after much stroking and tucking up, she stole away on tip-toe to her mother's side. But Pussy was in a playful mood, and as soon as the little girl's back was turned she sprang lightly out of her bed and went scampering gaily round the room. "Naughty, naughty puss!" cried Bunny laughing, and off she went in pursuit of the runaway. "Bunny, dear Bunny, I can't bear that noise," cried Mrs. Dashwood, as her little daughter tumbled over a footstool and knocked down a chair. "I can't bear it indeed, dear child, so I think you had better go out. Sophie will take you for a walk, as I want Miss Kerr to read to me." "Oh, mama! I like Miss Kerr much better than Sophie," cried Bunny, "and so does Mervyn. Do let Miss Kerr come." "But, Bunny, dear," said Miss Kerr, "you would not like poor mama to have no one to read to her, would you? It is so dull for her all day on the sofa by herself. You would not ask me to leave her, would you?" "Oh! no, no, dear, darling mama, I will not ask Miss Kerr to come, not for a minute!" cried Bunny as, kneeling beside the sofa, she threw her arms round her mother's neck and kissed her vehemently. "I could not bear to think of you being lonely, mamey dear. But do let us stay here now, and go out in the afternoon with Miss Kerr. Mervyn can't bear Sophie." "I am sorry for that, my little man," said Mrs. Dashwood, drawing the boy towards her; "Sophie is sharp and quick, but she is very good-natured, I think, so I hope you will try and like her." "Oh! yes, aunt," answered Mervyn, flushing, "I only meant that I would rather have my own dear nurse, and that I was very sorry she had been sent away to India again." "She was not sent away, dear," answered Mrs. Dashwood; "she went by her own wish. She was fond of you, Mervyn, but she did not like to live in England, so she hurried back to India as soon as she could. It will be better for you to learn English well, and try to pick up a little French from Sophie, than to be always talking with an Indian, my child. But the first thing you have to do, Mervyn, is to get fat and rosy like Bunny here. And you must grow tall, dear boy, for you are very, very small for your age; you must grow as fast as you can or this little girl will soon be the tallest," and Mrs. Dashwood pinched her daughter's plump cheek. "Oh! but mama, dear, he can't make himself grow," remarked Bunny, as she stood up to measure herself with her cousin. "He has not got a key to wind up the works of himself, so he must just wait small till he begins to grow big." "You are sharp enough, Miss Pert," said her mother, laughing. "I wish you would learn to be more steady and to remember what is said to you." "Oh! I can remember," cried Bunny gaily; "I've got a splendid memory, haven't I, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, I think you have, dear," said Miss Kerr gravely; "but I am afraid you do not always remember at the right time. Eh! Bunny?" "No, I don't," said the little girl, hanging her head; "I quite forgot when I got up and went to feed Frisk. But I don't think God minded that much; it was not much harm." "God is always displeased at disobedience, Bunny," said Mrs. Dashwood very seriously. "The first thing God expects of a little child is that she should be obedient, and so my Bunny must try and remember things that she is not allowed to do, and then be very careful not to do them." "Yes, mama, I will try," said Bunny in a subdued voice. "That is right, dear, and I hope little Mervyn will do the same." "Yes, aunt, I will indeed; papa told me to be very good until he came home, and I mean to be," he said, drawing himself up in a determined manner. "Well, then, I am sure you will do Bunny good and help her to remember. But now run away like good children and tell Sophie to take you out for a walk. It is a lovely morning, and a run on the sands will give you an appetite for your dinner." "Very well, mama," cried Bunny gaily, and away she darted out of the room singing and shouting at the top of her voice. "Good morning, aunt," said Mervyn gently, and he followed his little cousin in a slow dignified manner, turning quietly to shut the drawing-room door behind him. "What a harum-scarum that Bunny is!" said Mrs. Dashwood with a sigh. "It is very hard to make an impression on her." "Yes, it is certainly, at least for more than a few minutes at a time," answered Miss Kerr; "she is always so ready to be good, no matter what she has done, that it is not easy to scold her much. But she is a good-hearted child, and I am sure in a short time you will see a great change in her." "I hope so, indeed," said Mrs. Dashwood, "for she is a constant worry at present and extremely hard to manage." [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER VI. BUNNY FORGETS AGAIN. Out of the gate and down the road went the two little cousins hand in hand, whilst close behind them walked Sophie, holding up a big umbrella, and carrying a yellow-covered novel under her arm. On they went; the little ones laughing and talking pleasantly together, until they came to the entrance of the Spa, a gay promenade which the fashionables of the place were in the habit of frequenting in the morning to inhale the sea breezes, listen to sweet music and meet their friends. Sophie liked the Spa, for there she saw much to delight and amuse her, whilst on the sands she always felt dull and weary. But Bunny's ideas and those of her maid were not at all the same, for the little girl loved the sands, and could spend hours there digging and building castles of all shapes and sizes. Every day there was an angry dispute between the nurse and child as to where they should spend their time between breakfast and dinner; sometimes one came off victorious and sometimes the other. This morning, as usual, Bunny was quite determined to go on the sands, and Sophie was equally resolved to go down to the Spa. "Mama said we were to go on the sands, Sophie, and I hate that old Spa," cried Bunny, making a rush towards the steps that led down to the sands; "I've got my spade, and so has Mervyn, and it's very unkind of you not to come there when it looks so nice and we both want to go." "You'll just please to come where I tell you, mademoiselle," said Sophie, making a dive at the little girl, and dragging her through the turnstile and on to the bridge that led into the Cliff grounds. "Don't you think you go to play any of your bad tricks on me. It is enough difficult minding two of you in here without running all over the sands for you." "Never mind, Bunny," said Mervyn gently, as they walked along together, "Miss Kerr will come on the sands with us after dinner, perhaps, and then we will have fine fun." "Yes, indeed," answered the little girl with a toss of her head, and speaking in a loud voice so that the maid might hear her; "Miss Kerr always does what I ask her to do, but Sophie is a regular cross-patch." "Sit down here, mademoiselle, and try to behave like a lady," cried Sophie, as she seated herself upon a bench at the top of the cliff, overlooking the promenade and sea. "Oh, I don't want to sit down, I want to walk," cried Bunny tearfully; "why, we have just come out." "Of course you want to do exactly what I tell you not to do," said Sophie angrily; "sit down, both of you, when I tell you," and she lifted first one and then the other, and placed them very roughly upon the bench. In a few minutes a friend of Sophie's approached them, and after some pressing she took a seat beside the maid, and the two children were pushed away by themselves to the other end of the bench. "How long an age it is since I've seen you, Kitty!" cried Sophie, smiling pleasantly upon the new-comer. "Yes, it is a long time," answered her friend, "and I've lots of news for you. I've heard of a place--but it might be dangerous to say much just now," and she glanced at the children. "Oh, they will not pay attention," cried Sophie, "but it's easy to get rid of them if you like. Meess Bunny, you can run and play up and down for a little with your cousin. But do not go very far." "That is nice!" exclaimed Bunny gaily; "thank you, Sophie, very much," and jumping off the seat, she took Mervyn by the hand and dragged him away for a race down the hill. "What is that, Bunny? What is that?" cried Mervyn suddenly, and he pointed his finger towards the far end of the Spa. "It's like a train, at least one carriage of a train, and it's running so fast up the side of the cliff, and, oh dear! I declare there is another one just the same coming down past it." "That is the lift, Mervyn; doesn't it look very funny hanging all down like that? Do you know, I went in it once with papa and it was lovely. It went along so smooth and so fast." "I would like so much to go in it," said Mervyn, "I wonder if uncle will take me some day." "Yes, I am sure he will, and me too," cried Bunny, skipping gaily along. "But I tell you what, Mervyn, wouldn't it be fun to go off now, all by ourselves." "Now!" exclaimed Mervyn in surprise, "and what would Sophie say?" "Oh, she will never know," said Bunny. "We'll go up in the lift and run down those paths among the trees ever so fast, and get back to her before she knows we have gone away at all. She always has so much to say to that friend of hers." "Yes, but don't you have to pay to go up in the lift?" asked Mervyn, "and I have no money. Have you?" "Of course we must pay, but it's only a penny each, I know," answered Bunny, "and I have got twopence in my pocket that papa gave me this morning. I was going to give it to Miss Kerr, but I won't now." "To Miss Kerr! Why should you give her your money?" "Oh, that's a secret of mine. But I don't mind telling you, Mervyn, only you must not tell anyone, will you now? Promise you won't, like a good boy." "I promise," answered Mervyn earnestly; "I would not tell anyone for the world." "Well, one day Miss Kerr lent me three pennies to give to a poor boy, and I said I would pay her back very soon." "Then I would not spend the pennies," said Mervyn decidedly; "keep them, Bunny, and give them to Miss Kerr when we go home." "Oh, no; I would much rather go in the lift," cried Bunny. "Miss Kerr won't mind, for she said I need not be in a hurry to pay it." "Still I think it would be better," began Mervyn solemnly, "to pay Miss--" "Oh, bother! Never mind thinking, but come along, or we will not have time to go up in the lift before Sophie wants to go home for her dinner." "I should like to go up in it very much," said Mervyn weakly, and casting longing looks at the distant lift, "but, indeed, Bunny--" "Oh, you are silly!" cried the little girl. "Come on quick or we sha'n't have time," and grasping his hand, she hurried him down the steps, with just one backward glance to make sure that Sophie was still safe upon her bench. The maid's face was turned away towards her friend, who seemed to be telling a very interesting story; they were both completely occupied and quite unaware of what was going on about them. "We shall have plenty of time!" said Bunny growing bold at the sight of the back of Sophie's head. "So come along, Mervyn, and see what the lift is like." There was a great crowd of ladies and gentlemen walking up and down the promenade, and it took the children a long time to make their way as far as the band-stand, and even then they were at some distance from the wonderful lift that had attracted the little stranger so much. As they hurried along, pushing their way right and left through the people, the band began to play the "Blue Danube Waltzes," and Mervyn stopped short in delight. "Oh, what a lovely waltz!" he cried. "Bunny dear, do let us stay here and listen to it. I'd much rather hear the music than go up in the lift, I would, indeed." "Oh! no, no," cried Bunny, "I'm tired of that old band, it's a stupid old thing! We can come and listen to it to-morrow if you like; but do come on now, you can't think how nice it is flying up the cliff in the lift; besides, I am quite sure that we sha'n't get a chance to go another day." "Oh, very well, if you want to go so much; but really, Bunny, I would far rather stay and hear the music," said Mervyn, "I would indeed." "Bother the music! Do come, like a good boy," cried the little girl impatiently, and catching him by the hand she dragged him away through the gate that led to the lift. There was a great crowd of people of all kinds waiting to go up in the lift, for it was getting near luncheon hour at the hotels, and many were anxious to be in good time for that pleasant meal. Our little friends, Bunny and Mervyn, were so small that they were a good deal knocked about by the crowd, and the lift went off several times before they managed to push themselves anywhere near the front. At last the conductor noticed the two mites, and stepping forward in a kindly way, he took them by the hand, helped them into the carriage, and seating them side by side, remarked with a smile: "You're a funny pair to be sure! Where is your nurse?" "She's on the Spa, at least on a bench just at the top of the steps," said Bunny gaily as she arranged her short skirts about her on the seat. "My cousin is a stranger here, so I have brought him to see what the lift is like." "Indeed!" said the man with a laugh. "What a kind little lady you are to be sure;" and then, as the carriage was full, he banged the door and away they went. "Isn't it nice, Mervyn? Aren't you glad I brought you?" asked Bunny in a patronizing tone. "It is much nicer in here than sitting up on that bench. Isn't it?" "Yes, I suppose it is," answered Mervyn doubtfully, "but oh, Bunny, I don't much like it! I have a sort of feeling as if I were in a ship, and it makes me giddy to look out--indeed it does." "Don't look out then," said Bunny decisively. "But really, Mervyn, I think it's lovely--it's so--Oh, dear what is that?" she cried in alarm, as with a harsh grating noise the lift they were in, came to a sudden stand-still, and the descending one shot quickly past them. "Something gone wrong, I expect," grumbled an old gentleman beside her; "ah, they have to let us go down again! What an awful nuisance!" "Oh, please, sir, is there going to be an accident?" cried Bunny in a voice of terror, and growing very pale. "My cousin is just come from India, and I am sure he will be frightened," and she put her little arm round Mervyn as if to protect him from danger. "No, no, there is not going to be any accident, my little girl," answered the old gentleman with a kind smile. "Don't be afraid, we'll go up again in a minute; but I must say the small cousin from India doesn't look half so much frightened as you do," and he patted her on the back. "There, now, off we go, you see, and we'll be at the top in a minute." "Oh, I am so glad we are out of that horrid thing! and, Bunny, I am sure we should never have gone into it," cried Mervyn, as they at last stepped out of the lift and ran quickly along the cliff towards the entrance to the Spa grounds. "Just think, there might have been an accident and we might have been killed! Oh, it would have been so dreadful if such a thing had happened." "Yes, it would," answered Bunny, "and Sophie will be angry, for we have been away such a long time. And oh, Mervyn, now I remember, mama told me that I should never leave my nurse when I was out with her, and I quite forgot, and there, I have been disobedient again! I am so sorry." "Oh, Bunny, Bunny! why don't you try and remember?" cried Mervyn reproachfully, "and we promised aunt to be so good just before we came out," and tears of sorrow stood in the little boy's eyes. "Never mind, Mervyn, dear," said Bunny kissing him, "it was my fault. Don't cry--you were not naughty at all. It was all because I forgot again. Oh, dear, I am afraid Miss Kerr will be angry with me. But come along quick, there is Sophie. See, she is looking about everywhere for us." The two children trotted along at a brisk pace down the steep winding path that led through the pretty ornamental grounds with which the cliff, overhanging the Spa, was tastefully laid out. The trees were high and shady, so the little creatures were not visible from below as they ran quickly on their way. But soon they came to a part where there was not even a bush to hide them from view, and as Sophie walked up and down in despair, her eyes wandering about wildly in every direction, she suddenly caught sight of Bunny's white hat and blue sash, and with a shriek of rage, she bounded up the path, and taking hold of them by the shoulders shook them angrily as she cried in a hoarse voice: "Ah, you wicked bad ones, I thought you were lost! I thought the kidnappers had taken you away for ever." "Oh, we are too big for that!" cried Bunny, "and you need not be in such a rage, Sophie, we only went up in the lift, as Mervyn wanted to see what it was like;" and she walked past the maid with a scornful toss of her little head. "I am very sorry, Sophie, indeed I am," said Mervyn gently; "I did not know we had so far to go. I am sorry you thought we were lost." "Ah! much I care whether you are sorry or not," cried the angry maid. "It will be like Mademoiselle Bunny's sorrow--it will last one minute--and then off to some more naughty things," and with a push and a slap Sophie drove the two children on before her, over the bridge and away home to Holly Lodge. "And now," she cried as they reached the hall door, "I will march you both up to Miss Kerr, and see what she will do with you. Some punishment should be given to you, and I don't know what to do." "Oh, very well!" said Bunny, "we'll go and tell Miss Kerr ourselves. You need not come with us, we don't want you at all. Come along, Mervyn;" and taking the little boy by the hand, she dragged him up the stairs after her. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER VII. IN MISS KERR'S ROOM. When the two children reached Miss Kerr's bed-room, they found the door shut, and feeling quite certain that she was there, they knocked gently, and then stood very still upon the mat, expecting every moment to hear her voice calling to them to go in. "Dear Miss Kerr," said Bunny at last, as, growing impatient at the delay, she put her little mouth to the key-hole and tried very hard to make herself heard within the room, "Mervyn and I want to tell you something, so please, please, open the door and let us in." But to her surprise she received no answer, and becoming more and more cross and impatient, she rattled the handle as noisily as possible in order to attract Miss Kerr's attention. "I can't make out why she doesn't speak to us," said Mervyn in a whisper. "I think she must be asleep." "Asleep!" exclaimed Bunny indignantly. "She isn't a baby, and she isn't ill, so why should she be asleep at this time of the day?" "Well, in India people sleep in the day when they're not a bit ill, just because it's hot--so why shouldn't they here?" "What a lot of sillies they must be in India then!" cried Bunny contemptuously. "Why, I have not been asleep in the day for years--not since I was quite small," and she rattled away more noisily than ever at the door-handle. "Miss Kerr is not there, children," said a housemaid who passed along the passage at that moment, "she has been in the drawing-room all the morning." "Has she?" said Bunny, "oh, then, I tell you what, Mervyn, we'll just go in and wait for her. She will be sure to come up in a few minutes to wash her hands before dinner, and then we'll tell her." "Oh, but there is Sophie calling to us to get ready ourselves. She will be awfully angry if we don't go," said Mervyn. "Listen how she is screaming." "Never mind her, the nasty, cross old thing!" cried Bunny, opening the bed-room door. "Come in, Mervyn, come in! There is Sophie--do be quick, or she will catch us and drag us off with her--and then she'll tell Miss Kerr before we do. Come in, come in," and once more she hurried her cousin along with her, against his own will and inclination. "But, Bunny, I do think we ought to go to Sophie, I do indeed," said Mervyn; "listen, she is asking the housemaid if she has seen us anywhere. And oh, she is coming here to look for us--she will be awfully cross! Do let us go into the nursery quietly and take off our things and get ready for dinner." "Well, you are a silly, Mervyn! That would spoil all the fun. But I know what I'll do--I'll lock the door, and then Sophie will not be able to get us. I can easily open it for Miss Kerr when she comes up," cried Bunny; and before Mervyn could say a word to prevent her, the little girl turned the key in the lock, and, clapping her hands with delight, danced up and down the room singing at the top of her voice: "What a good plan! What a good plan! And the dinner is in the frying pan!" "Indeed, then I wish it was here," grumbled Mervyn, "I'm awfully hungry, and it would be much better to go down to dinner now, and tell Miss Kerr afterwards, or at dinner-time, Bunny, indeed it would." "Yes, and let Sophie hear her scolding us," cried the little girl. "I am hungry too, I can tell you, Mervyn; but Miss Kerr won't be long, I am sure. Hasn't she got a pretty room? and doesn't the sea and the bridge look nice from the window?" "Well enough," answered Mervyn crossly, as he rolled about in an arm-chair that stood away in the furthest corner. "But oh, it is silly to be sticking up here when the dinner is ready down-stairs--oh, I smell it, and it does smell nice! and I am so hungry, and it's very stupid of you to keep me shut up here." "Well, I thought you were sorry and wanted to tell Miss Kerr so," said Bunny complacently, as she shook out her frock and admired herself in the long glass. "It's very greedy to talk so much about your dinner." "Is it?" grumbled Mervyn. "Well, I don't care! I'm sure you're just as bad twisting about and looking at yourself in the glass, for that's being vain, and I'd rather be greedy than vain, so I would, Bunny." "Would you? Oh, that's because you're a boy. Boys are greedy, but it's vulgar to be greedy--Sophie says it is, but it's different to be vain, I--" "Mademoiselle Bunny, come out this minute. Ah, what a little naughty one you are! and that cousin of yours he is a wicked bad boy--he leads you into the mischiefs of all kinds. Come out, I say, the dinner is ready and Miss Kerr is waiting for you;" and Sophie rattled the handle and hammered at the door till the whole passage was filled with the noise and the other servants came running from all parts of the house to see what could be the matter. "What is wrong, Sophie?" asked Miss Kerr, as she too hurried upstairs wondering what was going on in the corridor. "Why are you making such a dreadful noise?" "Ah! ma foi! Noise, Miss Kerr! What can I do but make a noise, when those two children have locked themselves into your room, and will not come out for their dinner. Is it then a wonder that I make a noise?" and she began once more to bang the door as if she would like to break it in. "That was Miss Kerr's voice, Bunny," whispered Mervyn; "do open the door and let us go out to her now." "Is it really? I only heard Sophie. Miss Kerr," she called, "are you there?" "Yes, Bunny, I am here. Come out, child, come to your dinner. You must be starving, both of you." "Yes, we are," answered Bunny, "and we will go out if you will send Sophie away. Mervyn and I want to tell you something." "Ah! what a naughty child!" cried Sophie. "Meess Kerr, they have both been so very difficult, so wicked! They have run away, they have gone in the lift, they have just escaped being seized by kidnappers and--" "That's a great story, Sophie," cried Bunny through the door, "for there was not a single kidnapper near us; was there, Mervyn?" "No, there wasn't," said Mervyn, "not one, Sophie, there wasn't really." "Now!" shouted Bunny triumphantly, "you see you are quite wrong, Sophie." "Open the door, Bunny, this minute," said Miss Kerr decidedly, "I am surprised that you should behave in such a naughty way, just when I thought you were going to be a good girl." "I'll open it now, indeed I will," cried Bunny, "and please, please don't be angry with us. We are so sorry we ran away from Sophie, indeed we are, and that is the reason we came up here, just to tell you so." All the time the child was talking she was also working away at the key, trying her very best to open the door. But no matter how she turned or pulled it, round it would not go, and at last, hot and tired with so many violent efforts, she begged Mervyn to try if he could make it turn. "No, Bunny, I can't," said the boy sadly, after working patiently at the key for some time. "It's no use, I can't do it at all." "Oh dear, oh dear!" cried Bunny in a miserable voice, "what shall we do? Miss Kerr, dear, we can't open the door, it's locked quite fast." "Take the key out of the lock and push it under the door, and I will try and open it from this side," said Miss Kerr; "it was really very naughty of you to lock yourselves up in such a way. But be quick and give me the key." After a good deal of pulling and tugging, Bunny at last managed to get the key out of the lock, and kneeling on the floor she tried with all the strength of her tiny hands to push it out under the door. But the key was too large or the door fitted too closely, and the little girl gave a cry of alarm as she found that it was quite impossible to get it out into the passage. "Oh, Mervyn, dear, it won't go out! Oh! Miss Kerr, what shall we do?" she cried, bursting into tears; "if we can't open the door what shall we do?" "And I am so hungry," said Mervyn in a doleful tone. "How nasty it will be to be stuck in here for ever! Oh, pray open the door! Oh! pray open the door, Miss Kerr." "Throw the key out of the window, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, "and I will go round and pick it up, and let you out in a minute." "Oh! the window is shut. The window is shut," cried the two children in despair, "and we cannot reach to open it. What shall we do? What shall we do?" "Good gracious!" exclaimed Miss Kerr, "who can have shut the window?" "I am sorry to say I did, miss," said the housemaid. "The wind was so strong upon the window that was open, that I shut it, intending to open the middle one, but I forgot all about it when I was leaving the room." "It is extremely awkward, and has helped to give the poor children a great fright," said Miss Kerr. "Go and bring me the keys of all the doors, Sarah, and I will try if any of them will fit the lock. Don't be uneasy, Bunny; don't cry, little Mervyn. We will get you out some way or other, you may be quite sure, so don't be afraid. I have sent for some keys to try if they will open the door, so don't fret. Ah! here they are." One after the other the keys were taken and tried, but not one was of the slightest use. One was too large, and another too small, and Miss Kerr felt really grieved for the poor little prisoners, whose sobs were distinctly heard through the door. "What can I do?" she said. "It is really very hard on them to be shut in there for such a long, long time! And they are so hungry too." "Send for a man to pick the lock, miss," said Sarah. "Ashton will get some one from one of the shops." "But that will take such a time!" cried Miss Kerr; "it is a long way to the town, and the children want their dinner so badly. No, I must think of some quicker plan than that. Ah, now I know one!" she exclaimed with a sudden smile; "it is a pity, but it can't be helped! Bunny, dear, will you take the poker, break a pane of glass with it, and throw the key out upon the grass. Be very careful not to cut your fingers." "I'll do it!" cried Mervyn, jumping up out of the chair, where he had been rolling about disconsolately. "I'd just like to break a window, and I'm taller than you, Bunny; do let me, like a good girl." "No, no; Miss Kerr told me to do it," cried Bunny, "and I should like to break a pane too;" and seizing the poker she sent it crash through the glass. "Oh, what fun! What a rare smash!" exclaimed Mervyn in delight. "I will throw the key out;" and he darted across the room, picked up the key, and flung it with all his strength at the window. But he did not aim straight, and instead of flying into the garden the key merely shattered the glass a little more, and fell back again on to the floor. "You stupid boy! What a bad shot!" cried Bunny, and taking it up between her finger and thumb she stepped on a chair, and dropped it down cleverly upon the grass, just at Miss Kerr's feet. "That is right," said the governess with a smile, as she stooped to pick up the key; "and now don't you think it would be a good punishment for all your naughtiness to keep you both locked up there for the rest of the afternoon?" "Oh, no, no, pray do not do that, Miss Kerr, we are so sorry and so hungry!" and the two little faces, as they were pressed against the window, looked so utterly miserable and woebegone, that the kind-hearted governess could not bear to carry out her threat of punishment, but hurried away as fast as possible to let the poor children out. When the door was at last opened and they were told to come forth, Mervyn hung back and did not dare to raise his eyes to Miss Kerr's face. Bunny, on the contrary, greeted her with a cry of joy, and springing into her arms, kissed her heartily over and over again. "I'm so glad to get out! I'm so glad to get out! Oh, I was afraid we should have to stay in here all day by ourselves." "Well, I hope this will be a lesson to you never to shut yourself into a room again, Bunny," said Miss Kerr severely. "It was a very foolish thing to do, and I cannot say that I am very sorry that you got a little fright, for I really think you deserved to suffer something for your naughtiness. But tell me, little man," she said to Mervyn, "are you not glad to get out too? You don't look so cheerful over it as Bunny does." "I am very glad to get out. But I--I--wanted to tell you," he said with much difficulty, and clasping his little hands tightly together. "I want--to tell you--that I am very sorry I was disobedient and ran away from Sophie." "I am glad to hear you say you are sorry, dear," answered Miss Kerr. "I am sure you mean it Mervyn, and that I may trust you not to be disobedient again." "Yes, you may trust me, indeed you may," the boy cried with a bright smile, "I will really try to be good, and make Bunny remember if I can." "Naughty little Bun! Why do you always forget as you do?" said Miss Kerr gently. "I did think you were going to be good to-day, and just see how you have disappointed me!" "I'm very sorry," murmured Bunny, hanging her head. "I did want to be good, and I promise you I won't be naughty again. I'll always stay as close up to Sophie as ever I can when we go out, I will indeed." "Very well, then, I will not say any more about the matter. Run away now, like good children, and get ready for dinner. And Bunny, dear, if Sophie is a little cross, be gentle and polite with her, for you have tormented and tried her temper very much, you know." "Oh, I will be ever so nice and kind to her, dear, dear Miss Kerr," cried Bunny as she gave the governess a bear-like hug and another loving kiss. "I'll be awfully polite;" and laughing merrily she jumped off her perch on Miss Kerr's knee, and ran down the passage to the nursery, waving her hat and singing at the top of her voice. "Poor little giddy-pate!" said Miss Kerr with a sigh. "I wonder how long she will keep all those splendid promises. But why don't you go off and get ready for dinner too, Mervyn?" she asked in surprise as she saw the little boy lingering at the door in a shy uncertain manner. "Run along, dear, at once." "Will you--give me a kiss?" said Mervyn with a deep blush. "I want to know that you have really forgiven me." "Of course I have, dear boy," answered Miss Kerr, and she put her arm round him and kissed him affectionately. "I have quite forgiven you, Mervyn, and I feel sure that you are going to be a very good boy." "I am going to try very hard to be good," replied the boy solemnly, "and as Bunny is so small perhaps I may make her do the same." "Very likely, Mervyn, dear, for good example is sure to have a strong effect upon little Bunny, who is more thoughtless than really naughty. But run off now, dear, and get your hands washed as quickly as possible. The dinner will not be fit to eat if we keep it waiting any longer." "That is true," said Mervyn with a bright happy smile. "We have kept it waiting a dreadfully long time, and we are all just dying with hunger, I'm sure;" and he too went off singing to the nursery. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER VIII. BUNNY TRIES TO SHOW OFF. For some time after this there was a marked improvement in little Bunny's behaviour, and everyone in the house was delighted with the change, and rejoiced over it in a very open manner. "It is perfectly wonderful!" said Mrs. Dashwood; "our little troublesome is becoming quite a well-behaved young person. I feel very grateful to you, Miss Kerr, for I believe it is all owing to your tender care and kind good-nature that the child is improving so much." "I don't think I have so much to do with the change as little Mervyn," answered Miss Kerr with a smile. "I have lectured poor Bunny very often, it is true, but I think a good obedient little friend does a child more real good than all the scoldings and lectures in the world." "Yes, I daresay it is an excellent thing," replied Mrs. Dashwood; "but still I think your lectures and sermons have improved my poor darling a great deal. She was very ignorant when you came to look after her." "Yes, she was," said Miss Kerr; "she did not know much, poor child, and what was worse, did not care to learn anything. But lately she has begun to get on very nicely. And there, again, you see it is Mervyn who has done her good, for her whole ambition is to do everything better than he does it." "The little rogue!" exclaimed Mrs. Dashwood laughing. "Well, it is a good thing to have found a way to make her work. Where is she now, I wonder?" "Mr. Dashwood took her off with him to the stables. Mervyn went too, as it seems there is a pleasant surprise awaiting them there. They both went off laden with bread for Frisk." "I think I can guess what the surprise is," said Mrs. Dashwood with a smile; "I--" "Oh, mama, mama! we are glad! we are glad!" cried Bunny bursting suddenly into the room, followed by Mervyn with a radiant look of happiness on his little white face. "What do you think? Guess what has happened. Just guess what papa has given Mervyn." "Dear aunt, it was so kind of uncle to buy me such a--" "Let her guess--let her guess, Mervyn. Don't tell her what he bought you. Miss Kerr, what did papa buy for him? Something living, something with a tail, something with a nose, a dear velvety nose and a soft silky coat," cried Bunny, as she danced up and down the drawing-room in high glee. "A kitten," said Miss Kerr gravely. "A kitten! oh, the idea!" exclaimed Bunny, "as if people bought kittens." "Something far nicer!" said Mervyn in a voice full of pleasure. "I'll tell her, Bunny, something to ride--" "No, no, don't tell, don't tell!" cried the little girl, laying her hand quickly over his mouth. "Mama, guess, guess." "A pony, Bun, a little brown pony," said Mrs. Dashwood, smiling brightly upon the eager excited children. "You dear clever mamey, that's just what it is," exclaimed Bunny, giving her mother an affectionate hug. "And Mervyn's so pleased, and I am so glad, and oh, it will be so nice going out to ride together!" and jumping up sideways on the arm of the sofa the little girl began to work herself about as if she were really on Frisk's back and trotting along a country road. "My dear Bunny, please don't," cried Mrs. Dashwood, as she felt the sofa upon which she was lying, shaken up and down by the child's vigorous antics. "Please don't, dear, you hurt me very much." "Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Bunny bounding quickly down from her perch, and holding her face up for a pardoning kiss. "But won't it be nice, mama? Frisk is so glad to have a friend in the stable with him, and it will be fun for me to have Mervyn to ride with." "Yes, it will be very nice, dear. But, Bunny, you talk so much that Mervyn never gets saying a word. Tell me, my dear, do you really like your pony?" "Oh, yes, aunt, I am delighted with him, he is so pretty. It was very good of uncle to buy him for me." "And you will not be afraid to ride him, I hope," she said with a smile. "No, I think not, at least not if we go along quietly. But Bunny says she will make Frisk go awfully fast, and then my pony will run after him, and that she is sure I shall be frightened and hold on by the mane and--" "Bunny, Bunny, you must not say such naughty things," cried Mrs. Dashwood shaking her finger at the mischievous child. "But don't mind her, Mervyn. She does not ride at all so splendidly herself. The groom or her papa always holds Frisk by a leading rein, so it would be quite impossible for her to go on as fast as she likes; so do not mind her." "Oh, I don't feel a bit afraid if some one holds my pony by a rein," said Mervyn bravely; "not one bit; I think it will be lovely riding along together." "That is right," said Mrs. Dashwood. "I am sure you will be a clever horseman, for your papa was when he was a boy." "And so he is now, aunt. He has a beautiful horse, and he looks splendid on it when he goes off to ride," cried Mervyn, smiling brightly at the recollection; "I used to think he looked grander than any of the other officers." "Poor little man," said his aunt gently, as she smoothed back the hair from his brow. "You are very fond of your papa, Mervyn, and do you know, I think you will be like him when you grow big and strong." "I want to be like him in every way," said Mervyn, "and I mean to be an officer when I grow up." "And go away to that nasty, hot India," cried Bunny; "oh, I'd be so lonely if you went away again--please don't, Mervyn, please don't." "What is Mervyn not to do, my little woman?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who entered the room at this moment. "He's not to go back to India again, because I should be so lonely without him," cried Bunny catching hold of her papa's hand and laying her little cheek against it; "you won't let him go, papa, will you, dear?" "No, indeed, I couldn't think of such a thing. But I am sure he won't want to go when he hears that his papa is coming home for Christmas; eh, my boy?" "That is good news, uncle," cried Mervyn joyfully; "I never thought he would come so soon. Not much fear of my wanting to go to India when he comes home." "So I thought," said Mr. Dashwood. "And now, children, when are we to have our first ride?" "Now, now; to-day, to-day," cried Bunny; "dear papa, let us go off at once!" "Very well, my dear. I thought you would like to go soon, so I told John to get the ponies and horses ready in half an hour. You had better run and get on your habit--that is, if Miss Kerr will let you both off with your afternoon lessons. What do you think, Miss Kerr, do they deserve a ride?" "Yes, I think they do, for they have both been very good," answered the governess with a smile; "besides, I really don't think they look studiously inclined--they are very much excited." "I couldn't learn a lesson if I tried ever so," cried Bunny, "I really couldn't, so I am glad you are going to let us off. Good-bye, Miss Kerr; good-bye, mama I sha'n't be long, papa, dear;" and away she flew in breathless haste to the nursery. Sophie had received a message informing her that her young lady was going out for a ride, and when Bunny went up to be dressed she found her pretty brown habit and neat felt hat laid all ready for her on the bed. "That is a dear good Sophie," she cried, and she was in such good humour that she allowed the maid to brush her hair and put on her habit without uttering a single cross word or complaint. "Thank you very much, that will do nicely," she said politely, as Sophie put the last finishing touch to her curls; then taking her little whip with the pretty silver top from the maid's hand, she gathered up her skirts and ran quickly down to the hall-door. "What a pleasure it is to dress her when she is so good and polite as that!" said Sophie to herself as she watched the little figure running away from her down the passage. "What a pity it is that children are so often naughty and troublesome!" When Bunny arrived in the hall she found her papa and Mervyn quite ready to start for their ride. "Oh, how nice Brownie looks!" cried the little girl in delight, as her cousin was lifted on to his new pony; "but I don't think he is as handsome as you, old Frisk. Is he, papa?" "I don't know, I am sure, dear," answered her papa, laughing; "but I suppose you like Frisk best because he is your own." "Yes, I suppose I do," said Bunny, and placing her little foot on her papa's hand she sprang nimbly to her saddle. "Good-bye, Miss Kerr, good-bye." Mr. Dashwood mounted his horse, the groom jumped on his, and the whole party rode gaily up the avenue and out of the gate. "I declare Mervyn sits very well, papa," said Bunny in a patronizing manner, as she looked back at her cousin, who was following them with the servant. "Yes, of course he sits well; why shouldn't he?" asked Mr. Dashwood; "he wants a few lessons and then he will ride very well, I am sure." "Yes, I daresay," said Bunny; "but he never rode before, you know, except just little short rides on Frisk, and he'd be awfully afraid to go without the leading rein, I know." "Yes, and quite right too," said her father; "it's only children who ride very well who should be allowed to go without a leading rein, and especially on a country road. Supposing the pony took it into his head to bolt--what do you think would happen then?" "Oh, he could be pulled up quite tight by his rein. I wouldn't be a bit afraid to ride all by myself." "Wouldn't you, indeed, Miss Vanity. Well, I would rather not trust you," said Mr. Dashwood laughing; "I think it is very likely you would find Master Frisk rather too much for you without a leading rein, my dear child." "No, I shouldn't," answered Bunny, bending over her pony and patting his neck; "Frisk and I are such friends he would be sure to do what I told him. Wouldn't you, Friskie?" "Don't trust him or your own power too much, Miss Bunny," replied her father with a smile. "But who is that coming down the road towards us? I think I ought to know him." "Why, papa, it's Mr. Davis, that nice old gentleman who gave me the box of sweets; don't you remember? I'm sure it is." "Yes, so it is," said Mr. Dashwood; "what sharp eyes you have, little woman! You and Mervyn had better ride on with John, as I want to say a word to Mr. Davis." "Very well, papa, but don't be long, pray," said the little girl; "it's so much nicer talking to you than to John." "No, I sha'n't be very long, dear. Good morning, Mr. Davis," said Mr. Dashwood to a tall fine-looking old gentleman who at this moment rode up to them on a beautiful chestnut horse; "I am very glad to see you. This little girl of mine knew you a long way off." "Ha! Miss Bunny and I are great friends," answered Mr. Davis with a smile, as he bent forward to shake her warmly by the hand. "Those pretty eyes of yours are a deal sharper than mine, my dear, for I had not the faintest idea who it was that was coming along the road. But I am glad I met you, Dashwood, as I want to say a few words to you about--" and he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Very well," said Mr. Dashwood; "I'll send these little people on with the groom, and ride down the road a short way with you. John," he called to the servant, "take Miss Bunny's rein and go on up the hill with the children, turn in at Lady Edith's Drive, and I will overtake you in a few minutes." "Yes, sir," said the groom, touching his hat respectfully, and riding forward he took the rein from his master's hand. "Ride quietly along and I will be back to you very soon, Bunny," said Mr. Dashwood, and then he turned his horse round and walked it leisurely down the road again with Mr. Davis. "Oh, what a pretty place!" cried Mervyn, as the riding party trotted along through a gate and into a cool shady avenue, with tall stately trees growing closely together on every side. "This is Lady Edith's Drive," said Bunny; "I think it is the prettiest place about Scarborough. It is so cool and pleasant, and then it is so quiet." "Why is it called Lady Edith's Drive?" asked Mervyn. "I don't know," answered Bunny. "Do you, John?" "Well, no, Miss," said John; "I can't exactly say as I do. I suppose some Lady Edith used to drive here very often." "I suppose so, indeed," said Bunny, laughing merrily at this explanation. "I don't think that tells us much, John," said Mervyn; "anyone might know that." "Yes, sir, very likely, sir," replied the groom; "but I never asks no questions. If I'm told a place is called by a name, I never asks why or wherefore, but just takes it as the name that it's to be called by." "Well, I think you are very foolish then," said Mervyn; "I like asking questions, and it's a very good way to learn about things, I can tell you." "I daresay it is, sir, for a young gentleman like you, sir. But you see the people about me don't know no more nor I do, so what's the use of asking them what's this an' what's that, an' showin' them I don't know nothin' myself." "I never thought of that," said Mervyn, "but I don't think it matters about showing that you don't know. Miss Kerr says no one should be ashamed to ask a question about a thing they don't understand." "John, John," cried Bunny suddenly as she pulled very hard at the leading rein in order to attract the groom's attention, "I want to ask you something. Stoop down that I may whisper it into your ear." The man did as she requested; but when he had heard what she wanted him to do he shook his head in a very determined manner, saying, "I couldn't on no account, Miss. Your pa would be as angry as anything." "No, he wouldn't, John. I told him I could manage Frisk myself, and he only laughed. Do let me--just for a few minutes. I'll go along quite quietly, you'll see I will. I want to show Mervyn that I can ride better than he does, and that I am not afraid to go without a leading rein." "Well, it's very quiet here, so I suppose it could not be much harm," said the man, yielding a little at her pleading voice; "I really don't think it could be any harm;" and he turned in his saddle and looked carefully up and down the drive. "Harm!" exclaimed Bunny, "of course it could do no harm. Oh! pray take off the rein, John," and she looked up into his face in a most imploring manner. "Well, you are a funny little lady, to be sure," he answered with a good-natured laugh, and, bending forward, he unfastened the leading rein and put it into his pocket. "Thank you, John," said the child, sitting up proudly on her pony. "It feels ever so much nicer without it; it's so silly to be always led along by a rein like a baby. Mervyn, I am riding all by myself. Wouldn't you like to ride without a leading rein?" she shouted across at her cousin, who was trotting along quietly at the other side of the groom; "it's twice as nice to feel that you can go just as you like." "I feel just as nice as I am, Bunny, thank you," said Mervyn; "I would rather have the rein, thank you." "I can't hear what you say, so I think I'll go round beside you, Mervyn," she cried gaily; and, raising her whip, she brought it down heavily upon poor Frisk's back, and tried to make him go round beside Brownie. But Frisk was not accustomed to such treatment, and tossed his head and whisked up his tail, but absolutely refused to go to the other side of John's horse, no matter what she did to him. "You naughty pony," she cried, "you must do what I tell you," and she tugged violently at his mouth, and gave him another sharp blow with her whip. This was more than the pony could bear; and before his little mistress knew where she was, he pricked up his ears, and with an angry toss of his head galloped away down the road as fast as he could. "Stop, Miss Bunny, for goodness sake stop," shouted the groom; "you must not go so fast; come back here at once." [Illustration: FRANCIS SAVES BUNNY.] "I can't stop--I can't!" shrieked the little girl in a voice of terror. "Oh! he's running away--he's running away;" and, completely overcome with fright, poor Bunny dropped her reins, and, catching hold of the pony's mane, held on to him with all her strength. "What a fool I was to let her go!" cried the groom; "what on earth will my master say to me? Goodness, the silly child has let go her reins; she'll be off--she'll be off;" and, spurring up his horse, he rode after the runaway, hoping to overtake him and put a stop to his mad race. But the noise of the horses as they clattered down the road after him seemed only to excite Master Frisk, and on he went faster than ever. As the pony reached the end of the drive, and poor little Bunny had become so weak and faint from terror that she was in great danger of being thrown to the ground, a young lad of about sixteen jumped up from the grass where he had been seated, and, dashing forward, seized Frisk by the head and brought him to a sudden stand-still. "Poor little girl," said the boy kindly, as he lifted Bunny from her saddle and laid her gently on the grass. "What a fright you have had! How did this beggar come to run away? He looks quiet enough." "I whipped him," answered Bunny in a shaky voice; "and oh! I thought I was going to fall," and she put her hand to her head as if she still felt giddy. "You were certainly very nearly off," said the boy; "but what a fool that groom of yours was to let a kid like you ride without a leading rein; he shouldn't have done such a thing." "Oh! but I begged him so hard that he let me go," said Bunny; "he didn't want to let me, and--" "Miss Bunny, I'm ashamed of you," cried John, riding up beside her. "You promised you'd ride quite quiet beside me, and you broke your word. I'm very thankful to you, sir, I'm sure," he continued, turning to the young stranger. "In another minute this little lady might have been thrown on her head and been killed on the spot." "Oh, dear! oh, dear! it wasn't my fault," cried Bunny, bursting into tears; "I only mean't to go round beside Mervyn, and Frisk ran away and--" "Don't cry, dear," said the strange lad kindly; "you must not say another word to her, my man," he continued, turning to the groom; "she is rather shaken with her fright, and it's best to leave her alone. Take hold of this pony and I will go and get your young lady some fresh water; that will do her good." "Very well, sir," said John, pulling the leading rein once more from his pocket, and fastening it on to Frisk's bridle with an angry jerk. "It's not my place to scold, Miss Bunny, but a young lady should keep her word, and not get a servant into trouble." "But I didn't mean to break my word, John, indeed I didn't," sobbed Bunny. "Oh! why did papa leave us? oh, dear! oh, dear!" "Drink this, you poor little mite," said her new friend as he held a flask full of fresh water to her lips. "It will do you ever so much good. I will bathe your face for you, and then you will see how comfortable you will feel, but you must not cry any more." "Thank you so much," said Bunny, drinking off the water; "it is very cool and nice." "Yes," the boy answered, "it is very refreshing, but this will do you more good, I am sure;" and, removing her hat, he took a neatly-folded, perfectly clean handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out, and, dipping it into the water, bathed the child's face as tenderly as a girl might have done. "You are very kind," said Bunny, as she raised her big blue eyes to his face; "you are a nice good boy," and she raised her face to give him a kiss. "That's right," he said smiling; "you are beginning to look more cheerful," and, stooping, he kissed her gently on the forehead. At this moment the sound of horses' feet was heard coming along the road, and Mr. Dashwood soon appeared, riding quickly towards them. "What is the matter?" he cried in alarm, as, drawing up sharply, he sprang from his horse and rushed to his little girl's side. "Oh! papa, papa!" cried the child, running into her father's arms, "your poor Bunny was nearly killed, only this nice boy stopped Frisk and took me off his back." "My poor darling!" cried Mr. Dashwood, lifting her gently from the ground, and smoothing back her ruffled hair, "I am very thankful to God that you are not hurt. Thank you, too, my lad, for your kind and ready assistance," he said to the young stranger, grasping him warmly by the hand, "and now tell me, sir," he cried with a stern look, as he turned to the groom, "how it is that the child whom I left in your care came to be in such danger." "If you please, sir, Miss Bunny asked--" began John very nervously. "Yes, papa, I--it was all my fault," interrupted the little girl; "don't scold John. I wanted to show Mervyn that I could ride better than he does, and as I could not do so properly with John holding me by the rein, I begged him to let me go, and I promised to ride quietly; but I whipped Frisk, and he ran off so fast that I got frightened, and--" "It was very wrong of you, John, to allow the child to ride without a rein, and I am really angry and vexed that you should not have taken more care of her when she was left in your charge." "Indeed, sir, I am very sorry, and it shall never happen again," said John. "I hope not," said Mr. Dashwood; "and as for you, Bunny, I am very much surprised that you should have been so naughty. You know I told you you could not manage Frisk without a leading rein." "Yes, I know you did, dear papa," said Bunny, as she rubbed her little face up and down against her father's cheek, "but don't scold us any more. We are all very sorry, aren't we, John?" "Very, Miss," answered the groom; "I'd rather have died than let any harm come to you, an' I hope master will forgive me for lettin' you have your own way about the rein." "I forgive you this time, John," said Mr. Dashwood; "but remember for the future you are to keep Miss Bunny well to your side when you take her out to ride on her pony." "Yes, sir, surely I will," answered the man earnestly; "I will never do what Miss Bunny asks me to do again, never while I live." "And now, my dear fellow," said Mr. Dashwood, turning to the young stranger and shaking him once more by the hand, "I cannot tell you how grateful I feel to you. May I be permitted to ask your name?" "My name is Francis Collins; but indeed I did not do much," the boy answered modestly. "You have done me a very great service, Master Francis, and one that I can never repay you," said Mr. Dashwood earnestly. "Do you live anywhere about here?" "No, sir; I live in London," replied the lad; "my father is in India with his regiment, and I am staying up here for a time with my aunt." "Is your father a captain? and is he in India now?" asked Mervyn shyly. "Yes, little man," answered young Collins with a smile, "he is a captain in the 45th, and is now stationed at Jublepoore." "Why, Captain Collins is papa's great friend, and of course he was my friend too; and Mrs. Collins was so good and kind to me. Oh, I did love her so much!" cried Mervyn, looking up into the lad's face. "Are you the Frank she used to talk to me about?" "Yes, I am the Frank, her only child," said the boy sadly; "poor mother! it's a whole year and a half since I saw her last;" and tears came into his eyes as he spoke. "I have often heard my brother-in-law speak of your father, my dear boy, and I am very glad to have made your acquaintance," said Mr. Dashwood as he seated his little daughter upon her pony. "Where are you staying?" "I am living with my aunt at a quiet hotel on the West Cliff." "I am very glad to hear it," said Mr. Dashwood, "for you will be able to come over and see us. Our name is Dashwood, and we are staying at Holly Lodge, a house standing in its own grounds and facing the sea, yonder on the South Cliff. Anyone will point it out to you; so be sure and pay us a visit some day soon." "Yes, thank you, I certainly will," the boy replied with a bright smile; "I must have a talk with this little chap, Mr. Dashwood, and find out all I can about my father and mother from him. By the by I suppose you are the Mervyn Hastings she told me she missed so much." "Yes, I am Mervyn Hastings; and oh, did she miss me?" cried the little fellow eagerly. "Most dreadfully! And I don't wonder, for you seem to be a capital little fellow," said Frank Collins, patting Mervyn on the shoulder. "Come over and lunch at the children's dinner to-morrow at two o'clock, and then you and Mervyn can have a long talk together," said Mr. Dashwood as he sprang to his horse. "It is rather late now, so these youngsters must get home as quickly as they can. Remember we shall all be delighted to see you, if you can spare time for visiting." "Oh, do come, do come," said Mervyn, earnestly. "Mama will be so glad to see you," cried Bunny, "so do come, please." "Thank you all very much," answered the lad brightly; "I will be sure to be at Holly Lodge by two o'clock. Good-bye, Mr. Dashwood; good-bye, Miss Bunny; good-bye, little Mervyn;" and Frank lifted his hat politely as the riding party turned and rode away from him down the drive towards Scarborough. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER IX. MISS KERR PROMISES A PRIZE. The next morning was very wet, and as it was quite impossible for the children to go out, Miss Kerr insisted on their going into the library to learn their lessons. Bunny pouted and declared that her papa did not wish them to sit still all day over their books, and that it would be much nicer to run about the house and play at "Hide and seek." "Yes, it would be pleasanter for you, Bunny," said Miss Kerr, "but you forget that 'Hide and seek' is a very noisy game, and that your mama's head is aching so much that she could not bear the noise you would be sure to make. Come now, be good children, and try to learn your lessons as well as you possibly can." "I hate lessons! and so does Mervyn," cried the little girl in a cross voice. "Don't you, Mervyn?" "No, I don't," answered the boy; "I will go if you like, Miss Kerr, for I want to learn how to write soon, that I may be able to send papa a letter." "You are a good boy, Mervyn," said the governess with a smile as she took him by the hand, "and I promise you that I will soon let you write a little letter to your papa. Come, Bun, dear, you are not going to be naughty, I am sure. Come along and we'll have such a nice quiet morning over our books;" and she held out her other hand to the little girl. "Well, if I am good, will you read us a story after we have said our lessons?" bargained Miss Bunny; "I just love to hear you read stories." "Yes, I will read you a very nice story if you are good, and I have a pretty box of chocolate here that I will give to the child who studies the hardest and keeps silence the longest." "Oh, how nice! Oh, how jolly!" cried Bunny, clapping her hands in delight. "I'll learn my lessons awfully hard;" and away she ran down the passage to the library, pulled her spelling-book out of the drawer, and perching herself on a chair at the table began to shout out the words at the top of her voice. "My dear Bunny, how do you think Mervyn can learn his lessons if you scream yours out in that way?" said Miss Kerr laughing; "repeat those words quietly to yourself whilst I show your cousin what he is to do." "I don't know very much, Miss Kerr," said Mervyn shyly as he took the book from her hand; "papa says I am a dreadful dunce, but I only began to learn last year." "Never mind that, my dear boy. If you give your attention to your book and feel anxious to learn, you will soon get on. Spell over these words for me and let me see what you can do." Mervyn did as he was told, and with much difficulty he managed to spell down half a column of very easy words. "Oh, I can do better than that! I can do better than that!" cried Bunny, wriggling about on her chair; "why, I could spell those words in a minute. Listen--h-o-u-s-e, d-a-y, m-o-u-s-e." "Hush! Bunny, I cannot allow you to go on like that," said Miss Kerr gravely; "you have learned those words over and over again, so of course you know them well. Now, Mervyn, go and read them over by yourself and I will hear you say them without the book in a few minutes. Bunny, come and say your lesson." The little girl slipped off her chair and came slowly across the room to Miss Kerr. "Be quick, Bun, stir yourself," cried the governess; "I want to hear how beautifully you can spell words that you have never seen before; come along." But Bunny still hung back with an obstinate look on her little face, that showed plainly how very unwilling she was to do as she was told. "Come, dear child, be quick, you are wasting all my time;" and Miss Kerr held out her hand for the spelling-book. Bunny handed it to her, and then dragging one foot slowly after the other, she at last stood by Miss Kerr's side. "Take your finger out of your mouth, Bunny," said the governess, as she laid the book before the child and pointed to the place. "Now begin, B--" "If you please, Miss Kerr," said Ashton, opening the door. "Mrs. Dashwood wants to see you very particular, miss, in the drawing-room. She said as she wouldn't keep you long, but you was to go to her at once." "Very well, I will go now, Ashton," said Miss Kerr; "and now, children, I hope you will be good while I am away. Bunny, you can go over those words by yourself. See here is the box of chocolate. I will put it in the middle of the table so that you may see what you have to work for;" and placing a pretty cardboard box upon a pile of books so that the children might see the gay picture on the lid, she smiled kindly upon them both, and hurried out of the room. For a few moments after they were left alone the little people were very silent and quiet; but soon Bunny raised her head, yawned noisily, and pushing her book away began to amuse herself by looking about the room. "I shall get the prize," said Mervyn, "you are not learning your lesson, you know." "No more are you," cried Bunny; "I'll learn mine up in a minute when Miss Kerr comes back, and you're as slow as an old snail at yours;" and again she began to mimic his voice and manner of spelling. "You're very rude," cried Mervyn, getting red, "and I'll just tell Miss Kerr when she comes back." "Tell-tale! tell-tale!" sang Bunny; "much I care! If I know my lesson best I'll get the chocolate and I won't give you one bit." "You're a greedy thing! But you won't get it. I know my lesson splendidly, and you don't know yours at all, so I am sure to get the prize, I can tell you." "Ha, how grand you are, to be sure!" screamed Bunny, and stretching out her hand she tried to pull the chocolate box towards her. "You sha'n't touch it! You sha'n't touch it!" shouted Mervyn; "it isn't yours, so just leave it alone." "It isn't yours either," cried Bunny with flaming cheeks, and she fastened her little fingers more firmly than ever round the box. "I am sure to get it, so I shall keep it beside me till Miss Kerr comes back." "No, you sha'n't," answered Mervyn in an angry voice, and jumping up on his chair he sprawled over the table and tried to drag the box from Bunny's hand. "You nasty boy, let go! I'll tell Miss Kerr! I'll tell mama! You're a coward! You're a horrid--" "Who's going to be tell-tale now?" shrieked the boy. "Give it to me, I say, give it to me," and he gave a vigorous pull at the box. But the cardboard of which the chocolate box was composed was not strong enough to stand such pulling, and before the naughty children knew where they were it suddenly gave way and came to pieces in their hands. The beautiful prize was completely destroyed, and its whole contents were strewn all over the place. "Now, see what you have done!" cried Bunny, bursting into tears; "you have broken the box--oh dear, oh dear, you cross, nasty, greedy boy, I--" "I didn't do it," said Mervyn, but his voice was low and shaky, for all his anger disappeared when he saw the pretty box torn to pieces and the chocolate creams lying scattered about all over the table and floor. "Yes, you did! If you hadn't pulled so hard it would have been all right," said Bunny tearfully. "Oh, what will Miss Kerr say? I think I'll run away to the nursery and hide. I shall be afraid to let her see me--" "That would be cowardly," answered Mervyn; "I'm very sorry I pulled the box, and I'll stay here and tell her so;" and he went down on his knees and began to gather up the sweetmeats and put them into a sheet of paper. "Don't eat any, Mervyn," said Bunny, "they look awfully nice, but--" "Eat them!" exclaimed the boy indignantly, "I should think not indeed! I am not so mean as that; I wouldn't--" "Mean--is it mean?" cried Bunny, rubbing her mouth; "oh, I didn't know, and I just took one--but Miss Kerr won't mind." "Well, you are nasty! You tell me not to eat them, and then you go and take some yourself. Go away, I won't speak to you or be friends with you any more; you're a mean--" "Oh, Mervyn, Mervyn, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!" cried Bunny, flinging herself on her knees beside her cousin. "I didn't want to take the chocolate cream, but it looked so nice, and I just longed to take it and--" "Children! what are you doing?" cried Miss Kerr in astonishment as her eyes fell upon the two kneeling figures and she heard Bunny's miserable tone of voice; "why are you on the floor? Come back to the table at once." "Bunny," whispered Mervyn, "we must tell Miss Kerr now what we have done;" and springing to his feet he caught the little girl by the hand and dragged her over to the other side of the room, where the governess had seated herself, ready to begin lessons again. "We have been very naughty," he began, looking down at the floor; "we didn't learn our lessons--and--we--broke--the box--and spilt all the chocolates--but we are very sorry, indeed we are," and he raised his blue eyes full of tears to Miss Kerr's face. "Yes, we are very sorry--and--I eat a chocolate cream--but Mervyn didn't because it was mean," cried Bunny, and then, overcome with grief, she buried her face in her pinafore and sobbed aloud. "I cannot tell you how much surprised and shocked I feel at such conduct," said Miss Kerr gravely. "I really thought I could trust you for a few minutes alone. Mervyn, I am very much grieved to think that you could behave in such a naughty way. Bunny is wild and giddy, but I thought you were going to show her a good example, by being good and gentle yourself." "Yes, and I wanted to," said Mervyn, "but she called me names and then I got cross, and then--I--" "Yes, and I got cross too," cried Bunny, putting down her pinafore for a minute. "I was angry and--" "And I am afraid you both forgot that God was looking at you, and that he was greatly displeased at you for giving way to your wicked passions in such a manner. How did you come to be so naughty? Mervyn, what began it all?" The tears were rolling down the little boy's cheeks, but he dried them with his handkerchief, and choking back those that were still ready to flow, he tried to tell the story of the torn chocolate box as well as he could. "Well, I am glad you have told me all about it," said Miss Kerr, gently, "and as you both seem so sorry for your conduct, I suppose I must forgive you. But remember, dear children, that you must tell God that you are sorry, and ask him to forgive you. Pray to Him that he may help you to overcome your tempers and become good, gentle little children. I will not scold you any more, and you have punished yourselves by breaking the box and spilling the sweetmeats, for now I cannot allow you to have any of them." "Oh, I don't mind that!" cried Mervyn quickly. "If you will forgive me for being naughty, I don't want any sweets." "I do forgive you, Mervyn, but don't forget what I told you. Say a prayer to-night before you go to bed and ask God's forgiveness and help." "Yes, I will, I will," cried the boy, "and I will try and be ever so good all day to make up for being so naughty this morning." "And I'll be good too," said Bunny; "I am sorry you won't give us any sweets, for they look so nice, but still I--" "You won't ask for any! That is right, dear. I know you like sweets, Bun, but I must punish you a little, you know, so I can't give you any to-day. Come, now, I forgive you both, so let us go back to our lessons at once; and I hope you will do your best to show me that you are truly sorry, by working very hard for the next two hours." "Yes, yes, we will, indeed," cried the children together, and off they ran to get their books. "That is right! That looks like real work," said Miss Kerr, as she wrapped up the chocolate creams in paper, and locked them away in a drawer. "Come, Bunny, bring your book to me, dear." Bunny opened her spelling-book briskly, Mervyn began to read his lesson attentively, and perfect peace reigned once more. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER X. ON OLIVER'S MOUNT. The lessons were over about half-past one, and as they had been well learned and quickly said, Miss Kerr was really pleased with the children, and rewarded them for their industry and attention by reading a pretty story, that interested and amused them very much. This kept them pleasantly occupied until nearly two o'clock, and then they ran off to the nursery in high spirits, to get themselves washed and dressed for their early dinner. "I am so sorry, Miss Kerr," said Bunny, as she took her seat at the dinner-table, "I'm really dreadfully sorry that nice boy we saw yesterday has not come to have lunch with us as he promised he would." "Yes, dear, so am I, for I should like very much to see him," answered Miss Kerr, "but I daresay the rain kept him from coming." "But it's not raining one drop now," said Mervyn, "and I declare, there is the sun coming out; I do wish he would come." "Oh, but it's wet under-foot, Mervyn," remarked Bunny wisely, "and it's a bad thing to get your feet wet--Sophie screams fearfully at me if I put my toe out, even long after the rain has stopped." "Yes, when you go in your thin shoes, of course," cried Mervyn; "but big boys like Frank Collins are not afraid of wetting their feet. Are they, Miss Kerr?" "No, I don't think they are, dear," answered the governess, laughing, "I know my brothers run out in all kinds of weather." "Come in, my boy! Here they are at their dinner," said Mr. Dashwood, opening the door at this moment, and entering the room with young Collins. "Miss Kerr, this is our young friend who so bravely saved poor Bunny yesterday," he added as he presented Frank to the governess. "I am very glad to see you, Master Collins, and these children have been longing for you to come," said Miss Kerr; "it was very brave of you to stop the pony." "Brave! not at all, Miss Kerr," answered Frank with a bright honest smile that won the lady's heart at once. "I don't think the pony was really running away, and if this little girl," and he patted Bunny on the head, "had not been frightened, but had sat up properly and kept a good hold of her reins, she would have been all right." "Oh! Bunny, Bunny, you little coward," cried Miss Kerr, "and so, after all, it was you who held on by the mane, and not Mervyn, as you so gaily told him he would do yesterday." "Did she tell him that?" asked Frank as he took a seat at the table beside Mervyn. "Well, I think this little chap would be the bravest of the two in real danger. He would not be so rash, perhaps, but I think he would keep cool and not lose his head as she did." "Oh, but I was frightened," sighed Bunny. "I was sure Frisk was running away;" and she looked so very tearful that her papa kindly changed the conversation by asking his young guest how he liked staying at Scarborough. "Are there many nice walks about?" asked Mr. Dashwood, when they had all finished their lunch and were preparing to leave the table. "I mean short walks within easy distance, where these little folks could go, for instance?" "Yes, there's the old castle," said Frank, "on the West Cliff, then there's the people's Park in the valley, which of course you all know well, and Oliver's Mount, which I think the nicest walk of any." "Oliver's Mount! Oh, that is a nice place," said Bunny, who had quite recovered her gay spirits again. "Sophie says she went up there one day with some friends, and she had buns and lemonade and all kinds of things, in a little house, a funny small house, she says, that is up there on the top. Do take us up Oliver's Mount, like a dear good papa." "Yes, I know the little house Sophie means," said Frank; "it is only a small shed, you can just see it from the window, look, there it is, right away up on the top of the mount." "It looks a great height, certainly," said Mr. Dashwood. "I wonder if these little ones could manage to go such a long way." "Oh! yes, we could, we could," cried the children together. "Very well, then, I suppose we had better set off at once," said Mr. Dashwood; "you have no objection to my taking these small people, Miss Kerr?" "Not the slightest," she replied. "I was going to send them with Sophie, but I am sure they will enjoy going with you much better. Mrs. Dashwood is not well enough to go out, so I intend to read to her the best part of the afternoon." "I am glad to hear that, for I was afraid she might feel dull if we set off for a long walk," said Mr. Dashwood. "Well, run away, children, and get ready; the sooner we start the better." "It will be a long way for their little legs if we go right to the top," said Frank doubtfully. "Mervyn doesn't look very strong, and Bunny's legs are very short." "Indeed they are not," cried Bunny indignantly. "I can walk splendidly; can't I, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, dear, you are a very good walker for your age and size." "There, do you hear that?" cried Bunny, jumping off her chair and throwing her arms round her father's neck. "Do take us, do take us, dear darling old papa." "You little rogue!" cried Mr. Dashwood, "I do believe you could coax the birds off the bushes." "No, papa, indeed I couldn't," answered Bunny gravely; "I often tried, but they would not come; and I tried to put salt on their tails too, but they flew away and--" "You dear little goose, that was a great shame; they must have been very rude birds indeed, my poor Bun," said Mr. Dashwood with a hearty laugh at the child's simplicity. "You have coaxed me anyway, dear. I will take you to Oliver's Mount; and I have thought of a plan that will save your short legs and Mervyn's weak ones a good deal." "A plan! Oh! what is it? you dear, darling papa," she cried joyfully. "No, I won't tell you, little one. Run off and get dressed, and you will see what it is when you come back. Away you go!--both of you. Be quick, or Frank and I will not wait for you." Bunny and Mervyn were both very curious to know what this wonderful plan of Mr. Dashwood's could be, and chattered away about it as they were being dressed by Sophie. "To the top of Oliver's Mount!" cried the maid, holding up her hands in astonishment when the children told her where they were going. "Gracious! is it that monsieur your papa knows how far it is? You will both be too tired to return home to-night." "Then we shall sleep in that little house at the top, among the buns and the lemonade," said Mervyn. "That would be fine fun, wouldn't it, Bunny?" "I don't know about that," replied the little girl. "But do not be frightened, Sophie; papa has a fine plan, so we sha'n't be one bit tired. Come on, Mervyn," and, laughing merrily, the two children ran off together down-stairs. "Papa, papa! where is your plan?" cried Bunny, as they met her father and young Collins in the hall. "We do so want to know what your wonderful plan can be." "Here it is, then, my dear," said Mr. Dashwood, and he threw open the door, and displayed two steady-looking old donkeys standing ready saddled at the gate. "You are to ride one of those fellows, and Mervyn the other. That is my plan; isn't it a good one?" "Capital! capital! What fun! what fun!" cried the children, clapping their hands in delight. "But, papa, the donkeys will never go up the mountain," exclaimed Bunny suddenly; "Sophie says there is a big stile to get over, so how will they manage that?" "We won't ask them to go over the stile," said Frank Collins, as he lifted the little girl and seated her comfortably on the saddle. "They will carry you up the road to the foot of the Mount, and then we will leave them there to rest and eat some grass, while we go on our rambles up to the top." "Wasn't it a capital plan of papa's, Mervyn, to get us these donkeys?" asked Bunny, as she and her cousin jogged quietly along the road on the steady old animals. "These are such nice well-behaved creatures, and don't run away in a hurry like Master Frisk." "No, I should think not," answered Mervyn laughing. "Why, just look at this fellow," he cried as his donkey came to a sudden stand-still in the middle of the road. "What can we do to make him go on? Here, boy, please make him move a little," he shouted to the donkey-boy, who was loitering behind talking to a comrade. "Hey up!" screamed the lad, running up quietly from behind, and bringing his stick down heavily on the poor brute's back; "hey up, Teddy!" and away trotted the donkey at a rapid pace up the hill. When Bunny's charger saw his companion starting off so gaily, he pricked up his ears and followed him as fast as ever he could. "Your plan was a capital one, uncle," said Mervyn, as he and Bunny jumped off their donkeys and prepared themselves to climb over the stile and begin their walk up the mount together. "I suppose you feel as fresh as a couple of daisies, and not at all shaken?" said Frank Collins. "Come along and we'll have a race to the very top;" and away he ran nimbly up the side of the hill. Bunny and Mervyn struggled bravely after him, and they went so fast that they soon left Mr. Dashwood behind them, for he declared that he was too old to run, and that he would follow them at his leisure. The grass was very slippery after the rain, and the mount was very steep, and so, although the children went as fast as their little legs could carry them, yet they could not keep up with their young friend, who soon appeared a long way above them, waving a handkerchief, and cheering and shouting at the top of his voice. But at last they all reached the highest part of the mount, and, puffing and panting after their fearful exertions, they seated themselves upon a bench and gazed about them in delight. "Isn't it jolly up here, Mr. Dashwood?" said Frank. "I think it would be worth climbing ever so much higher to see such a sight, don't you?" "Yes, indeed I do," answered Mr. Dashwood; "and the air is very fine; it feels so fresh and strong. That is the old castle away over there, I suppose." "Yes; and doesn't the old part of the town, with its queer red brick houses and narrow streets, look pretty? And look at the bay in front of it, with its ships and barges. Doesn't it all look lovely in the sunlight?" "Yes, Frank, it does look pretty," cried Mervyn; "and isn't the sea a beautiful blue colour?" "And don't our donkeys look funny little gray fellows, away down there on the road?" cried Bunny. "Oh, dear! they do look far away." "Bunny would rather look at her donkey than all the beauties of the country," said Mr. Dashwood with a smile, as he took his little girl upon his knee. "But these youngsters must not be defrauded of their cakes and lemonade, Frank. Would you mind going into that wonderful shop to see if you can get some?" "Oh! they have lots of good things in there, I know," answered Frank. "I hope you will be able to eat a good supply, Bunny?" "Yes, I feel able to eat several cakes," cried Bunny; "thank you, dear papa, for thinking of them. I do love buns and lemonade. Don't you, Mervyn?" "Yes, Bunny, very much," replied her cousin. "I am afraid I shall get scolded for letting you have them," said Mr. Dashwood, as Frank appeared, carrying an armful of cakes and buns, and followed by a man with glasses and bottles of lemonade. "If you eat all these you won't be able to take anything at tea, and then Miss Kerr will be so dreadfully angry." "Oh! never mind, papa, dear," cried Bunny; "cakes and lemonade are just as good as tea, but I will eat as much as ever I can when I go home, and then no one will scold you." "That's a good, kind little woman," said her father laughing; "but finish up those cakes now as fast as you can, for I want to get back to the club for an hour before dinner." "I will just put this in my pocket for the donkey-boy, papa," said the little girl, holding up a bun which she could not manage to eat; "he was very good, and made the donkeys go so well." "I think we will go round by the road, Frank," said Mr. Dashwood, rising from the bench; "it is not quite so steep as the mount, and is very little longer." "Very well; I daresay it will be the best way to return; it will be a variety anyway," said Frank. "Mervyn, will you walk with me? I want to talk to you about India and all our friends there." "Yes, yes," said the little boy, "that is the very thing I should like." "But our donkeys--oh! are we not going home on our donkeys?" cried Bunny. "Of course we are, you little grumbler," said her father. "We are only going to walk round by the road to them instead of tumbling pell-mell down the hill again. Come along with me, and let these two boys talk over their affairs together." Then, taking his little girl by the hand, Mr. Dashwood walked quickly away with her down the hilly road. Frank and Mervyn followed them slowly arm-in-arm, and the elder boy, with a look of yearning love in his eyes, asked his small friend many anxious questions about the dear father and mother whom he had not seen for such a long time. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XI. WAS IT CRUEL? One lovely afternoon towards the end of September Mrs. Dashwood and Miss Kerr sat together on the lawn in front of the house. They were stitching away at some pretty clothes, that were evidently intended for a large wax doll, with golden ringlets and blue eyes, that lay on a table that stood between them on the grass. Mrs. Dashwood looked pale and delicate still, but there was a well-pleased smile upon her sweet face as she sat enjoying the sea breezes. She was comfortably propped up with pillows in a large wicker chair, and her thin white fingers were busily engaged on her dainty work. The fresh country air had done her great service, and she was full of the hope that she should soon return quite strong and well to town. Bunny lay curled up in another big chair, and although she knew very well that the pretty doll was intended for her, she looked very cross and did not seem to notice what was going on about her. "Why don't you go and play, Bunny?" said Miss Kerr looking up from her work. "I do not like to see you tumbling about there with such a cross look on your face. Go and get a book--or will you have a needle and thread and try to do some sewing?" "No, thank you," answered Bunny, "I hate books and I can't sew." "But you might learn, dear," said her mother gently. "It is a great pleasure to be able to sew, Bunny. I quite enjoy doing my piece of work after being obliged to lie on the sofa for such a long time." "I don't want to learn to sew," cried Bunny. "I want to have a game. I am tired sitting here, mama. Oh, I do wish Mervyn and Frank would be quick and come back." "Well, my dear Bunny, they will soon be here," said Miss Kerr. "They promised to be back at three and it wants a quarter to three now, so you won't have very long to wait." "Oh! I'm so glad!" cried Bunny; "I've spent such a nasty dull day without them." "Well, really now!" said her mother laughing; "that's a kind thing to say. I thought my little girl liked being with me." "Oh! yes, mama, so I do," answered Bunny quickly; "but Mervyn has been away such a long time, and I do want him to come back and have a good game with me. He stayed to lunch with Frank up there at the hotel, and Miss Kerr wouldn't let me go, and oh, dear! I have been so lonely all day." "Poor little girl!" said her mother, "but Miss Kerr was quite right not to let you go, Bunny; Frank will have quite enough to do to manage Mervyn. You are very hard to keep in order, for you are very wild and--" "Oh! I'm not a bit wild now, mama; I'm as quiet as a lamb--I am indeed." "Bunny, Bunny, where are you, I say?--where are you?" called Mervyn, running up the garden walk and across the lawn. "Here I am, Mervyn, and oh! I am so glad you have come back," and the little girl rushed forward eagerly to meet her cousin. "But where is Frank? I thought he was coming back with you." "Yes, so he is. He will be here in a minute; and he has something for you, Bunny." "Something for me, Mervyn; oh! what is it?" she cried; "do tell me what it is." "He'll tell you himself--he'll tell you himself," answered Mervyn, and going down on the grass, he tumbled heels over head two or three times in succession. "You tiresome boy," cried his cousin, "do get up and tell me what Frank has for me, and where he got it, and--" "Go and ask Frank himself--there he is," shouted Mervyn, starting quickly to his feet again, as young Collins appeared suddenly at the top of the flight of steps that led from the drawing-room into the garden. His hands were both behind his back, and he laughed merrily when he saw Bunny's face of excitement and curiosity as she ran across the lawn to meet him. "You dear good Frank, Mervyn says you have something for me," she cried; "do tell me what it is. I do so want to know." "A bird, Bunny; a young thrush," said Frank gaily, as he drew a small cage from behind his back and held it up to the little girl. "I put him in here because it was the only thing I could find; but I will get you a proper big cage for him to-morrow." "Oh! never mind the cage; but let me see the bird," cried Bunny. "He is rather frightened just now, Bun, but I think he will soon sit up and begin to sing; and thrushes do sing beautifully." "He is a dear little fellow! a perfect darling! But where did you get him, Frank?" asked Bunny in delight, as she danced joyfully round her new treasure. "Did you manage to put salt on his tail?" "He hasn't got a tail, Bunny," answered Frank, laughing; "he is so young that he hasn't got one yet. I caught him quite easily in the hotel garden." "Mama, Miss Kerr, look at the lovely bird Frank has brought me," cried Bunny, running back to her mother's chair. "A bird, Frank?" said Mrs. Dashwood, looking into the cage in surprise. "What a pity it was to catch him and put him in prison, poor little creature; he looks dreadfully frightened." "In prison, mama!" cried Bunny indignantly. "Why, it's a lovely cage; and see, he has water, and hard-boiled egg, and bread sopped in water, and--" "Yes, dear, I see all those things, but still he is in prison, Bunny," said Mrs. Dashwood gently, "and I think it would have been much kinder to have left him to fly about the woods and sing his sweet songs in happy freedom." "I am afraid he will never sing again," said Miss Kerr as Frank placed the cage on the table beside her; "he looks as if he were going to die, I think; just see how he has gathered himself up into a ball, and his eyes are shut." "Oh! I hope he won't die," cried Frank; "I am sorry I caught him, Mrs. Dashwood. Shall I let him fly away again?" "No, you sha'n't, Frank; he is my bird, and you must not let him fly away," cried Bunny; "I want to keep him." "But, Bunny, your mama thinks he would be glad to get away, so I would rather let him go. Do say I may send him off." "No, no, Frank, you sha'n't; I want him; he's mine now," answered the little girl in an angry voice; "I will have him and keep him;" and making a dive across the table she seized the cage and ran away with it down the garden. "Bunny! Bunny! come back this minute," cried her mother and Miss Kerr together. "I'll soon bring her back!" exclaimed Frank, and off he went after the runaway. When Bunny heard footsteps behind her she turned her head to see who it was that was following her, and as she ran along without looking where she was going, her foot came against a stone, and down she went, cage and all, upon the gravelled path. "Oh, you cruel big boy!" she cried, bursting into tears. "Why did you come after me and make me fall in that way? I'll never speak to you again--never;" and, gathering herself up from the ground, she began to rub her knees, and brush the dust and sand off her frock. "Now, don't be silly, Bunny," said Frank, as he picked up the cage. "You are not a bit hurt--but, look here! I believe you have killed the poor bird." "Oh! no, Frank, dear! oh! I didn't do that!" sobbed the little girl, coming forward and looking wistfully into the cage. "Yes, I am afraid he is dead. He was very much frightened before," said Frank sadly, "and the shock of the fall, and all the water and things falling on him have killed him. I am so sorry. I wish, now, I had left him to sing happily in the garden, Mrs. Dashwood," he said, going back to where the ladies sat together, carrying the poor dead thrush in his hand. "You were quite right; it was a great pity to take the poor bird and put him in a cage. I will never catch a young bird again--never." "Poor little creature! I thought it would not live long," said Miss Kerr; "but, Bunny, you were very naughty to run away with it in that way; I am sure the fall helped to kill the thrush." "I didn't mean to kill it!" cried Bunny in a choking voice. "Oh! mama, I am so sorry!" and she flung herself on the ground beside her mother's chair, and buried her face in her lap. "Never mind, Bunny, dear," whispered Mervyn softly, as he stole up and put his arm round her neck. "Don't cry, dear; I am sure it would have died very soon anyway. Wouldn't it, Miss Kerr?" "Yes, dear, I think it would," said the governess gently. "But what are you going to do with the thrush, Frank?" "Oh! I suppose I must bury it," answered Frank; "I wish I had a pretty box to put it in." "I have one, I have one," cried Bunny, jumping quickly to her feet, and running off towards the house, mopping up her tears as she went along. "I've got a dear little one that will just do, Frank." "We must have a solemn funeral," said young Collins. "Who will write an epitaph to put at the head of his grave?" "An epee--what, Frank?" asked Mervyn, with a puzzled look on his little face. "What do you mean?" "An epitaph, you little simple Indian; do you not know what that means?" "No," said Mervyn gravely, "I don't think people in India ever have such things." "Don't they indeed! Bunny, what is an epitaph?" asked Frank, laughing merrily as he took a pretty bon-bon box from the little girl's hand. "I don't know, I'm sure," said Bunny; "I never heard of such a thing. What is it yourself?" "Well, you are a clever pair! Why, it's something written on a tombstone," cried Frank, and, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, he scribbled a few words, and then proceeded to read them aloud. "Listen and learn what an epitaph is, my friends:-- "Beneath there lies a little thrush, Who should have sung on many a bush." "Capital!" said Miss Kerr, laughing merrily at this brilliant production. "Why, you are a regular poet!" "It is very good indeed, Frank," said Mrs. Dashwood with a bright smile. "Now, Mervyn, I hope you know what an epitaph is?" "Yes, I think so," said Mervyn slowly; "but no one says bush like thrush. It doesn't sound at all right." "Hallo! young Indian, are you going to find fault with my pronunciation? Isn't it splendid, Miss Bun, bun?" "I'm not bun, bun, and I think Mervyn is quite right," answered the little girl with a toss of her head. "It sounds very funny, and all that, but it isn't the proper way to say the word, I know." "Of course not, little Miss Wisehead, but we are allowed to say all kinds of things in poetry," said Frank grandly; "and I can tell you it's jolly convenient when a fellow wants a rhyme. But now that we have decided this knotty point, let us go and look for a nice place where we can bury the little fellow;" and, having placed the thrush in the box, he went off to look for a suitable burying-place. "Put him in my little garden," cried Bunny eagerly. "There are lovely flowers there, and we can make him such a nice grave." "Where is your garden, monkey?" said Frank. "I did not know you had such a thing." "Yes, I have; at least I call it mine," answered Bunny, skipping gaily along. "It's a dear little flower-bed down there by the sun-dial, and it will be such a pretty place for the poor dead bird. Do bury him there, Frank." "Very well; what pleases you pleases me," and off they went to Bunny's garden. Very carefully Frank dug up the earth, and, having placed the bird within the grave, he filled it in neatly, took a lovely geranium from a neighbouring flower-bed, and planted it just over the poor songster's head. "We must water it," cried Bunny, "or it will not grow," and away she rushed to the tool-house. Here she found the gardener's watering-pot, and, unfortunately for them all, it was more than half-full of water. "This will make the flowers grow beautifully," she cried; and before the boys had time to speak or stop her hand, she tilted up the heavy pot and sent the water flying all over their feet and legs. "Oh! Bunny, Bunny! just see what you have done," exclaimed Mervyn, beginning to cry as he felt the cold water soaking in through his stockings and shoes. "Oh, dear! what shall I do?" "You little mischief!" cried Frank, shaking himself. "What on earth made you do that?" "Oh! I wanted the flower to grow," said Bunny, bursting into tears, "and I did not mean to wet you and Mervyn at all; and look at my own pinafore and frock. Oh, dear! what will Sophie say?" "Sophie will say you are a naughty, wicked little creature," cried the maid, darting out suddenly from behind a tree. "Come in this minute and get your things changed. Monsieur Mervyn, go to the nursery at once." "I won't go! I won't go a bit!" cried Bunny, stamping her foot angrily. "The sun will dry me in a minute, and I won't go with you; so there!" "Come along, Bunny, like a good girl," said Mervyn, "let us run fast and see who will get up to the nursery first," and away he went up the path as fast as he could. "I won't go, Sophie. I want to stay with Frank," cried Bunny once more, as she caught the boy's hand and held on to it tightly. "You ought to go, dear, indeed you ought," said Frank. "See, Mervyn has gone, and you know you should always do what Sophie tells you." "No, I won't; she's a nasty thing! and it's twice as nice out here, so I won't go one bit." "Your mama and Miss Kerr have returned to the house, and you must come in and get changed your dress, mademoiselle." "I won't! I won't," shrieked Bunny, clinging more closely to Frank, and turning her back upon her nurse in a most impertinent manner. "We shall see if you do not, you bad, naughty child," cried Sophie in an angry voice, and running forward she seized the little girl in her arms, and carried her off screaming and kicking into the house. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XII. THE FIREWORKS. A little before seven o'clock that evening the children stood at the drawing-room window. All traces of the recent struggle in the garden had been removed, and in the neat little girl in the dainty cream lace and muslin frock, with its fluttering pink ribbons, few persons would have recognized the small fury that Sophie had carried off wriggling and crying to the nursery a few hours before. But Miss Bunny had already forgotten that such a scene had ever taken place, and was making very merry over a big blue-bottle fly that she and Mervyn were doing their best to catch as it walked up and down the window-pane. Frank Collins sat at the piano playing some very lively tunes, and from time to time Bunny would pause in her pursuit of the fly and dance lightly over the floor in time to the music. "Papa, papa," she cried, as Mr. Dashwood entered the room with his wife upon his arm, "doesn't Frank make lovely tunes?" "I don't know, dear," answered her father. "Frank does not seem anxious to let me hear his music, for he has stopped short the moment I appeared." "I am afraid Mrs. Dashwood would not care for my music," answered Frank modestly. "I only play from ear." "Oh, Frank, how can you say such a thing!" cried Bunny indignantly. "Why, mama, he plays just like Miss Kerr does. He plays away up in the treble with two hands, and then he plays pum, pum, pum away down in the bass; oh, it is most beautiful! Do play again, Frank." "No, dear, not now," said Frank. "I'll play for you another time, but don't ask me now;" and he hopped the little girl up on his knee. "Well, then, ask--you know what," whispered Bunny mysteriously. "You know you said you would--you promised." "Oh, yes, of course; I very nearly forgot," said Frank, "and I suppose Sophie will soon be carrying you off to bed, it's nearly half-past seven." "Yes, she will, unless you ask that, and papa and mama say, Yes." "Mrs. Dashwood," said Frank, "it's a gala night, as they call it, on the Spa, and there are to be fireworks, so will you let these little people stay up for them? Please do." "What! to go out in the night air and into the crowd?" asked Mrs. Dashwood in a horrified voice. "My dear Frank, I could not think of allowing such a thing. It is quite impossible!" "Of course it is, Mrs. Dashwood," answered Frank. "But I did not mean them to go out at all, I--" "Oh, no, dear mama," cried Bunny eagerly, "Frank does not want us to go out, but to sit up and see them from Miss Kerr's window, that is all." "Bunny, come here, dear, I want to have a talk with you," said her mother gravely, and guessing that she was going to receive a scolding for her naughty conduct in the garden, the child stole slowly over the floor, and at last stood in rather a shamefaced manner beside her mother's chair. "Do you think, Bunny, that a little girl who screamed and kicked as you did when Sophie took you in out of the garden, deserves to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks?" "No, mama," answered Bunny in a low voice, and two large tears trickled down her cheeks and fell on her mother's hand. "Auntie, dear, don't scold poor Bunny, for she is very sorry she was naughty, and she begged Sophie's pardon before we came down." "Well, I am glad to hear that, Mervyn," said Mrs. Dashwood, "and I hope Bunny is sorry; but I don't think she should be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks, she cannot expect it." "Why, mama, what is all this about?" said Mr. Dashwood, coming over and putting his arm round his little daughter. "Why are you scolding poor Bunny so much?" "Because I was naughty, papa," said Bunny, creeping up very close to him. "But I am very sorry, and I promise to be good." "Oh, well, don't scold her any more, dear," said her papa, stroking the little golden head, "she can't do more than promise to be a good child." "And do forgive her, and let her stay up to see the fireworks," whispered Mervyn, "it would be such fun!" "What is that you are saying, Mervyn? What dreadful plot are you hatching over there?" cried Mr. Dashwood, "why, the fireworks don't go off until nine, and your bedtime is at half-past seven, isn't it?" "Yes, I know it is, uncle, but we're not a bit sleepy, and we never saw any fireworks, and this is the last gala night before we leave Scarborough, and--" "My dear Mervyn, what a string of reasons!" cried his uncle laughing; "after such a list, I think we must surely grant your request. That is, if mama will forgive this poor culprit, and allow her to stay up." "Well, as she is sorry, and as Mervyn says it is the last night, perhaps--" "That's right! that's right!" said her husband, "and now let us go in to dinner. This animated discussion has given me quite an appetite." And as Ashton at this moment threw open the door, and announced that dinner was served, Mr. Dashwood offered his arm to his wife, and led her away to the dining-room. "What fun! what fun! to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks," cried Bunny, and catching hold of Frank's arm she hurried him off after her papa and mama. "Now, you must sit quiet, children," said Mrs. Dashwood; "if you make a noise I shall have to send you away to the nursery." "We'll be as quiet as mice," said Bunny, and pulling Mervyn down on a large woolly mat in the middle window, she began to whisper joyfully about the treat that was in store for them before the evening was over. The first part of the dinner seemed rather long to the two little ones in their corner, but when at last the dessert was placed on the table, and Bunny was seated at her papa's elbow, and Mervyn between his aunt and his dear friend Frank, they all became so merry together, that the fireworks were for the time completely forgotten. "Oh, papa, I heard such a funny noise just now," cried Bunny suddenly, "what can it be? Listen, there it is again--whizz--whizz--" "It's the first rocket, I'm sure!" exclaimed Frank, dropping the nut-crackers, "let us go off to a window somewhere, for I am sure the fireworks are going to begin." "How jolly!" cried Mervyn. "Aunt, may we run up to Miss Kerr's room?" "Can't we see them from here?" asked Mr. Dashwood, pulling up the blind and looking out. "What a beautiful dark night it is! Better stay here, chicks, I think. See, there goes another rocket!" "Oh, that is lovely!" cried Bunny, clapping her hands. "But, papa, dear, we can see them much better from Miss Kerr's room, she has such a nice balcony, and she promised to let us go up to it if mama would allow us." "Very well, then, away you go," said her father; "but be quick, or you will lose all the fun." "Be sure and wrap yourselves up, dear children, if you go out into the balcony," said Mrs. Dashwood. "The night air is very sharp." "Oh, yes, mama, we will make ourselves as warm as toast," cried Bunny gaily. "Come, Frank, do come up to the balcony with us." "All right, little woman, jump upon my back and we'll run a race with Mervyn." Very much delighted at such an invitation, Bunny sprang from a chair on to Frank's back, and away they went galloping madly after Mervyn, up the stairs and along the passage to Miss Kerr's room. There they found Sophie waiting for them, heavily laden with cloaks and shawls in which she insisted on wrapping them up till they were nearly smothered, and shrieked wildly for just one little space through which they might manage to breathe. "Very well, you will all catch your deaths of colds," cried Sophie. "Miss Bunny, you will want the doctor to-morrow, I am quite sure;" and she flounced out of the room and banged the door after her. "Good riddance to bad rubbish!" cried Frank, laughing, as he released poor Mervyn's face from the thick shawl in which the maid had rolled him up. "She's an awful scold that Sophie." "But she's jolly kind to us sometimes," said Mervyn stoutly; "and we torment her dreadfully, don't we, Bunny?" "Yes, we do indeed," answered the little girl; "and she doesn't always scold, Master Frank." "Goodness me! don't be so indignant," cried Frank. "I meant no offence. I daresay Sophie is a regular angel." "She's not quite that," said Miss Kerr as she opened the window and let the young people out upon the balcony. "But I am glad to hear the children stand up for her, for, as Mervyn says, they do torment her, and still she is very good-natured and kind to them on the whole." "Yes, indeed she is," said Mervyn; "but oh! just look at that, isn't it exquisite?" "Lovely!" cried Frank. "It's a regular shower of golden hail! But I think I like the Roman candles best. Look, Bunny, there's one--see--those two stars--watch how they change colour--first they're red--then blue--then--" "Oh, yes, yes," cried Bunny dancing about. "There they go, right away over the sea! What lovely things fireworks are!" "It is a pity we could not have gone down on the Spa to see the set pieces," said Frank. "I believe they are most beautiful. But then the crowd is something dreadful." "Do they send the fireworks up from the Spa?" asked Mervyn; "they look just as if they were coming from the road up there in front of the Crown Hotel." "No, they are sent from a place just over the Spa, up among the trees there, but a long way below the hotel." "Oh dear! there goes a splendid rocket," cried Mervyn, "and doesn't it make a lovely noise?" "Oh! I can't bear the noise," said Bunny, putting her fingers in her ears, "it makes me jump." "Now that is really charming!" said Miss Kerr, as the whole bay with its ships and boats was suddenly illuminated by a brilliant crimson light. "How lovely everything looks in that soft, rich colour!" "Oh! and I declare you can see Oliver's Mount and the dear little cake shop," cried Bunny. "And, Mervyn, I wonder where our old donkeys are to-night," and she peered away out in the direction of the sands where the poor animals usually spent their days. "At home in their beds, my dear," said Miss Kerr laughing, "and that's where small people like you should be; it must be near ten o'clock." "Oh! not yet, not yet," cried the children; "we must stay and see the last of the fireworks!" "That is the last now, I'm sure," said Frank. "That thick yellow light comes from the grand finale, which we cannot see--ha! there goes another rocket. Hurrah! the whole thing is at an end." "Very well, my dears, you must say good-night," said Miss Kerr; "your poor little eyes are positively blinking with sleep, Bunny, dear." "No, they're not," said the little girl, "but they feel funny and won't go quite straight." "Are you getting a squint, then?" said Frank. "Come along, old lady, a few hours' sleep will make them go straight enough;" and putting one arm round Bunny and the other round Mervyn, he marched them off to the nursery, where he deposited them one after the other on their little beds. The children were really quite tired out with excitement, and the fatigue of sitting up to such an unusually late hour; so when Frank left them for the night, they did not utter a word or make a complaint. They said their prayers, were undressed at once, and, laying their weary heads upon their pillows, were soon fast asleep. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XIII. QUIET TIMES. It is to be hoped that you see some improvement in Bunny's behaviour since you first made her acquaintance, though she was very naughty on the day when the poor thrush was killed. At all events she had been trying to be good, and when she failed, or forgot her good resolutions she was so willing to confess her faults, and was so truly sorry for them, that Miss Kerr and Mama, and even Sophie, were always ready to forgive her. Miss Kerr had quite won Bunny's heart by her constant love and gentleness, so that the child could not bear to give her pain. This made Bunny more thoughtful, and she soon learned to check her outbreaks of temper and to keep out of mischief. Mervyn, who was growing tall and strong, was very much in earnest when he had promised to try to be docile and obedient. He did not forget that should he meet his dear mother and father in London they would ask him whether he had kept his word, and he would not have told them a falsehood even if he had been ever so naughty, for he was a truthful boy, and not at all a coward. Mervyn often helped Bunny to remember her promises too; and it seemed as though after the night when they had seen the display of fireworks they had both made up their minds to go on steadily with their lessons every morning. Miss Kerr was delighted, and Sophie had really very little to do, for all the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening also, they were out on the sands, or on the hills, or seated in the garden. The reason of this was, that as Mr. Dashwood had given them notice that the holiday was coming to an end, they had implored their friend Frank Collins to come often to see them, and as he loved Mervyn and could talk to him about his dear father and mother, and listen to his descriptions of life in Madras and Calcutta, he used to come every day to take the children out. Of this Mr. Dashwood was very glad, for he was pleased that such a nice manly boy as Frank should give up so much time to these two young ones, and used to laugh at Miss Kerr and tell her that they learnt more from their young tutor Frank Collins than they did from their governess. Miss Kerr often made one of the party when they went out together and she used to like to listen to Frank too. He had been to a large school, and was now only waiting for his parents to return from India before going to another. He had read a great many books, and could remember several stories and accounts of voyages and discoveries. The children would sit under a tree or inside an old boat on the beach and listen to him as he told them of the adventures of sailors and travellers; or sometimes they went with him for a ramble in the country, and he could show them the different kinds of trees and wild flowers, and point out where the various birds built their nests. Mervyn was quite surprised one day when a lark sprang suddenly from a field of long grass and went soaring up and up in the clear sunshine till it looked only like a speck, and at last could scarcely be seen, but yet all the time kept trilling and singing its beautiful song. As it sung it floated away to some distance from the place from which it rose, and then suddenly it seemed to sink from the air and to drop amidst the grass again. "Wherever has it gone to?" said Bunny; "there are no trees here, and where can its nest be?" "Its nest is on the ground, in the long grass of the field," said Frank. "Oh then, it has just dropped into it," cried Mervyn; "couldn't we go and see?" "You wouldn't find it except you could trace the way to the spot where the bird first rose," said Frank. "Directly the artful fellow heard us coming he sprang out and started his song so that he might lead us away from the spot where the nest is, and now he has dropped in the grass a long way off to lead us still further away." "Oh _do_ let us go and look for it!" said Bunny. "I think we'd better not," said Mervyn; "remember the thrush, Bunny, and we might kill some of the little birds." "Quite right, Mervyn," said Frank Collins; "we should very likely step upon it or frighten the hen bird so much that she would leave the nest. It would be like somebody coming and driving us away from home, you know. When I was as young as you are, I used to rob the nests of their eggs, but I have left off doing so now, and even if you should ever collect eggs you should only take one from a nest and contrive not to frighten the birds. But there are young larks and not eggs in this nest, so we will let them alone to grow strong and fly out into the sunshine and sing under the blue sky, won't we, Bunny?" You may well believe that the children thought the last part of their holiday was the pleasantest of all; for beside Frank they had found another playmate, a great friend of his. His name was Captain, and he was a grand, black, curly, Newfoundland dog. Such a fine fellow was seldom to be seen, and he learnt to lie down in a patch of grass on the hill, just at the place where he could watch for Bunny and Mervyn when they went out for their afternoon walk. He would pretend to be asleep, and when they came quite close to him would spring up and begin to leap about, leading the way to the sands, and barking or rolling over and over till Frank or Mervyn threw a stick as far as ever they could into the sea that he might dash in after it and fetch it out. Captain was a splendid swimmer, and had once jumped into the sea from the end of a pier after a little girl who had fallen into the water. The child would have been drowned, but Captain seized her by the frock and held her up till a boat could put out and fetch her, and then the brave fellow turned and swam ashore. [Illustration: Chapter decoration.] CHAPTER XIV. BUNNY'S IMPROVEMENT. HOME AGAIN. The time had arrived when the holiday at Scarborough was to come to an end. The last evening was spent on the cliff. It was while they were all sitting on the hillside looking out to sea that Frank began to talk to them about "lighthouses," those tall buildings, having a strong lantern at the top, the bright light from which can be seen far out at sea, so that sailors may know to what part of the coast they are going, and may steer their ships in such a direction as to avoid danger, or guide them into a place of safety. Then Miss Kerr told them a story about a lighthouse, and how a brave and thoughtful little girl was able to save a great ship from being dashed to pieces on the rocks. This lighthouse was at a very dangerous part of the coast, and every day the lamps had to be cleaned and fresh oil put in them, and the great metal "reflectors" that were behind the lamps and threw the light far out to sea had to be burnished. The little girl was the child of the keeper of the lighthouse, and he often took her with him to stay there. He had a companion, for in lighthouses there are mostly two men; but one day this companion slipped off the ladder up which he had to climb to light the lamps in the great lantern, and broke his leg. At the same time he struck his head and became insensible, and so the father of the little girl was obliged to leave her and to fetch a doctor. He meant to come back very soon, but the doctor was out, and in trying to find him he was away for many hours, and by the time he could get down to his boat a great storm had come on, and the waves were breaking over the shore so that he could not put out to sea again. Night was coming on, and the poor fellow paced the beach and wondered what was to be done, for it would soon be time for the lamps to be lighted, and there was nobody in the lighthouse but the helpless man and his little girl. The sailors and fishermen all came round, but it would have been a desperate venture to put out a boat in such a storm, and with the great waves roaring and leaping on a long sharp ridge of rocks quite close to where the lighthouse stood, nobody could have expected to reach it alive. At last, just as the night was coming on, the poor fellow prepared to risk his life rather than leave the ships that might be far off at sea without a guide or a warning; but six strong men dragged a large boat down to the edge of the shore where the waves were lowest, and agreed to share his danger. Their hands were on the boat ready to push her in and then scramble to their places; an old fisherman was in his seat ready to steer, when he suddenly gave a shout and pointed towards the lighthouse. There from the lantern high above the roaring waves shone the brilliant beams of the lamps, and with a hearty cheer the brave fellows drew the boat back, and shading their eyes with their hands stared as though they had never seen the familiar light before. All night long they watched, till at break of day the storm abated, the sea grew still, and far far away they could see a great three-masted ship rolling and tossing, with one of her sails blown to rags, but still keeping off the shore. The pilot had seen the lights, and so knowing how to steer had kept her away from the rocky reefs where she might have been dashed to pieces. It was not till the sun rose high and they were able to go out in their boats that the men on shore could take the doctor to the lighthouse, and then they found the little girl kneeling beside the injured man and feeding him with some cold tea which had been left in the teapot. He had come to his senses, and had tried to crawl to the ladder, when he heard her voice singing softly right up in the lantern. He contrived to drag himself along the floor of the room, and could just see a gleam from one of the lamps coming through the chinks of the wood-work. The child, when she found her father did not return, had grown afraid; but her great fear was that the lamps would not be lighted, and as the place grew dark she made up her mind to try to light them herself. She had seen her father clean the lamps, and had been with him up the ladder, holding his strong hand; and she knew too where the match was kept, for she had been shown everything about the place while she was there on those long days alone with her father till the other man came on duty in the evening. So up she went, softly singing a hymn to herself, and after steadying herself by one of the iron rods that supported the lantern, put the lighted match to the wick, and was so startled to see the great yellow glare that shone from the reflector that she nearly lost her balance. When she reached the bottom of the ladder she found her friend looking at her quite wide awake; but he could do nothing to help her, except by telling her how to manage the light, and also how to move up there in the great glass lantern of the lighthouse, so that she might reach each lamp in turn. When her father came up the steep stair, followed by a dozen of his comrades, she gave a cry of delight and was in his arms in a moment; and she was soon made such a pet of by the men there that they all wanted her to accept knives, and rings, and pocket combs, and even tobacco-boxes, because they had nothing else to offer her; but she had her father and that was quite enough for her, and as he held her to his breast she could feel his tears fall upon her head, and yet he was as brave as any man who lived upon that coast. "However could she do it?" said Bunny, who had earnestly listened to this story. "She forgot all about herself, Bunny, and thought only of other people and of the duty that was straight before her," said Frank gently. Bunny remained very serious all the rest of the evening; perhaps the story of the child lighting the lamps reminded her of the trick she had played poor old Ashton when she poured water into his wine-glasses. But as we have seen already, Bunny was improving, and her mama was indeed delighted to notice the change, and quite shared her sorrow that they were so soon to leave for London. A day or two before they had begun to pack up Mr. Dashwood brought the children glorious news. Frank Collins was to go to London and stay with them till the arrival of his mother, who was on her voyage home and would be in England in a few days. Then he was to go to school, and perhaps Mervyn would some day be sent to the same school, but of course in a lower class. This last part of it was not very cheering for poor Bunny, and she was ready to cry; but she looked at Miss Kerr's kind gentle face and saw the look of joy in Mervyn's eyes, and so she choked back her tears, and presently when Mervyn said softly, "Of course I can't help being glad, Bunny, but I shall never be anything but sorry to be parted from you;" she was ready to say, "And I shall be awfully sorry, Mervyn dear, but then when the holidays come we shall both know so much more, and--and--" Here poor Bunny broke down and hid her face in her pinafore. But the next day she had recovered her spirits, and she and Mervyn were talking over their future plans, for it would be some months before her cousin would know enough to enter even the lowest form. But one chief reason for their rapid recovery of spirits was that it would be a whole month or more before Frank himself could begin his studies, and there were promises of visits to the Zoological Gardens, the great Palm House at Kew, the old Tower of London, and other places which would remind them of the stories they had heard, and of the books which they had yet to learn to read. They had all these things to talk about when they found themselves in the train that was to carry them home, and were so full of plans and expectations that they were many miles upon the journey before they remembered that they had not waved a good-bye to their old friend Oliver's Mount, or thought of the sorrow of leaving Scarborough for smoky, noisy, old London. THE END. 
45381	----	provided by the Internet Archive THE POPULAR STORY OF BLUE BEARD Embellished with neat Engravings By Anonymous [Illustration: 0001] [Illustration: 0004] [Illustration: 0005] [Illustration: 0006] THE POPULAR STORY OF BLUE-BEARD |A LONG time ago, and at a considerable distance from any town, there lived a gentleman, who was not only in possession of great riches, but of the largest estates in that part of the country. Although he had some very elegant neat mansions on his estates, he generally resided in a magnificent castle, beautifully situated on a rising ground, surrounded with groves of the finest evergreens, and other choice trees and shrubs. The inside of this fine castle was even more beautiful than the outside; for the rooms were all hung with the richest damask, curiously ornamented; the Chairs and sofas were covered with the finest velvet, fringed with gold; and his table-dishes and plates were either of silver or gold, finished in the most elegant style. His carriages and horses might have served a king, and perhaps were finer than any monarch's of the present day. The gentleman's appearance, however, did not altogether correspond to his wealth; for, to a fierce disagreeable countenance, was added an ugly blue beard, which made him an object of fear and disgust in the neighbourhood, where he usually went by the name of Blue Beard. There resided, at some considerable distance from Blue Beard's castle, an old lady and her two daughters, who were people of some rank, but by no means wealthy. The two young ladies were very pretty, and the fame of their beauty having reached Blue Beard, he determined to ask one of them in marriage. Having ordered a carriage, he called at their house, where he saw the two young ladies, and was very politely received by their mother, with whom he begged a few moments conversation. [Illustration: 0009] |After the two young ladies left the room, he began by describing his immense riches, and then told her the purpose of his visit, begging she would use her interest in his favour. They were both so lovely, he said, that he would be happy to get either of them for his wife, and would therefore leave it to their own choice to determine upon the subject, and immediately took his leave. When the proposals of Blue Beard were mentioned to the young ladies by their mother, both Miss Anne and her sister Fatima protested, that they would never marry an ugly man, and particularly one with such a frightful blue beard; because, although he possessed immense riches, it was reported in the country, that he had married several beautiful ladies, and nobody could tell what had become of them. Their mother said, that the gentleman was agreeable in his conversation and manners; that the ugliness of his facs, and the blue beard, were defects which they would soon be reconciled to from habit: that his immense riches would procure them every luxury their heart could desire; and he was so civil, that she was certain the scandalous reports about his wives must be entirely without foundation. The two young ladies were as civil as they possibly could be, in order to conceal the disgust they felt at Blue Beard, and, to soften their refusal, replied to this effect,--That, at present, they had no desire to change their situation; but if they had, the one sister could never think of depriving the other of so good a match, and that they did not wish to be separated. |Blue Beard having called next day, the old lady told him what her daughters had said; on which he sighed deeply, and pretended to be very much disappointed; but as he had the mother on his side, he still continued his visits to the family. Blue Beard, knowing the attractions that fine houses, fine furniture, and fine entertainments, have on the minds of ladies in general, invited the mother, her two daughters, and two or three other ladies who were then on a visit to them, to spend a day or two with him at his castle. [Illustration: 0011] Blue Beard's invitation was accepted, and having spent a considerable time in arranging their wardrobe, and in adorning their persons, they all set out for the splendid mansion of Blue Beard. On coming near the castle, although they had heard a great deal of the taste and expense that had been employed in decorating it, they were struck with the beauty of the trees that overshadowed the walks through which they passed, and with the fragrancy of the flowers which perfumed the air. When they reached the castle, Blue Beard, attended by a number of his servants in splendid dresses, received them with the most polite courtesy, and conducted them to a magnificent drawing-room. An elegant repast was ready in the dining-room, to which they adjourned. Here they were again astonished by the grandeur of the apartment and the elegance of the entertainment, and the rooms that were open, and were truly astonished at the magnificence that everywhere met their view. The time rolled pleasantly away a-midst a succession of the most agreeable felt so happy, that the evening passed away before they were aware. [Illustration: 0013] |Next day, after they had finished breakfast, the ladies proceeded to examine the pictures and furniture of the amusements, consisting of hunting, music, dancing, and banquets, where the richest wines, and most tempting delicacies, in most luxurious profusion, presented themselves in every direction. The party felt so agreeable amidst these scenes of festivity, that they continued at the castle several days, during which the cunning Blue Beard, by every obsequious service, tried to gain the favour of his fair guests. Personal attentions, even although paid us by an ugly creature, seldom fail to make a favourable impression; it was therefore no wonder that Fatima, the youngest of the two sisters, began to think Blue Beard a very polite, pleasant, and civil gentleman; and that the beard, which she and her sister had been so much afraid of, was not so very blue. A short time after her return home, Fatima, who was delighted with the attention which had been paid her at the castle, told her mother that she did not now feel any objections to accept of Blue Beard as a husband. The old lady immediately communicated to him the change in her daughter's sentiments. [Illustration: 0015] |Blue Beard, who lost no time in paying the family a visit, was in a few days privately married to the young lady, and soon after the ceremony, Fatima, accompanied by her sister, returned to the castle the wife of Blue Beard. On arriving there, they were received at the entrance by all his retinue, attired in splendid dresses, and Blue Beard after saluting his bride, led the way to an elegant entertainment, where, every thing that could add to to their comfort being prepared, they spent the evening in the most agreeable manner. |The next day, and every succeeding day, Blue Beard always varied the amusements, and a month had passed away imperceptibly, when he told his wife that he was obliged to leave her for a few weeks, as he had some affairs to transact in a distant part of the country, which required his personal attendance. "But," said he, "my dear Fatima, you may enjoy yourself in my absence in any way that will add to your happiness, and you can invite your friends to make the time pass more agreeably, for you are sole mistress in this castle, Here are the keys of the two large wardrobes; this is the key of the great box that contains the best plate, which we use for company; this of my strong box, where I keep my money; and this belongs to the casket, in which are all my jewels. Here also is a master-key to all the rooms in the house; but this small key belongs to the blue closet at the end of the long gallery on the ground floor. I give you leave," he continued, "to open, or do what you like with all the rest of the castle except this closet: now, my dear, remember you must not enter it, nor even put the key into the lock. If you do not obey me in this, expect the most dreadful of punishments." [Illustration: 0017] She promised him implicit obedience to his orders, and then accompanied him to the gate, where Blue Beard, after sa luting her in a tender manner, stepped into the coach, and drove away. |When Blue Beard was gone, Fatima sent a kind invitation to her friends to come immediately to the castle, and ordered a grand entertainment to be prepared for their reception. She also sent a messenger to her two brothers, both officers in the army, who were quartered about forty miles distant, requesting they would obtain leave of absence, and spend a few days with her. So eager were her friends to see the apartments and the riches of Blue Beard's castle, of which they had heard so much, that in less than two hours after receiving notice, the whole company were assembled, with the exception of her brothers, who were not expected till the following day. As her guests had arrived long before the time appointed them for the entertainment. Fatima took them thro' every apartment in the castle, and displayed all the wealth she had acquired by her marriage with Blue Beard. They went from room to room, and from wardrobe to wardrobe, expressing fresh wonder and delight at every new object they came to; but their surprise was increased when they entered the drawing-rooms, and saw the grandeur of the furniture. During the day, Fatima was so much engaged, that she never once thought of the blue closet, which Blue Beard had ordered her not to open; but when all the visitors were gone, she felt a great curiosity to know its contents. She took out the key, which was made of the finest gold, and went to consult with her sister on the subject. Anne used every argument she could think of to dissuade Fatima from her purpose, and reminded her of the threats of Blue Beard; but all in vain, for Fatima was now bent on gratifying her curiosity. She therefore, in spite of all her sister could do, seized one of the candles, and hurried down stairs to the fatal closet. On reaching the door she stopped, and began to reason with herself on the propriety of her conduct; but her curiosity at length overcame every other consideration, and, with a trembling hand, she applied the key to the lock, and opened the door. She had only advanced a few steps, when the most frightful scene met her view, and, struck with horror and dismay, she dropped the key of the closet. [Illustration: 0020] |She was in the midst of blood, and the heads, bodies, and mutilated limbs of murdered ladies lay scattered on the floor. These ladies had all been married to Blue Beard, and had suffered for their imprudent curiosity, the key, which was the gift of a fairy, always betraying their fatal disobedience. The terror of Fatima was not diminished on observing these dreadful words on the wall--"_The Reward of Disobedience and Imprudent Curiosity!_" She trembled violently; but, on recovering a little, she snatched up the key, and having again locked the door, left this abode of horror. As soon as she reached her sister's chamber, she related the whole of her horrid adventure. They then examined the key, but it was all covered with blood, and they both turned pale with fear. They spent a good part of the night in trying to clean off the blood from the key, but it was without effect, for though they washed and scoured it with brick dust and sand, no sooner was the blood removed from one side, than it appeared on the other. Fatigued with their exertions, they at last retired to bed, where they passed a sleepless and anxious night. |Fatima rose at a late hour next day, and consulted with her sister how she ought to proceed. She thought first of escaping from the castle, but as her brothers were expected in an hour or two, she resolved to wait their arrival. A loud knock at the gate made her almost leap for joy, and she cried, "they are come! they are come!" but what was her consternation when Blue Beard hastily opened the door, and entered. It was impossible for Fatima to conceal her agitation, although she pretended to be very happy at his sudden and unexpected return. Blue Beard, who guessed what she had been about, requested the keys, in order, as he said, that he might change his dress. She went to her chamber, and soon returned with the keys, all except the one belonging to the blue closet He took the keys from her with seeming indifference, and after glancing at them minutely, said, rather sternly, "How is this, Fatima! I do not see the key of the blue closet here! Go and bring it to me instantly." [Illustration: 0023] The poor girl, feeling the crisis of her fate approaching, said, "I will go and search for it," and left the apartment in tears. She went straight to her sister's chamber, where they again tried, but in vain, to remove the blood from the key. The voice of Blue Beard again calling for her, she was forced to return, and reluctantly to give him the fatal key. On examining the key, Blue Beard burst into a terrible rage. "Pray Madam," said he, "how came this blood to be here?" "I am sure I do not know," replied she, trembling, and turning pale. "What! do you not know!" cried Blue Beard, in a voice like thunder, which made poor Fatima start with fear; "but I know well! You have been in the forbidden blue closet! And since you are so fond of prying into secrets, you shall take up your abode with the ladies you saw there." [Illustration: 0024] Almost expiring with fear and terror, the trembling Fatima sunk upon her knees, and implored him in the most piteous manner to forgive her. But the cruel Blue Beard, deaf to her intreaties, drew his dreadful scymetar, and bid her prepare for immediate death. Blue Beard had raised his arm to give the fatal blow, when a dreadful shriek from her sister, who at that moment entered the apartment, arrested his attention. She entreated him to spare the life of Fatima, but he was deaf to her intercession, and would only grant her one quarter of an hour, that she might make her peace with Heaven, before he put her to death. Blue Beard then dragged her up to a large hall in the top of the tower of the castle, to prevent her groans being heard, to which they were followed by her sister. He then told her to make the best use of the time, as she might expect his return the moment it elapsed, and immediately left the place. |When alone with her sister, Fatima felt her dreadful situation, and again burst into tears. Only fifteen minutes between her and the most cruel death, without the least chance of escape; for Blue Beard had secured the door when he retired, and the staircase they saw only led to the battlements. Fatima's thoughts were now turned to her brothers, whom she expected that day; and she requested her sister to ascend to the top of the tower, to see if there was any appearance of them. Fatima's sister immediately ascended to the top of the battlements, while the poor trembling girl below, every minute, cried out, "Sister Anne, my dear sister Anne, do you see any one coming yet?" Her sister always replied, "There is not a human being in view, and I see nothing but the sun and the grass." She was upon her knees bewailing her fate, when Blue Beard, in a tremendous voice, cried out, "Are you ready?" the time is expired and she heard the sound of his footsteps approaching. She again supplicated him to allow her five minutes longer to finish her prayers, which he, knowing she was completely within his power, granted her, and again left her. Fatima again renewed her inquiries to her sister "Do you see any one coming yet?" Her sister replied, "There is not a human being within sight." When the five minutes were elapsed, "I see," said her sister, "a cloud of dust rising a little to the left." In breathless agitation, she cried, "Do you think it is my brothers?" The voice of Blue Beard was heard bawling out, "Are you ready yet?" She again beseeched him to allow her only two minutes more, and then addressed her sister, "Dear Anne, do you see any one coming yet?" [Illustration: 0027] "Alas! no, my dearest Fatima," returned her sister, "it is only a flock of sheep." Again the voice of Blue Beard was heard, and she begged for one minute longer. She then called out for the last time, "Sister Anne, do you see no one coming yet?" |Her sister quickly answered, "I see two men on horseback, but they are still a great way off." "Thank heaven," exclaimed Fatima, "I shall yet be saved, for it must be my two brothers! My dearest sister, make every signal in your power to hasten them forward, or they will be too late." Blue Beard's patience being now exhausted, he burst open the door in a rage, and made a blow at the wretched Fatima, with the intention of striking off her head; but she sprang close to him and evaded it. Furious at being foiled in his aim, he threw her from him, and then seizing her by the hair of the head, was in the act of striking her a blow with his scymetar, when the noise of persons approaching, with hasty steps, arrested the progress of his sanguinary arm. Blue Beard had not time to conjecture who the intruders might be, when the door opened, and two officers, with their swords drawn, rushed into the apartment. Struck with terror, the guilty wretch released his wife from his grasp, and without attempting to resist, he tried to effect his escape from the resentment of her brothers; but they pursued and seized him before he had got above twenty paces from the place. [Illustration: 0029] After reproaching Blue Beard with his cruelty, they dragged him back to the spot where he intended to have murdered their sister; and there, stabbing him to the heart with their swords, he expired, uttering the most horrid oaths and execrations. |Fatima, who had fallen to the ground at the time Blue Beard quitted his hold of her, still lay in the same situation insensible; for the appearance of her brothers, at the moment she expected certain death, had thrown her into a faint, which continued during the whole of the time they were engaged in despatching her husband. The two young officers now turned their attention to their sister, whom they raised from the ground; but she could hardly be persuaded of her safety, till they pointed to where Blue Beard lay extended and lifeless. Fatima, on recovering a little, tenderly embraced her deliverers; and the appearance of their sister Anne, who had come down from the top of the battlements, added to their happiness. [Illustration: 0031] As all those horrid murders which had been committed by Blue Beard, were unknown to his domestics, on whose credulity he imposed by falsehoods, which they had no means of detecting, Fatima and her brothers thought the most prudent way to act, was to assemble them together, and then disclose the wickedness of their late master. By the direction of Fatima, her two brothers conducted all the servants to the dreadful scene of her husband's cruelties, and then showing them his dead body, related the whole occurrences which had taken place. They all said that his punishment was not adequate to what he deserved, and begged that they might be continued in the service of their mistress. As Blue Beard had no relations, Fatima was sole heir to the whole of his immense property, and mistress of the castle, in the possession of which she was confirmed by the laws of the country. She then sent notice to all the families in the neighbourhood of the death of her husband, and the horrid proofs of his cruelty were laid open for two days to all who chose to inspect them. He was then buried privately, along with all the bodies of the ladies he had murdered, and the fatal closet underwent a complete repair, which removed every trace of his barbarity. Soon after this, Fatima gave a magnificent entertainment to all her friends, where happiness was seen in every face; and on this occasion the poor, who were assembled for many miles round, partook most liberally of her bounty. Though possessed of riches almost inexhaustible, Fatima disposed of them with so much discretion, that she gained the esteem of every one who knew her. She bestowed handsome fortunes on her two brothers; and to her sister, who was married about two months after, she gave a very large dowry. The beauty, riches, and amiable conduct of Fatima, attracted a number of admirers, and among others, a young nobleman of very high rank, who, to a handsome person, added every quality calculated to make a good husband; and after a reasonable time spent in courtship, their marriage was celebrated with great rejoicings. FINIS 
29295	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 29295-h.htm or 29295-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29295/29295-h/29295-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29295/29295-h.zip) GREAT-UNCLE HOOT-TOOT. by MRS. MOLESWORTH, Author of "The Palace in the Garden," "'Carrots': Just a Little Boy," "The Cuckoo Clock," Etc. Illustrated by Gordon Browne, E. J. Walker, Lizzie Lawson, J. Bligh, and Maynard Brown. Published Under the Direction of the Committee of General Literature and Education Appointed by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, Northumberland Avenue, Charing Cross, W.C.; 43, Queen Victoria Street, E.C. Brighton: 135, North Street. New York: E. & J. B. Young and Co. [Illustration: FRANCES AND ELSA.] GREAT-UNCLE HOOT-TOOT. "... what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost, Why then we rack the value."--_Much Ado about Nothing._ CHAPTER I. THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. "That's Geoff, I'm sure," said Elsa; "I always know his ring. I do hope----" and she stopped and sighed a little. "What?" said Frances, looking up quickly. "Oh, nothing particular. Run down, Vic, dear, and get Geoff to go straight into the school-room. Order his tea at once. I _don't_ want him to come upstairs just now. Mamma is so busy and worried with those letters." [Illustration: VICKY.] Vic, a little girl of nine, with long fair hair and long black legs, and a pretty face with a bright, eager expression, needed no second bidding. She was off almost before Elsa had finished speaking. "What a good child she is!" said Frances. "What a clever, nice boy she would have made! And if Geoff had been a girl, perhaps he would have been more easily managed." "I don't know," said Elsa. "Perhaps if Vicky had been a boy she would have been spoilt and selfish too." "Elsa," said Frances, "I think you are rather hard upon Geoff. He is like all boys. Everybody says they are more selfish than girls, and then they grow out of it." "They grow out of showing it so plainly, perhaps," replied Elsa, rather bitterly. "But you contradict yourself, Frances. Just a moment ago you said what a much nicer boy Vic would have made. All boys aren't like Geoff. Of course, I don't mean that he is really a bad boy; but it just comes over me now and then that it is a _shame_ he should be such a tease and worry, boy or not. When mamma is anxious, and with good reason, and we girls are doing all we can, why should Geoff be the one we have to keep away from her, and to smooth down, as it were? It's all for her sake, of course; but it makes me ashamed, all the same, to feel that we are really almost afraid of him. There now----" And she started up as the sound of a door, slammed violently in the lower regions, reached her ears. But before she had time to cross the room, Vicky reappeared. "It's nothing, Elsa," the child began eagerly. "Geoff's all right; he's not cross. He only slammed the door at the top of the kitchen stair because I reminded him not to leave it open." "You might have shut it yourself, rather than risk a noise to-night," said Elsa. "What was he doing at the top of the kitchen stair?" Vicky looked rather guilty. "He was calling to Phoebe to boil two eggs for his tea. He says he is so hungry. I would have run up to tell you; but I thought it was better than his teasing mamma about letting him come in to dinner." Elsa glanced at Frances. "You see," her glance seemed to say. "Yes, dear," she said aloud to the little sister, "anything is better than that. Run down again, Vicky, and keep him as quiet as you can." "Would it not be better, perhaps," asked Frances, rather timidly, "for one of us to go and speak to him, and tell him quietly about mamma having had bad news?" "He wouldn't rest then till he had heard all about it from herself," said Elsa. "Of course he'd be sorry for her, and all that, but he would only show it by teasing." It was Frances's turn to sigh, for in spite of her determination to see everything and everybody in the best possible light, she knew that Elsa was only speaking the truth about Geoffrey. Half an hour later the two sisters were sitting at dinner with their mother. She was anxious and tired, as they knew, but she did her utmost to seem cheerful. "I have seen and heard nothing of Geoff," she said suddenly. "Has he many lessons to do to-night? He's all right, I suppose?" "Oh yes," said Frances. "Vic's with him, looking out his words. He seems in very good spirits. I told him you were busy writing for the mail, and persuaded him to finish his lessons first. He'll be coming up to the drawing-room later." "I think mamma had better go to bed almost at once," said Elsa, abruptly. "You've finished those letters, dear, haven't you?" "Yes--all that I can write as yet. But I must go to see Mr. Norris first thing to-morrow morning. I have said to your uncle that I cannot send him particulars till next mail." "Mamma, darling," said Frances, "do you really think it's going to be very bad?" Mrs. Tudor smiled rather sadly. "I'm afraid so," she said; "but the suspense is the worst. Once we really _know_, we can meet it. You three girls are all so good, and Geoff, poor fellow--he _means_ to be good too." "Yes," said Frances, eagerly, "I'm sure he does." "But 'meaning' alone isn't much use," said Elsa. "Mamma," she went on with sudden energy, "if this does come--if we really do lose all our money, perhaps it will be the best thing for Geoff in the end." Mrs. Tudor seemed to wince a little. "You needn't make the very worst of it just yet, any way," said Frances, reproachfully. "And it would in one sense be the hardest on Geoff," said the mother, "for his education would have to be stopped, just when he's getting on so well, too." "But----" began Elsa, but she said no more. It was no use just then expressing what was in her mind--that getting on well at school, winning the good opinion of his masters, the good fellowship of his companions, did not comprise the whole nor even the most important part of the duty of a boy who was also a son and a brother--a son, too, of a widowed mother, and a brother of fatherless sisters. "I would almost rather," she said to herself, "that he got on less well at school if he were more of a comfort at home. It would be more manly, somehow." Her mother did not notice her hesitation. "Let us go upstairs, dears," she said. "I _am_ tired, but I am not going to let myself be over-anxious. I shall try to put things aside, as it were, till I hear from Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot. I have the fullest confidence in his advice." "I wish he would take it into his head to come home," said Frances. "So do I," agreed her mother. They were hardly settled in the drawing-room before Vic appeared. "Elsa," she whispered, "Geoff sent me to ask if he may have something to eat." "Something to eat," repeated Elsa. "He had two eggs with his tea. He can't be hungry." "No--o-- But there were anchovy toasts at dinner--Harvey told him. And he's so fond of anchovy toasts. I think you'd better say he may, Elsa, because of mamma." "Very well," the elder sister replied. "It's not right--it's always the way. But what are we to do?" Vicky waited not to hear her misgivings, but flew off. She was well-drilled, poor little soul. Her brother was waiting for her, midway between the school-room and dining-room doors. "Well?" he said, moving towards the latter. "Yes. Elsa says you may," replied the breathless little envoy. "Elsa! What has she to do with it? I told you to ask mamma, not Elsa," he said roughly. He stood leaning against the jamb of the door, his hands in his pockets, with a very cross look on his handsome face. But Victoria, devoted little sister though she was, was not to be put down by any cross looks when she knew she was in the right. "Geoff," she said sturdily, "I'll just leave off doing messages or anything for you if you are _so_ selfish. How could I go teasing mamma about anchovy toasts for you when she is so worried?" "How should I know she is busy and worried?" said Geoff. "What do you mean? What is it about?" "I don't know. At least I only know that Elsa and Francie told me that she _was_ worried, and that she had letters to write for the ship that goes to India to-morrow." "For the Indian mail you mean, I suppose," said Geoff. "What a donkey you are for your age, Vic! Oh, if it's only that, she's writing to that old curmudgeon; _that's_ nothing new. Come along, Vicky, and I'll give you a bit of my toasts." [Illustration: HER BROTHER WAS WAITING FOR HER.] He went into the dining-room as he spoke, and rang the bell. "Harvey'll bring them up. I said I'd ring if I was to have them. Upon my word, Vic, it isn't every fellow of my age that would take things so quietly. Never touching a scrap without leave, when lots like me come home to late dinner every night." "Elsa says it's only middle-class people who let children dine late," said Vic, primly, "_I_ shan't come down to dinner till I'm _out_." Geoffrey burst out laughing. "Rubbish!" he said. "Elsa finds reasons for everything that suits her. Here, Vicky, take your piece." Vicky was not partial to anchovy toasts, but to-night she was so anxious to keep Geoff in a good humour, that she would have eaten anything he chose to give her, and pretended to like it. So she accepted her share, and Geoff munched his in silence. He was a well-made, manly looking boy, not tall for his years, which were fourteen, but in such good proportion as to give promise of growing into a strong and vigorous man. His face was intended by nature to be a very pleasing one. The features were all good; there was nobility in the broad forehead, and candour in the bright dark eyes, and--sometimes--sweetness in the mouth. But this "sometimes" had for long been becoming of less and less frequent occurrence. A querulous, half-sulky expression had invaded the whole face: its curves and lines were hardening as those of no young face should harden; the very carriage of the boy was losing its bright upright fearlessness--his shoulders were learning to bend, his head to slouch forward. One needed but to glance at him to see that Geoffrey Tudor was fast becoming that most disagreeable of social characters, a grumbler! And with grumbling unrepressed, and indulged in, come worse things, for it has its root in that true "root of all evil," selfishness. As the last crumbs of the anchovy toasts disappeared, Geoff glanced round him. "I say, Vic," he began, "is there any water on the sideboard? Those things are awfully salt. But I don't know that I'm exactly thirsty, either. I know what I'd like--a glass of claret, and I don't see why I shouldn't have it, either. At my age it's really too absurd that----" "What are you talking about, Geoff?" said Elsa's voice in the doorway. "Mamma wants you to come up to the drawing-room for a little. What is it that is too absurd at your age?" "Nothing in particular--or rather everything," said Geoff, with a slight tone of defiance. There was something in Elsa's rather too superior, too elder-sisterly way of speaking that, as he would have expressed it, "set him up." "I was saying to Vic that I'd like a glass of claret, and that I don't see why I shouldn't have it, either. Other fellows would help themselves to it. I often think I'm a great donkey for my pains." Elsa looked at him with a strange mixture of sadness and contempt. "What will he be saying next, I wonder?" her glance seemed to say. But the words were not expressed. "Come upstairs," she said. "Vicky has told you, I know, that you must be _particularly_ careful not to tease mamma to-night." Geoff returned her look with an almost fierce expression in the eyes that could be so soft and gentle. "I wish you'd mind your own business, and leave mother and me to ourselves. It's your meddling puts everything wrong," he muttered. But he followed his elder sister upstairs quietly enough. Down in the bottom of his heart was hidden great faith in Elsa. He would, had occasion demanded it, have given his life, fearlessly, cheerfully, for her or his mother, or the others. But the smaller sacrifices, of his likes and dislikes, of his silly boyish temper and humours--of "self," in short, he could not or would not make. Still, something in Elsa's words and manner this evening impressed him in spite of himself. He followed her into the drawing-room, fully _meaning_ to be good and considerate. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER II. "MAYN'T I SPEAK TO YOU, MAMMA?" That was the worst of it--the most puzzling part of it, rather, perhaps we should say--with Geoffrey. He _meant_ to be good. He would not for worlds have done anything that he distinctly saw to be wrong. He worked well at his lessons, though to an accompaniment of constant grumbling--at home, that is to say; grumbling at school is not encouraged. He was rather a favourite with his companions, for he was a manly and "plucky" boy, entering heartily into the spirit of all their games and amusements, and he was thought well of by the masters for his steadiness and perseverance, though not by any means of naturally studious tastes. The wrong side of him was all reserved for home, and for his own family. Yet, only son and fatherless though he was, he had not been "spoilt" in the ordinary sense of the word. Mrs. Tudor, though gentle, and in some ways timid, was not a weak or silly woman. She had brought up her children on certain broad rules of "must," as to which she was as firm as a rock, and these had succeeded so well with the girls that it was a complete surprise as well as the greatest of sorrows to her when she first began to see signs of trouble with her boy. And gradually her anxiety led her into the fatal mistake of spoiling Geoffrey by making him of too much consequence. It came to be recognized in the household that his moods and humours were to be a sort of family barometer, and that all efforts were to be directed towards the avoidance of storms. Not that Geoff was passionate or violent. Had he been so, things would have sooner come to a crisis. He was simply _tiresome_--tiresome to a degree that can scarcely be understood by those who have not experienced such tiresomeness for themselves. And as there is no doubt a grain of the bully somewhere in the nature of every boy--if not of every human being--what this tiresomeness might have grown into had the Fates, or something higher than the Fates, not interposed, it would be difficult to exaggerate. The cloudy look had not left Geoff's face when he came into the drawing-room. But, alas! it was nothing new to see him "looking like that." His mother took no notice of it. "Well, Geoff?" she said pleasantly. "How have you got on to-day, my boy?" He muttered something indistinctly, which sounded like, "Oh, all right;" then catching sight of Elsa's reproachful face, he seemed to put some constraint on himself, and, coming forward to his mother, kissed her affectionately. "Are you very tired to-night, mamma?" he said. "Must I not speak to you?" Mrs. Tudor _was_ very tired, and she knew by old experience what Geoff's "speaking" meant--an hour or more's unmitigated grumbling, and dragging forward of every possible grievance, to have each in turn talked over, and sympathized about, and smoothed down by her patient hand. Such talks were not without their effect on the boy; much that his mother said appealed to his good sense and good feeling, though he but seldom gave her the satisfaction of seeing this directly. But they were very wearing to _her_, and it was carrying motherly unselfishness too far to undertake such discussion with Geoff, when she was already worn out with unusual anxiety. She smiled, however, brightly enough, in reply to his questions. It cheered her to see that he could consider her even thus much. "Of course I can speak to you, Geoff. Have you anything particular to tell me?" "Lots of things," said the boy. He drew forward a chair in which to settle himself comfortably beside his mother, darting an indignant glance at his sisters as he did so. "Humbugging me as usual about mamma--anything to keep me away from her," he muttered. But Elsa and Frances only glanced at each other in despair. "Well," said Mrs. Tudor, resignedly, leaning back in her chair. "Mamma," began Geoffrey, "there must be something done about my pocket-money. I just can't do with what I've got. I've waited to speak about it till I had talked it over with some of the other fellows. They nearly all have more than I." "Boys of your age--surely not?" interposed Mrs. Tudor. [Illustration: "THERE MUST BE SOMETHING DONE ABOUT MY POCKET-MONEY."] "Well, _some_ of them are not older than I," allowed Geoff. "If you'd give me more, and let me manage things for myself--football boots, and cricket-shoes, and that sort of thing. The girls"--with cutting emphasis--"are always hinting that I ask you for too many things, and _I_ hate to be seeming to be always at you for something. If you'd give me a regular allowance, now, and let me manage for myself." "At your age," repeated his mother, "that surely is very unusual." "I don't see that it matters exactly about age," said Geoff, "if one's got sense." "But have you got sense enough, Geoff?" said Frances, gently. "I'm three years older than you, and I've only just begun to have an allowance for my clothes, and I should have got into a dreadful mess if it hadn't been for Elsa helping me." "Girls are quite different," said Geoff. "They want all sorts of rubbishing ribbons and crinolines and flounces. Boys only need regular necessary things." "Then you haven't any wants at present, I should think, Geoff," said Elsa, in her peculiarly clear, rather aggravating tones. "You were completely rigged out when you came back from the country, three weeks ago." Geoff glowered at her. "Mamma," he said, "will you once for all make Elsa and Frances understand that when I'm speaking to you they needn't interfere?" Mrs. Tudor did not directly respond to this request. "Will you tell me, Geoff," she said, "what has put all this into your head? What things are you in want of?" Geoff hesitated. Fancied wants, like fancied grievances, have an annoying trick of refusing to answer to the roll-call when distinctly summoned to do so. "There's lots of things," he began. "I _should_ have a pair of proper football boots, instead of just an old common pair with ribs stuck on, you know, like I have. All the fellows have proper ones when they're fifteen or so." "But you are not fifteen." "Well, I might wait about the _boots_ till next term. But I do really want a pair of boxing-gloves dreadfully," he went on energetically, as the idea occurred to him; "you know I began boxing this term." "And don't they provide boxing-gloves? How have you managed hitherto?" asked his mother, in surprise. "Oh, well, yes--there _are_ gloves; but of course it's much nicer to have them of one's own. It's horrid always to seem just one of the lot that can't afford things of their own." "And if you are _not_ rich--and I dare say nearly all your schoolfellows are richer than you"--said Elsa, "is it not much better not to sham that you are?" "Sham," repeated Geoff, roughly. "Mamma, I do think you should speak to Elsa.--If you were a boy----" he added, turning to his sister threateningly. "I don't want to sham about anything; but it's very hard to be sent to a school when you can't have everything the same as the others." A look of pain crept over Mrs. Tudor's tired face. Had she done wrong? Was it another of her "mistakes"--of which, like all candid people, she felt she had made many in her life--to have sent Geoff to a first-class school? "Geoff," she said weariedly, "you surely do not realize what you cause me when you speak so. It was almost my principal reason for settling in London seven years ago, that I might be able to send you to one of the best schools. We could have lived more cheaply, and more comfortably, in the country; but you would have had to go to a different class of school." "Well, I wish I had, then," said Geoff, querulously. "I perfectly hate London; I have always told you so. I shouldn't mind what I did if it was in the country. It isn't that I want to spend money, or that I've extravagant ideas; but it's too hard to be in a false position, as I am at school--not able to have things like the other fellows. You would have made _me_ far happier if you had gone to live in the country and let me go to a country school. I _hate_ London; and just because I want things like other fellows, I'm scolded." Mrs. Tudor did not speak. She looked sad and terribly tired. "Geoff," said Elsa, putting great control on herself so as to speak very gently, for she felt as if she could gladly shake him, "you must see that mamma is very tired. Do wait to talk to her till she is better able for it. And it is getting late." "Do go, Geoff," said his mother. "I have listened to what you have said; it is not likely I shall forget it. I will talk to you afterwards." The boy looked rather ashamed. "I haven't meant to vex you," he said, as he stooped to kiss his mother. "I'm sorry you're so tired." There was silence for a moment after he had left the room. "I am afraid there is a mixture of truth in what he says," said Mrs. Tudor, at last. "It has been one of the many mistakes I have made, and now I suppose I am to be punished for it." Elsa made a movement of impatience. "Mamma dear!" she exclaimed, "I don't think you would speak that way if you weren't tired. There isn't any truth in what Geoff says. I don't mean that he tells stories; but it's just his incessant grumbling. He makes himself believe all sorts of nonsense. He has everything right for a boy of his age to have. I know there are boys whose parents are really rich who have less than he has." "Yes, indeed, mamma; Elsa is right," said Frances. "Geoff is insatiable. He picks out the things boys here and there may have as an exception, and wants to have them all. He has a perfect genius for grumbling." "Because he is always thinking of himself," said Elsa. "Mamma, don't think me disrespectful, but would it not be better to avoid saying things which make him think himself of such consequence--like telling him that we came to live in town principally for _his_ sake?" "Perhaps so," said her mother. "I am always in hopes of making him ashamed, by showing how much _has_ been done for him." "And he does feel ashamed," said Frances, eagerly. "I saw it to-night; he'd have liked to say something more if he hadn't been too proud to own that he had been inventing grievances." "Things have been too smooth for him," said Elsa; "that's the truth of it. He needs some hardships." "And as things are turning out he's very likely to get them," said Mrs. Tudor, with a rather wintry smile. "Oh, mamma, forgive me! Do you know, I had forgotten all about our money troubles," Elsa exclaimed. "Why don't you tell Geoff about them, mamma? It's in a way hardly fair on him; for if he knew, it _might_ make him understand how wrong and selfish he is." "I will tell him soon, but not just yet. I do not want to distract his mind from his lessons, and I wish to be quite sure first. I think I should wait till I hear from your great-uncle." "And that will be--how long? It is how many weeks since Mr. Norris first wrote that he was uneasy? About seven, I should say," said Elsa. "Quite that," said her mother. "It is the waiting that is so trying. I can do nothing without Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's advice." That last sentence had been a familiar one to Mrs. Tudor's children almost ever since they could remember. "Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot" had been a sort of autocrat and benefactor in one, to the family. His opinions, his advice had been asked on all matters of importance; his approval had been held out to them as the highest reward, his displeasure as the punishment most to be dreaded. And yet they had never seen him! "I wish he would come home himself," said Elsa. "I think Geoff would be much the better for a visit from him," she added, with a slight touch of sharpness in her tone. "Poor Geoff!" said her mother. "I suppose the truth is that very few women know how to manage boys." "I don't see that," said Elsie. "On the contrary, a generous-natured boy is often more influenced by a woman's gentleness than by a man's severity. It is just that, that I don't like about Geoff. There is a want of generous, chivalrous feeling about him." "No," said Frances. "I don't quite agree with you. I think it is there, but somehow not awakened. Mamma," she went on, "supposing our great-uncle did come home, would he be dreadfully angry if he found out that we all called him 'Hoot-Toot'?" "Oh no," said her mother, smiling; "he's quite used to it. Your father told me he had had the trick nearly all his life of saying 'Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!' if ever he was perplexed or disapproving." "What a _very_ funny little boy he must have been!" exclaimed both the girls together. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER III. AN UNLOOKED-FOR ARRIVAL. The next few days were trying ones for all the Tudor family. The mother was waiting anxiously for further news of the money losses, with which, as her lawyers told her, she was threatened; the sisters were anxious too, though, with the bright hopefulness of their age, the troubles which distressed their mother fell much more lightly on them: _they_ were anxious because they saw _her_ suffering. Vicky had some misty idea that something was wrong, but she knew very little, and had been forbidden to say anything to Geoff about the little she did know. So that of the whole household Geoff was the only one who knew nothing, and went on living in his Fool's Paradise of having all his wants supplied, yet grumbling that he had nothing! He was in a particularly tiresome mood--perhaps, in spite of themselves, it was impossible for his sisters to bear with him as patiently as usual; perhaps the sight of his mother's pale face made him dissatisfied with himself and cross because he would not honestly own that he was doing nothing to help and please her. And the weather was very disagreeable, and among Geoff's many "hates" was a very exaggerated dislike to bad weather. About this sort of thing he had grumbled much more since his return from a long visit to some friends in the country the summer before, when the weather had been splendid, and everything done to make him enjoy himself, in consequence of which he had come home with a fixed idea that the country was always bright and charming; that it was only in town that one had to face rain and cold and mud. As to fog, he had perhaps more ground for his belief. "Did you ever see such beastly weather?" were his first words to Vicky one evening when the good little sister had rushed to the door on hearing Geoff's ring, so that his majesty should not be kept waiting an unnecessary moment. "I am perfectly drenched, and as cold as ice. Is tea ready, Vic?" "Quite ready--at least it will be by the time you've changed your things. Do run up quick, Geoff. It's a bad thing to keep on wet clothes." "Mamma should have thought of that before she sent me to a day-school," said Geoff. "I've a good mind just _not_ to change my clothes, and take my chance of getting cold. It's perfect slavery--up in the morning before it's light, and not home till pitch dark, and soaked into the bargain." "Hadn't you your mackintosh on?" asked Vicky. "My mackintosh! It's in rags. I should have had a new one ages ago." "Geoff! I'm sure it can't be so bad. You've not had it a year." "A year. No one wears a mackintosh for a year. The buttons are all off, and the button-holes are burst." "I'm sure they can be mended. Martha would have done it if you'd asked her," said Vic, resolving to see to the unhappy mackintosh herself. "I know poor mamma doesn't want to spend any extra money just now." "There's a great deal too much spent on Elsa and Frances, and all their furbelows," said Geoff, in what he thought a very manly tone. "Here, Vicky, help me to pull off my boots, and then I must climb up to the top of the house to change my things." Vicky knelt down obediently and tugged at the muddy boots, though it was a task she disliked as much as she could dislike anything. She was rewarded by a gruff "Thank you," and when Geoff came down again in dry clothes, to find the table neatly prepared, and his little sister ready to pour out his tea, he did condescend to say that she was a good child! But even though his toast was hot and crisp, and his egg boiled to perfection, Geoff's pleasanter mood did not last long. He had a good many lessons to do that evening, and they were lessons he disliked. Vicky sat patiently, doing her best to help him till her bedtime came, and he had barely finished when Frances brought a message that he was to come upstairs--mamma said he was not to work any longer. "You have finished, surely, Geoff?" she said, when he entered the drawing-room. "If I had finished, I would have come up sooner. You don't suppose I stay down there grinding away to please myself, do you?" replied the boy, rudely. "Geoff!" exclaimed his sisters, unwisely, perhaps. He turned upon them. "I've not come to have you preaching at me. Mamma, will you speak to them?" he burst out. "I hate this life--nothing but fault-finding as soon as I show my face. I wish I were out of it, I do! I'd rather be the poorest ploughboy in the country than lead this miserable life in this hateful London." [Illustration: VICKY ... TUGGED AT THE MUDDY BOOTS.] He said the last words loudly, almost shouting them, indeed. To do him justice, it was not often his temper got so completely the better of him. The noise he was making had prevented him and the others from hearing the bell ring--prevented them, too, from hearing, a moment or two later, a short colloquy on the stairs between Harvey and a new-comer. "Thank you," said the latter; "I don't want you to announce me. I'll do it myself." Geoff had left the door open. "Yes," he was just repeating, even more loudly than before, "I hate this life, I do. I am grinding at lessons from morning to night, and when I come home this is the way you treat me. I----" But a voice behind him made him start. "Hoot-toot, young man," it said. "Hoot-toot, hoot-toot! Come, I say, this sort of thing will never do. And ladies present! Hoot----" But the "toot" was drowned in a scream from Mrs. Tudor. "Uncle, dear uncle, is it you? Can it be you yourself? Oh, Geoff, Geoff! he is not often such a foolish boy, uncle, believe me. Oh, how--how thankful I am you have come!" She had risen from her seat and rushed forward to greet the stranger, but suddenly she grew strangely pale, and seemed on the point of falling. Elsa flew towards her on the one side, and the old gentleman on the other. "Poor dear!" he exclaimed. "I have startled her, I'm afraid. Hoot-toot, hoot-toot, silly old man that I am. Where's that ill-tempered fellow off to?" he went on, glancing round. "Can't he fetch a glass of water, or make himself useful in some way?" "I will," said Frances, darting forward. Geoffrey had disappeared, and small wonder. "I am quite right now, thank you," said Mrs. Tudor, trying to smile, when Elsa had got her on to the sofa. "Don't be frightened, Elsa dear. Nor you, uncle; it was just the--the start. I've had a good deal to make me anxious lately, you know." "I should think I did--those idiots of lawyers!" muttered the old man. "And poor Geoff," she went on; "I am afraid I have not paid much attention to him lately, and he's felt it--foolishly, perhaps." "Rubbish!" said Uncle Hoot-Toot under his breath. "Strikes me he's used to a good deal too much attention," he added as an aside to Elsa, with a quick look of inquiry in his bright keen eyes. Elsa could hardly help smiling, but for her mother's sake she restrained herself. "It will be all right now you have come home, dear uncle," Mrs. Tudor went on gently. "How was it? Had you started before you got my letters? Why did you not let us know?" "I was on the point of writing to announce my departure," said the old gentleman, "when your letter came. It struck me then that I could get home nearly as quickly as a letter, and so I thought it was no use writing." "Then you know--you know all about this bad news?" said Mrs. Tudor falteringly. [Illustration: THE ARRIVAL OF GREAT-UNCLE HOOT-TOOT.] "Yes; those fellows wrote to me. _That_ was right enough; but what they meant by worrying you about it, my dear, I can't conceive. It was quite against all my orders. What did poor Frank make me your trustee for, if it wasn't to manage these things for you?" "Then you think, you hope, there may be something left to manage, do you?" asked Mrs. Tudor, eagerly. "I have been anticipating the very worst. I did not quite like to put it in words to these poor children"--and she looked up affectionately at the two girls; "but I have really been trying to make up my mind to our being quite ruined." "Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said her uncle. "No such nonsense, my dear. I shall go to Norris's to-morrow morning and have it out with him. Ruined! No, no. It'll be all right, you'll see. We'll go into it all, and you have nothing to do but leave things to me. Now let us talk of pleasanter matters. What a nice, pretty little house you've got! And what nice, pretty little daughters! Good girls, too, or I'm uncommonly mistaken. They're comforts to you, Alice, my dear, eh?" "The greatest possible comforts," answered the mother, warmly. "And so is little Vic. You haven't seen her yet." "Little Vic? Oh, to be sure--my namesake." For Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's real name, you must know, was Mr. Victor Byrne. "To be sure; must see her to-morrow; Vic, to be sure." "And Geoffrey," Mrs. Tudor went on less assuredly. "Geoff is doing very well at school. You will have a good report of him from his masters. He is a steady worker, and----" "But how about the _home_ report of him, eh?" said Mr. Byrne, drily. "There's two sides to most things, and I've rather a weakness for seeing both. Never mind about that just now. I never take up impressions hastily. Don't be afraid. I'll see Master Geoff for myself. Let's talk of other things. What do these young ladies busy themselves about? Are they good housekeepers, eh?" Mrs. Tudor smiled. "Can you make a pudding and a shirt, Elsa and Frances?" she asked. "Tell your uncle your capabilities." "I could manage the pudding," said Elsa. "I think the days for home-made shirts are over." "Hoot-toot, toot-toot!" said Mr. Byrne; "new-fangled notions, eh?" "No, indeed, Great-Uncle Hoot----" began Frances, eagerly. Then blushing furiously, she stopped short. The old gentleman burst out laughing. "Never mind, my dear; I'm used to it. It's what they always called me--all my nephews and nieces." "Have you a great many nephews and nieces besides us?" asked Elsa. Mr. Byrne laughed again. "That depends upon myself," he said. "I make them, you see. I have had any quantity in my day, but they're scattered far and wide. And--there are a great many blanks, Alice, my dear, since I was last at home," he added, turning to Mrs. Tudor. "I don't know that any of them was ever quite such a pet of mine as this little mother of yours, my dears." "Oh!" said Elsa, looking rather disappointed; "you are not our real uncle, then? I always thought you were." [Illustration: MY BLACKAMOOR.] "Well, think so still," said Mr. Byrne. "At any rate, you must treat me so, and then I shall be quite content. But I must be going. I shall see you to-morrow after I've had it out with that donkey Norris. What a stupid idiot he is, to be sure!" and for a moment Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot looked quite fierce. "And then I must see little Vic. What time shall I come to-morrow, Alice?" "Whenever you like, uncle," she said. "Will you not come and stay here altogether?" "No, thank you, my dear. I've got my own ways, you see. I'm a fussy old fellow. And I've got my servant--my blackamoor. He'd frighten all the neighbours. And you'd fuss yourself, thinking I wasn't comfortable. I'll come up to-morrow afternoon and stay on to dinner, if you like. And just leave the boy to me a bit. Good night, all of you; good night." And in another moment the little old gentleman was gone. The two girls and their mother sat staring at each other when he had disappeared. "Isn't it like a dream? Can you believe he has really come, mamma?" said Elsa. "Hardly," replied her mother. "But I am very thankful. If only Geoff will not vex him." Elsa and Frances said nothing. They had their own thoughts about their brother, but they felt it best not to express them. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. FOOLISH GEOFF. "Is he like what you expected, Elsa?" asked Frances, when they were in their own room. "Who? Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot? I'm sure I don't know. I don't think I ever thought about what he'd be like." "Oh, I _had_ an idea," said Frances. "Quite different, of course, from what he really is. I had fancied he'd be tall and stooping, and with a big nose and very queer eyes. I think I must have mixed him up with the old godfather in the 'Nutcracker of Nuremberg,' without knowing it." "Well, he's not so bad as that, anyway," said Elsa. "He looks rather shrivelled and dried up; but he's so very neat and refined-looking. Did you notice what small brown hands he has, and such _very_ bright eyes? Isn't it funny that he's only an adopted uncle, after all?" "I think mamma had really forgotten he wasn't our real uncle," said Frances. "Elsa, I am very glad he has come. I think poor mamma has been far more unhappy than she let us know. She does look so ill." "It's half of it Geoff," said Elsa, indignantly. "And now he must needs spoil Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's arrival by his tempers. Perhaps it's just as well, however. 'By the pricking of my thumbs,' I fancy Geoff has met his master." "Elsa, you frighten me a little," said Frances. "You don't think he'll be very severe with poor Geoff?" "I don't think he'll be more severe than is for Geoff's good," replied Elsa. "I must confess, though, I shouldn't like to face Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot if I felt I had been behaving badly. How his eyes can gleam!" "And how he seemed to flash in upon us all of a sudden, and to disappear almost as quickly! I'm afraid there's something a little bit uncanny about him," said Frances, who was very imaginative. "But if he helps to put all the money troubles right, he will certainly be like a good fairy to us." "Yes; and if he takes Geoff in hand," added Elsa. "But, Frances, we must go to bed. I want to make everything very nice to-morrow; I'm going to think about what to have for dinner while I go to sleep." For Elsa was housekeeper--a very zealous and rather anxious-minded young housekeeper. Her dreams were often haunted by visions of bakers' books and fishmongers' bills; to-night curry and pilau chased each other through her brain, and Frances was aroused from her first sweet slumbers to be asked if she would remember to look first thing to-morrow morning if there was a bottle of chutney in the store-closet. [Illustration: ELSA WAS HOUSEKEEPER.] At breakfast Geoff came in, looking glum and slightly defiant. But he said nothing except "Good morning." He started, however, a little, when he saw his mother. "Mamma," he said, "are you not well? You look so very pale." The girls glanced up at this. It was true. They had not observed it in the excitement of discussing the new arrival, and the satisfaction of knowing it had brought relief to Mrs. Tudor's most pressing anxieties. "Yes, mamma dear. It is true. You do look very pale. Now, you must not do anything to tire yourself all day. We will manage everything, so that Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot shall see we are not silly useless girls," said Elsa. Geoffrey's lips opened as if he were about to speak, but he closed them again. He was still on his high horse. "Geoff," said his mother, as he was leaving, "you will dine with us this evening. Try to get your lessons done quickly. Uncle will wish to see something of you." He muttered an indistinct "Very well, mamma," as he shut the door. "Humph!" he said to himself, "I suppose Elsa will want to make him think I'm properly treated. But _I_ shall tell him the truth--any _man_ will understand how impossible it is for me to stand it any longer. I don't mind if he did hear me shouting last night. There's a limit to endurance. But I wish mamma didn't look so pale. Of course they'll make out it's all _my_ fault." And feeling himself and his grievances of even more consequence than usual, Master Geoff stalked off. Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot made his appearance in the afternoon rather earlier than he was expected. He found Mrs. Tudor alone in the drawing-room, and had a talk with her by themselves, and then Vicky was sent for, to make his acquaintance. The little girl came into the drawing-room looking very much on her good behaviour indeed--so much so that Elsa and Frances, who were with her, could scarcely help laughing. "How do you do, my dear?" said her great-uncle, looking at her with his bright eyes. "Quite well, thank you," replied the little girl. "Hoot-toot!" said the old gentleman; "and is that all you've got to say to me?--a poor old fellow like me, who have come all the way from India to see you." Vicky looked up doubtfully, her blue eyes wandered all over Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's queer brown face and trim little figure. A red flush spread slowly upwards from her cheeks to the roots of her fair hair, and by the peculiar droop in the corners of her mouth, Elsa, who was nearest her, saw that tears were not far off. "What is it, Vicky dear?" she whispered. "What _will_ he think of the children? Geoff in a temper, and Vicky crying for nothing!" she said to herself. "You are not frightened?" she added aloud. "No," said Vicky, trying to recover herself. "It's only about Geoff. I want to ask--_him_--not to be angry with Geoff." "And why should I be angry with Geoff?" said the old gentleman, his eyes twinkling. "Has he been saying so to you?" "Oh no!" the little girl eagerly replied. "Geoff didn't say anything. It was Harvey and Martha. They said they hoped he'd find his master now _you'd_ come, and that it was time he had some of his nonsense whipped out of him. You won't whip him, will you? Oh, please, please say you won't!" and she clasped her hands beseechingly. "Geoff isn't naughty _really_. He doesn't mean to be naughty." The tears were very near now. "Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said Mr. Byrne. "Come, come, my little Vic; I don't like this at all. So they've been making me out an ogre. That's too bad. Me whip Geoff! Why, I think he could better whip me--a strong, sturdy fellow like that. No, no, I don't want to whip him, I assure you. But I'm glad to see Geoff's got such a good little sister, and that she's so fond of him. He's not a bad brother to you, I hope? You couldn't be so fond of him if he were." "Oh no; Geoff's not naughty to me, scarcely _never_," said Vicky, eagerly. "I'm sure he never wants to be naughty. It's just that he's got some bad habits, of teasing and grumbling, and he can't get out of them," she went on, with a little air of wisdom that was very funny. "Exactly," said Uncle Hoot-Toot, nodding his head. "Well, don't you think it would be a very good thing if we could help him to get out of them?" Vicky looked up doubtfully again. "If I think of some plan--something that may really do him good, you'll trust your poor old uncle, won't you, my little Vic?" She gave him a long steady stare. "Yes," she said at last. Then with a sigh, "I would like Geoff to get out of his tiresome ways." And from this time Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot and Vicky were fast friends. Then he asked Elsa and Frances to go out a little walk with him. "Is your mother always as pale as I have seen her?" he said abruptly, almost as soon as they were alone. Elsa hesitated. "No," she said at last. "I'm afraid she is not at all well. Geoff noticed it this morning." "Oh, indeed! Then he does notice things sometimes?" said Mr. Byrne, drily. "He's very fond of mamma," put in Frances. "He takes a queer way to show it, it strikes me," remarked her uncle. "It's--it's all his temper, I'm afraid," Frances allowed reluctantly. "It is that he's spoilt," said Elsa. "He's perhaps not spoilt in one way, but in another he is. He has never known any hardships or been forced into any self-denial. Great-uncle," she went on earnestly, "if it's true that we have lost or are going to lose nearly all our money, won't it perhaps be a good thing for Geoff?" "Who says you're going to lose your money?" "I don't know exactly why I feel sure it's not coming right. I know you said so to mamma--at least you tried to make her happier; but I can't understand it. If that Mr. Norris wrote so strongly, there must be something wrong." Mr. Byrne moved and looked at her sharply. "You don't speak that way to your mother, I hope?" "Of course not," said Elsa; "I'm only too glad for her to feel happier about it. I was only speaking of what I thought myself." "Well--well--as long as your mother's mind is easier it doesn't matter. I cannot explain things fully to you at present, but you seem to be sensible girls, and girls to be trusted. I may just tell you this much--all this trouble is nothing new; I had seen it coming for years. The only thing I had not anticipated was that those fools of lawyers should have told your mother about the crash when it did come. There was no need for her to know anything about it. I'm her trustee----" "But not legally," interrupted Elsa. "Mamma explained to us that you couldn't be held responsible, as it was only like a friend that you had helped her all these years." "Hoot-toot, toot-toot!" he replied testily; "what difference does that make? But never mind. I will explain all about it to you both--before long. Just now the question is your mother. I think you will agree with me when I say that it is plain to me that Master Geoff should leave home?" "I'm afraid mamma will be very much against it," said Elsa. "You see, Geoff is a good boy in big things, and mamma thinks it is owing to her having kept home influence over him. He's truthful and conscientious--he is, indeed, and you must see I'm not inclined to take his part." "But he's selfish, and bullying, and ungrateful. Not pretty qualities, my dear, or likely to make a good foundation for a man's after-life. I'm not going to send him to a grand boarding-school, however--that I promise you, for I think it would be the ruin of him. Whatever I may do to save your mother, I don't see but that Master Geoff should face his true position." "And we too, great-uncle," said Frances, eagerly. "Elsa and I are quite ready to work; we've thought of several plans already." "I quite believe you, my dear," said Mr. Byrne, approvingly. "You shall tell me your plans some time soon, and I will tell you mine. No fear but that you shall have work to do." "And----" began Elsa, but then she hesitated. "I was going to ask you not to decide anything about Geoff till you have seen more of him. If Frances and I could earn enough to keep him at school as he is, so that mamma could have the comf---- No, I'm afraid I can't honestly say that having Geoff at home would be any comfort to her--less than ever if Frances and I were away. Great-uncle, don't you think Geoff should have some idea of all this?" "Certainly. But I cannot risk his teasing your mother. We will wait a few days. I should like to see poor Alice looking better; and I shall judge of Geoff for myself, my dears." They were just at home again by this time. Vicky met them at the door. She was in great excitement about Mr. Byrne's Indian servant, who had come with his master's evening clothes. "I was watching for Geoff, to tell him!" she exclaimed. "But my tea's ready; I must go." And off she ran. "Good little girl," said Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot, nodding his head approvingly. "No grumbling from _her_, eh?" "No, never," said Elsa, warmly. "She's having her tea alone to-day. Geoff's coming in to dinner in your honour." "Humph!" said the old gentleman. [Illustration] [Illustration: GEOFF'S INTERVIEW WITH GREAT-UNCLE HOOT-TOOT.] [Illustration] CHAPTER V. A CRISIS. Mrs. Tudor and the two girls had gone upstairs to the drawing-room. Geoff glanced dubiously at Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot. "Shall I--shall I stay with you, sir?" he asked. Geoff was on his good behaviour. The old gentleman glanced at him. "Certainly, my boy, if you've nothing better to do," he said. "No lessons--eh?" "No, sir," Geoff replied. "I've got all done, except a little I can do in the morning." "They work you pretty hard, eh?" "Yes, they do. There's not much fun for a fellow who's at school in London. It's pretty much the same story--grind, grind, from one week's end to another." "Hoot-toot! That sounds melancholy," said Mr. Byrne. "No holidays, eh?" "Oh, of course, I've some holidays," said Geoff. "But, you see, when a fellow has only got a mother and sisters----" "_Only_," repeated the old gentleman; but Geoff detected no sarcasm in his tone. "And mother's afraid of my skating, or boating on the river, or----" "Doesn't she let you go in for the school games?" interrupted Mr. Byrne again. "Oh yes; it would be too silly not to do _that_. I told her at the beginning--I mean, she understood--it wouldn't do. But there's lots of things I'd like to do, if mother wasn't afraid. I should like to ride, or at least to have a tricycle. It's about the only thing to make life bearable in this horrible place. Such weather! I do hate London!" "Indeed!" said Mr. Byrne. "It's a pity your mother didn't consult you before settling here." "She did it for the best, I suppose," said Geoff. "She didn't want to part with me, you see. But I'd rather have been at a boarding-school in the country; I do so detest London. And then it's not pleasant to be too poor to have things one should have at a public school." "What may those be?" inquired the old gentleman. "Oh, heaps of things. Pocket-money, for one thing. I was telling mother about it. I really should have more, if I'm to stay properly at school. There's Dick Colethorne, where I was staying last holidays--cousins of ours; he has six times what I have, and he's only two years older." "And--is his mother a widow, and in somewhat restricted circumstances?" asked Mr. Byrne. "Oh no," replied Geoff, unwarily. "His father's a very rich man; and Dick is the only child." "All the same, begging Mr. Colethorne's pardon, if he were twenty times as rich as Croesus, I think he's making a tremendous mistake in giving his boy a great deal of pocket-money," said Mr. Byrne. "Well, of course, I shouldn't want as much as he has," said Geoff; "but still----" "Geoffrey, my boy," said the old gentleman, rising as he spoke, "it strikes me you're getting on a wrong tack. But we'll have some more talk about all this. I don't want to keep your mother waiting, as I promised to talk some more to _her_ this evening. So we'll go upstairs. Some day, perhaps, I'll tell you some of the experiences of _my_ boyhood. I'm glad, by-the-by, to see that you don't take wine." "No-o," said Geoff. "That's one of the things mother is rather fussy about. I'd like to talk about it with you, sir; I don't see but that at my age I might now and then take a glass of sherry--or of claret, even. It looks so foolish never to touch any. It's not that I _care_ about it, you know." "At your age?" repeated Mr. Byrne, slowly. "Well, Geoff--do you know, I don't quite agree with you. Nor do I see the fun of taking a thing you 'don't care about,' just for the sake of looking as if those who had the care of you didn't know what they were about." They were half-way upstairs by this time. Geoff's face did not wear its pleasantest expression as they entered the drawing-room. "He's a horrid old curmudgeon," he whispered to Vicky; "I believe Elsa's been setting him against me." Vicky looked at him with reproachful eyes. "Oh, Geoff," she said, "I do think he's so nice." "You do, do you?" said he. "Well, I don't. I'll tell you what, Vicky; I've a great mind to run away. I do so hate this life. I work ever so much harder than most of the fellows, and I never get any thanks for it; and everything I want is grudged me. My umbrella's all in rags, and I'm ashamed to take it out; and if I was to ask mamma for a new one, they'd all be down on me again, you'd see." "But you haven't had it long, Geoff," said Vic. "I've had it nearly a year. You're getting as bad as the rest, Vicky," he said querulously. He had forgotten that he was not alone in the room with his little sister, and had raised his tone, as he was too much in the habit of doing. "Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said a now well-known voice from the other side of the room; "what's all that about over there? You and Victoria can't be quarrelling, surely?" Mrs. Tudor looked up anxiously. "Oh no," said Vicky, eagerly; "we were only talking." "And about what, pray?" persisted Mr. Byrne. Vicky hesitated. She did not want to vex Geoff, but she was unused to any but straightforward replies. "About Geoff's umbrella," she said, growing very red. "About Geoff's umbrella?" repeated the old gentleman. "What could there be so interesting and exciting to say about Geoff's umbrella?" "Only that I haven't got one--at least, mine's in rags; and if I say I need a new one, they'll all be down upon me for extravagance," said Geoff, as sulkily as he dared. "My dear boy, don't talk in that dreadfully aggrieved tone," said his mother, trying to speak lightly. "You know I have never refused you anything you really require." Geoffrey did not reply, at least not audibly. But Elsa's quick ears and some other ears besides hers--for it is a curious fact that old people, when they are not deaf, are often peculiarly the reverse--caught his muttered whisper. "Of course. Always the way if _I_ want anything." Mr. Byrne did not stay late. He saw that Mrs. Tudor looked tired and depressed, and he did not wish to be alone with her to talk about Geoff, as she probably would have done, for he could not have spoken of the boy as she would have wished to hear. A few days passed. Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot spent a part of each with the Tudor family, quietly making his observations. Geoff certainly did not show to advantage; and though his mother wore herself out with talking to him and trying to bring him to a more reasonable frame of mind, it was of no use. So at last she took Elsa's advice and left the discontented, tiresome boy to himself, for perhaps the first time in his life. And every evening, when alone with Victoria, the selfish boy entertained his poor little sister with his projects of running away from a home where he was so little appreciated. But a change came, and that in a way which Geoffrey little expected. One evening when Mr. Byrne said "Good night," it struck him that his niece looked particularly tired. "Make your mother go to bed at once, Elsa," he said, "I don't like her looks. If she's not better to-morrow, I must have a doctor to see her. And," he added in a lower tone still, "don't let Geoffrey go near her to-morrow morning. Has he bothered her much lately?" "Mamma has left him alone. It was much the best thing to do," Elsa replied. "But all the same, I can see that it is making her very unhappy." "Time something should be done; that's growing very plain," said Mr. Byrne. "Try and keep her quiet in the mean time, my dear. I have nearly made up my mind, and I'll tell you all about it to-morrow." Elsa felt rather frightened. "Great-uncle," she said, "I don't want to make silly excuses for Geoff, but it is true that he has never been quite so ill-natured and worrying as lately." "Or perhaps you have never seen it so plainly," said the old gentleman. "But you needn't think I require to be softened to him, my dear; I am only thinking of his good. He's not a bad lad at bottom; there's good stuff in him. But he's ruining himself, and half killing your mother. Life's been too easy to him, as you've said yourself. He needs bringing to his senses." Geoff slept soundly; moreover, his room was at the top of the house. He did not hear any disturbance that night--the opening and shutting of doors, the anxious whispering voices, the sound of wheels driving rapidly up to the door. He knew nothing of it all. For, alas! his tiresome, fidgety temper had caused him to be looked upon as no better than a sort of naughty child in the house--of no use or assistance, concerning whom every one's first thought in any trouble was, "We must manage to get Geoff out of the way, or to keep him quiet." When he awoke it was still dark. But there was a light in his room--some one had come in with a candle. It was Elsa. He rubbed his eyes and looked at her with a strange unreal feeling, as if he were still dreaming. And when he saw her face, the unreal feeling did not go away. She seemed so unlike herself, in her long white dressing-gown, the light of the candle she was holding making her look so pale, and her eyes so strained and anxious--_was_ it the candle, or was she really so very pale? "Elsa," he said sleepily, "what are you doing? What is the matter? Isn't it dreadfully late--or--or early for you to be up?" he went on confusedly. "It's the morning," said Elsa, "but we haven't been in bed all night--Frances and I. At least, we had only been in bed half an hour or so, when we were called up." "What was it?" asked Geoff, sleepily still. "Was the house on fire?" "Oh, Geoff, don't be silly!" said Elsa; "it's--it's much worse. Mamma has been so ill--she is still." Geoff started up now. "Do you want me to go for the doctor?" he said. "The doctor has been twice already, and he's coming back at nine o'clock," she answered sadly. "He thought her a tiny bit better when he came the last time. But she's very ill--she must be kept most _exceedingly_ quiet, and----" "I'll get up now at once," said Geoff; "I won't be five minutes, Elsa. Tell mamma I'd have got up before if I'd known." "But, Geoff," said Elsa, firmly, though reluctantly, "it's no use your hurrying up for that. You can't see her--you can't possibly see her before you go to school, anyway. The doctor says she is to be kept _perfectly_ quiet, and not worried in any way." "I wouldn't worry her, not when she's ill," said Geoff, hastily. [Illustration: IT WAS ELSA.] "You couldn't help it," said Elsa. "She--she was very worried about you last night, and she kept talking about your umbrella in a confused sort of way now and then all night. We quieted her at last by telling her we had given you one to go to school with. But if she saw you, even for an instant, she would begin again. The doctor said you were not to go into her room." A choking feeling had come into Geoff's throat when Elsa spoke about the umbrella; a very little more and he would have burst into tears of remorse. But as she went on, pride and irritation got the better of him. He was too completely unused to think of or for any one before himself, to be able to do so all of a sudden, and it was a sort of relief to burst out at his sister in the old way. "I think you're forgetting yourself, Elsa. Is mamma not as much to _me_ as to you girls? Do you think I haven't the sense to know how to behave when any one's ill? I tell you I just will and shall go to see her, whatever you say;" and he began dragging on his socks as if he were going to rush down to his mother's room that very moment. Elsa grew still paler than she had been before. "Geoff," she said, "you must listen to me. It was for that I came up to tell you. You must _not_ come into mother's room. I'd do anything to prevent it, but I can't believe that you'll force me to quarrel with you this morning when--when we are all so unhappy. I don't want to make you more unhappy, but I can't help speaking plainly to you. You _have_ worried mamma terribly lately, Geoff, and now you must bear the punishment. It's--it's as much as her life is worth for you to go into her room and speak to her this morning. I cannot allow it." "_You_ allow it!" burst out Geoff. "Are you the head of the house?" "Yes," said Elsa, "when mamma is ill, I consider that I am. And what's more, Geoff, I have telegraphed to Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot. He made me promise to do so if mamma were ill. I expect him directly. It is past seven. Geoff, you had better dress and take your breakfast as usual. I will come down and tell you how mamma is the last thing before you go." "I _will_ see mamma before I go to school," he replied sharply. "I give you fair warning." "Geoff," said Elsa, "you shall not." And with these words she left the room. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. GEOFF "WON'T STAND IT." Geoff hurried on with his dressing. He was wretchedly unhappy--all the more so because he was furiously angry with Elsa, and perhaps, at the bottom of his heart, with himself. His room was, as I have said, at the top of the house. He did not hear the front-door bell ring while he was splashing in his bath; and as he rushed downstairs a quarter of an hour or so after Elsa had left him, he was considerably taken aback to be met at the foot of the first flight by the now familiar figure of Mr. Byrne. "Geoffrey," he said quietly, "your sisters have gone to lie down and try to sleep for a little. They have been up all night, and they are likely to want all their strength. Go down to the school-room and get your breakfast. When you have finished, I will come to talk to you a little before you go to school." Geoff glanced up. There was something in Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's face which made him feel there was no use in blustering or resisting. "Very well," he said, putting as little expression in his voice as he could; and as Mr. Byrne turned away, the boy made his way down to the school-room. It looked dreary and strange this morning. It was earlier than usual, and perhaps the room had been less carefully done, for Mrs. Tudor's illness had upset the whole household. The fire was only just lighted; the preparations for Geoff's breakfast were only half ready. It was a very chilly day; and as the boy sat down by the table, leaning his head on his hands, he shivered both with cold and unhappiness. "They all hate me," he said to himself. "I've known it for a long time, but I've never been so sure of it before. It is much the best for me to go away. Mamma _has_ cared for me; but they're making her leave off, and they'll set her entirely against me. She'll be far better and happier without me; and when she gets well--I dare say they have exaggerated her illness--they will have the pleasure of saying it's because I'm gone. There's only Vic who'll really care. But she won't mind so very much, either. I'll write to her now and then. I must think how best to do about going away. I hate the sea; there's no use thinking of that. I don't mind what I do, if it's in the country. I might go down to some farmhouse--one of those jolly farms where Dick and I used to get a glass of milk last summer. I wouldn't mind a bit, working on one of those farms. It would be much jollier than grinding away at school. And I am sure Dick and I did as much work as any haymakers last summer." He had worked himself up into positively looking forward to the idea of leaving home. Vague ideas of how his mother and sisters would learn too late how little they had appreciated him; visions of magnanimously forgiving them all some day when he should have, in some mysterious way, become a landed proprietor, riding about his fields, and of inviting them all down into the country to visit him, floated before his brain. He ate his breakfast with a very good appetite; and when Mr. Byrne entered the room, he was surprised to see no look of sulkiness on the boy's face; though, on the other hand, there were no signs of concern or distress. "Is he really _heartless_?" thought the old man, with a pang of disappointment. "Am I mistaken in thinking the good material is there?" "I want to talk to you, Geoff," he said. "You are early this morning. You need not start for twenty minutes or more." "Am I to understand you intend to prevent me seeing my mother, sir?" said Geoff, in a peculiar tone. Mr. Byrne looked at him rather sadly. "It is not _I_ preventing it," he said. "The doctor has left his orders." "I understand," said Geoff, bitterly. "Well, it does not much matter. Mother and the others are not likely to see much more of me." The old gentleman looked at him sharply. "Are you thinking of running away?" he said. "Not running away," said Geoffrey. "I'm not going to do it in any secret sort of way; but I've made up my mind to go. And now that mother has thrown me over too, I don't suppose any one will care." "You've not been going the way to make any one care, it strikes me," said Mr. Byrne. "But I have something to say to you, Geoff. One thing which has helped to make your poor mother ill has been anxiety about money matters. I had not wished her to know of it; but it was told her by mistake. I myself have known for some time that things were going wrong. But now the worst has come----" "What is the worst?" asked Geoffrey. "Have we lost everything?" "Yes," said Mr. Byrne, "I think that's about it." "I think I should have been told this before," said Geoff. "Well," said his uncle, "I'm not sure but that I agree with you. But your mother wished to save you as long as she could. And you have not borne small annoyances so well that she could hope for much comfort from you in a great trouble." [Illustration: "I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY TO YOU, GEOFF."] Geoff said nothing. "I shall take care of your mother and sisters," Mr. Byrne went on. "I am not even to be allowed to work for my mother, then?" said Geoffrey. "At your age it will be as much as you can do to work for yourself," said the old man. "And as yet, you cannot even do that directly. You must go on with your education. I have found a school in the country where you will be well taught, and where you will not be annoyed by not being able to have all that your companions have, as you have so complained about." "And who is to pay for my schooling?" asked the boy. "I," replied Mr. Byrne. "Thank you," said Geoffrey. His tone was not exactly disrespectful, but it was certainly not grateful. "I know I should thank you, but I don't want you to pay schooling or anything else for me. I shall manage for myself. It is much best for me to go away altogether. Even--even if this about our money hadn't happened, I was already making up my mind to it." Mr. Byrne looked at him. "Legally speaking, your mother could stop your leaving her," he said. "She is not likely to do so," replied the boy, "if she is so ill that she cannot even see me." "Perhaps not," said the old gentleman. "I will send my servant to you at mid-day, to say how your mother is." "Thank you," said Geoffrey again. Then Mr. Byrne left the room, and Geoff went off to school. He was in a strange state of mind. He hardly took in what he had been told of the state of his mother's money matters. He hardly indeed believed it, so possessed was he by the idea that there was a sort of plot to get rid of him. "It isn't mother herself," he reflected. "It's all Elsa and Frances, and that horrid old Hoot-Toot. But as for going to any school _he'd_ send me to--no, thank you." He was standing about at noon with some of his companions, when the coloured servant appeared. "Please, sir," he said, "I was to tell you that the lady is better--doctor say so;" and with a kind of salaam he waited to see what the young gentleman would reply. "All right," said Geoff, curtly; and the man turned to go. Geoff did not see that at the gates he stood still a moment speaking to another man, who appeared to have been waiting for him. "That young gentleman with the dark hair. You see plain when I speak to him," he said in his rather broken English. The other man nodded his head. "I shall know him again, no fear. Tell your master it's all right," he said. Geoff had to stand some chaff from his friends on the subject of the "darkey," of course. At another time he would rather have enjoyed it than otherwise; but to-day he was unable to take part in any fun. "What a surly humour Tudor's in!" said one of the boys to another. Geoff overheard it, and glared at him. "I shan't be missed here either, it seems," he said to himself. He did not notice that evening, when he went home, that a respectable unobtrusive-looking man, with the air of a servant out of livery, or something of that kind, followed him all the way, only turning back when he had seen the boy safe within his own door. And there, just within, faithful Vicky was awaiting him. "I've been watching for you such a time, Geoff dear," she said. "Mamma's better. _Aren't_ you glad? The doctor's been again, just about an hour ago, and he told me so as he went out." "Have you seen her?" said Geoff, abruptly. Vicky hesitated. She knew her answer would vex Geoff, and yet she could not say what was not true. [Illustration: HE STOOD STILL A MOMENT SPEAKING TO ANOTHER MAN.] "I've only _just_ seen her," she said. "Elsa just took me in for a moment. She has to be kept very, very quiet, Geoff. She'll have to be very quiet for a long time." "You may as well speak plainly," said her brother. "I know what that means--I'm not to be allowed to see her for 'a very, very long time.' Oh yes, I quite understand." He was in his heart thankful to know that his mother was better, but the relief only showed itself in additional ill-temper and indignation. "Geoffrey dear, don't speak like that," said Vicky. "I wish I hadn't gone in to see mamma if you couldn't, but I didn't like to say so to Elsa. I know you didn't _mean_ ever to vex mamma, and I'm sure you'll never do it again, when she gets better, will you? Would you like me just to run and tell Elsa and Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot how _dreadfully_ you'd like to see her just for a minute? If you just peeped in, you know, and said 'Good night, mamma; I am so awfully glad you're better!' that would be better than nothing. Shall I, Geoff?" "No," he replied gruffly. "I want to ask nothing. And I'm not sure that I _do_ want dreadfully to see her. Caring can't be all on one side." Vicky's eyes were full of tears by this time. "Oh, Geoff!" was all she could say. "Mamma not care for you!" Her distress softened him a little. "Don't _you_ cry about it, Vic," he said. "I do believe _you_ care for me, anyway. You always will, won't you, Vicky?" "Of course I shall," she sobbed, while some tears dropped into Geoff's teacup. They were in the school-room by this time, and Vicky was at her usual post. "And some day," pursued Geoff, condescendingly, "perhaps we'll have a little house of our own, Vicky, in the country, you know; we'll have cocks and hens of our own, and always fresh eggs, of course, and strawberries, and----" "Cream," suggested Vicky, her eyes gleaming with delight at the tempting prospect; "strawberries are nothing without cream." "Of course," Geoff went on. "I was going to say cream, when you interrupted me. We'd have a cream-cow, Vicky." "A cream-cow," Vicky repeated. "What's that?" "Oh, I don't know exactly. But one often reads of a milk-cow, so I supposed there must be some cows that are all for cream, if some are for milk. I'll find out all about it when----" But he stopped short. "Never mind, Vicky. When I have a little farm of my own, in the country, I promise you I'll send for you to come and live with me." "But you'll invite mamma and Elsa, and Francie too, Geoff; I wouldn't care to come without them," objected Vicky. "Mamma; oh yes, if she likes to come. Perhaps Elsa and Frances will be married, and have houses of their own by then. I'm sure I hope so." He had talked himself and Vicky into quite good spirits by this time. He was almost forgetting about his plan of running away. But it was soon recalled to him. Elsa put her head in at the door. "Vicky," she said, "you may come up to see mamma for a few minutes. Come now, quick, before Geoff comes home, or else he will begin about it again, and he just _must_ not see her for some days. Mamma sees that he must not." Geoff's face grew dark. "Elsa," Vicky called out appealingly. But Elsa had already disappeared. And then Geoffrey _quite_ made up his mind. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. A FORTUNATE CHANCE. He was a sensible, practical enough boy in some ways. He thought it all well over that night, and made what preparations he could. He packed up the clothes he thought the most necessary and useful in an old carpet-bag he found in the box-room, and then he looked over his drawers and cupboards to see that all was left in order, and he put together some things to be sent to him in case he found it well to write for them. Then he looked at his purse. He had, carefully stowed away, thirty shillings in gold, and of his regular pocket-money a two-shilling piece, a shilling, a threepenny bit, and some coppers. It was enough to take him some hours' distance out of London, where he would be quite as likely to find what he wanted, employment at some farmhouse, as farther away. He did not sleep much that night. He was so anxious to be off early that he kept waking up every hour or two. At last, after striking a match to see what o'clock it was for perhaps the twentieth time, his watch told him it was past six. He got up and dressed, then he shouldered his bag, and made his way as quickly as he could downstairs. He could not resist lingering a moment outside his mother's door; it was slightly ajar, and there was a faint light within. Elsa's voice came to him as he stood there. "I am _so_ glad you are better this morning, dear mamma," she was saying. "I hoped you would be when I went to bed, at three o'clock. You were sleeping so peacefully. I am sure you will be quite well again soon, if we can manage to keep you quiet, and if you won't worry yourself. Everything is quite right." Geoff's face hardened again. "I know what all that means," he thought. "Yes, indeed, everything is so right that I, _I_, have to run away like a thief, because I am too miserable to bear it any more." And he lingered no longer. He made his way out of the house without difficulty. It was getting light after a fashion by this time, though it was quite half an hour earlier than he usually started for school. He felt chilly--chillier than he had ever felt before, though it was not a very cold morning. But going out breakfastless does not tend to make one feel warm, and of this sort of thing Geoff had but scant experience. His bag, too, felt very heavy; he glanced up and down the street with a vague idea that perhaps he would catch sight of some boy who, for a penny or two, would carry it for him to the omnibus; but there was no boy in sight. No one at all, indeed, except a young man, who crossed the street from the opposite side while Geoff was looking about him, and walked on slowly a little in front. He was a very respectable-looking young man, far too much so to ask him to carry the bag, yet as Geoff overtook him--for, heavy though it was, the boy felt he must walk quickly to get off as fast as possible--the young man glanced up with a good-natured smile. "Excuse me, sir," he said civilly, "your bag's a bit heavy for you. Let me take hold of it with you, if we're going the same way." Geoffrey looked at him doubtfully. He was too much of a Londoner to make friends hastily. "Thank you," he said. "I can manage it. I'm only going to the corner to wait for the omnibus." "Just precisely what I'm going to do myself," said the other. "I'm quite a stranger hereabouts. I've been staying a day or two with a friend of mine who keeps a livery stable, and I'm off for the day to Shalecray, to see another friend. Can you tell me, sir, maybe, if the omnibus that passes near here takes one to the railway station?" "Which railway station?" said Geoff, more than half inclined to laugh at the stranger's evident countrifiedness. "Victoria Station, to be sure. It's the one I come by. Isn't it the big station for all parts?" "Bless you! no," said Geoff. "There are six or seven as big as it in London. What line is this place on?" "That's more nor I can say," said the stranger, looking as if he would have scratched his head to help him out of his perplexity if he had had a hand free. But he had not, for he had caught up the bag, and was walking along beside Geoff, and under his arm he carried a very substantial alpaca umbrella. And in the interest of the conversation Geoff had scarcely noticed the way in which the stranger had, as it were, attached himself to him. "Ah, well! never mind. I'm going to Victoria myself, and when we get there I'll look up your place and find you your train," said Geoff, patronizingly. He had kept looking at the stranger, and as he did so, his misgivings disappeared. "He is just a simple country lad," he said to himself. And, indeed, the young man's blue eyes, fresh complexion, and open expression would have reassured any but a _most_ suspicious person. [Illustration: WALKING ALONG BESIDE GEOFF.] "You're very kind, sir," he replied. "You see, London's a big place, and country folk feels half stupid-like in it." "Yes, of course," said Geoff. "For my part, I often wonder any one that's free to do as they like cares to live in London. You're a great deal better off in the country." "There's bads and goods everywhere, I take it, sir," said the young man, philosophically. But by this time they had reached the corner where the omnibus started, and Geoff's attention was directed to hailing the right one. And an omnibus rattling over London stones is not exactly the place for conversation, so no more passed between them till they were dropped within a stone's throw of Victoria Station. Geoff was beginning to feel very hungry, and almost faint as well as chilly. "I say," he said to his companion, "you're not in any very desperate hurry to get off, are you? For I'm frightfully hungry. You don't mind waiting while I have some breakfast, do you? I'll look you out your train for that place as soon as I've had some." "All right, sir," said the stranger. "If it wouldn't be making too free, I'd be pleased to join you. But I suppose you'll be going into the first-class?" "Oh no," said Geoff. "I don't mind the second-class." And into the second-class refreshment-room they went. They grew very friendly over hot coffee and a rasher of bacon, and then Geoff laid out threepence on a railway guide, and proceeded to hunt up Shalecray. "Here you are!" he exclaimed. "And upon my word, that's a good joke. This place--Shalecray--is on the very line I'm going by. I wonder I never noticed it. I came up that way not long ago, from Entlefield." "Indeed, sir; that's really curious," said the countryman. "And are you going to Entlefield to-day?" "Well," said Geoff, "I fancy so. I've not quite made up my mind, to tell the truth. I know the country about there. I want to find some--some farmhouse." "Oh, exactly--I understand," interrupted the young man. "You want somewhere where they'll put you up tidily for a few days--just for a breath of country air." "Well, no; not exactly," said Geoffrey. "The fact is, I'm looking out for--for some sort of situation about a farm. I'm very fond of country life. I don't care what I do. I'm not a fine gentleman!" The countryman looked at him with interest. "I see," he said. "You're tired of town, I take it, sir. But what do your friends say to it, sir? At sixteen, or even seventeen, you have still to ask leave, I suppose?" "Not always," said Geoff. "I've made no secret of it. I've no father, and--I'm pretty much my own master." "'I care for nobody, and nobody cares for me,' eh?" quoted the young man, laughing. "Something like it, I suppose," said Geoff, laughing too, though rather forcedly. For a vision of Vicky, sobbing, perhaps, over her lonely breakfast, would come before him--of Elsa and Frances trying how to break to their mother the news that Geoff had really run away. "They'll soon get over it," he said to himself. "They've got that old curmudgeon to console them, and I don't want to live on _his_ money." "Do you think I can easily find a place of some kind?" he went on, after a pause. The countryman this time did scratch his head, while he considered. "How old may you be, sir? Sixteen or seventeen, maybe?" he inquired. "I'm not so much; I'm only fourteen," said Geoff, rather reluctantly. "Really! now, who'd 'a' thought it?" said his new friend, admiringly. "You'll be just the man for a country life when you're full-grown. Not afraid of roughing it? Fond of riding, I dare say?" "Oh yes," said Geoff. "At least, in town of course I haven't had as much of it as I'd like." He had never ridden in his life, except the previous summer, on a peculiarly gentle old pony of Mrs. Colethorne's. "No, in course not. Well now, sir, if you'd no objection to stopping at Shalecray with me, it strikes me my friend there, Farmer Eames, might likely enough know of something to suit you. He's a very decent fellow--a bit rough-spoken, maybe. But you're used to country ways--you'd not mind that." "Oh, not a bit!" said Geoff. "I'm much obliged to you for thinking of it. And you say it's possible--that this Farmer Eames may perhaps have a place that I should do for?" "Nay, sir, I can't say that. It's just a chance. I only said he'd maybe know of something." "Well, I don't see that it will do any harm to ask him. I'll only take a ticket to Shalecray, then. I can go on farther later in the day if I don't find anything to suit me there. We'd better take the first train--a quarter to nine. We've still twenty minutes or so to wait." "Yes, there's plenty of time--time for a pipe. You don't object, sir? But, bless me"--and he felt in his pockets one after the other--"if I haven't forgotten my 'bacca! With your leave, sir, I'll run across the street to fetch some. I saw a shop as we came in." "Very well," said Geoff; "I'll wait here. Don't be too late." He had no particular fancy for going to buy cheap tobacco in the company of the very rustic-looking stranger. Besides, he thought it safer to remain quiet in a dark corner of the waiting-room. It was curious that, though the countryman came back with a well-filled tobacco-pouch, he had not left the station! He only disappeared for a minute or two into the telegraph office, and the message he there indited was as follows:-- "Got him all safe. Will report further this evening." And ten minutes later the two were ensconced in a third-class carriage, with tickets for Shalecray. Geoff had often travelled second, but rarely third. He did not, truth to tell, particularly like it. Yet he could not have proposed anything else to his companion, unless he had undertaken to pay the difference. And as it was, the breakfast and his own third-class ticket had made a considerable hole in his thirty shillings. He must be careful, for even with all his inexperience he knew it was _possible_ he might have to pay his own way for some little time to come. "Still, the chances are I shall find what I want very easily," he reflected. "It is evidently not difficult, by what this fellow tells me." It did not even strike him as in any way a very remarkable coincidence that almost on the doorstep of his own home he should have lighted upon the very person he needed to give him the particular information he was in want of. For in many ways, in spite of his boasted independence, poor Geoff was as innocent and unsuspicious as a baby. [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII. "HALF-A-CROWN A WEEK AND HIS VICTUALS." Shalecray was a small station, where no very considerable number of trains stopped in the twenty-four hours. It was therefore a slow train by which Geoffrey Tudor and his new friend travelled; so, though the distance from London was really short, it took them fully two hours to reach their destination. And two hours on a raw drizzly November morning is quite a long enough time to spend in a third-class carriage, shivering if the windows are down, and suffering on the other hand from the odours of damp fustian and bad tobacco if they are up. Cold as it was, it seemed pleasant in comparison when they got out at last, and were making their way down a very muddy, but really country lane. Geoff gave a sort of snort of satisfaction. "I do love the country," he said. His companion looked at him curiously. "I believe you, sir," he replied. "You must like it, to find it pleasant in November," he went on, with a tone which made Geoff glance at him in surprise. Somehow in the last few words the countryman's accent seemed to have changed a little. Geoff could almost have fancied there was a cockney twang about it. "Why, don't _you_ like it?" said Geoff. "You said you were lost and miserable in town." "Of course, sir. What else could I be? I'm country born and bred. But it's not often as a Londoner takes to it as you do, and it's not to say lively at this time, and"--he looked down with a grimace--"the lanes is uncommon muddy." "How far is it to your friend's place?" Geoff inquired, thinking to himself that if _he_ were to remark on the mud it would not be surprising, but that it was rather curious for his companion to do so. "A matter of two mile or so," Jowett--for Ned Jowett, he had told Geoff, was his name--replied; "and now I come to think of it, perhaps it'd be as well for you to leave your bag at the station. I'll see that it's all right; and as you're not sure of stopping at Crickwood, there's no sense in carrying it there and maybe back again for nothing. I'll give it in charge to the station-master, and be back in a moment." He had shouldered it and was hastening back to the station almost before Geoff had time to take in what he said. The boy stood looking after him vaguely. He was beginning to feel tired and a little dispirited. He did not feel as if he could oppose anything just then. "If he's a cheat and he's gone off with my bag, I just can't help it," he thought. "He won't gain much. Still, he looks honest." And five minutes later the sight of the young man's cheery face as he hastened back removed all his misgivings. "All right, sir," he called out. "It'll be quite safe; and if by chance you hit it off with Mr. Eames, the milk-cart that comes to fetch the empty cans in the afternoon can bring the bag too." They stepped out more briskly after that. It was not such a very long walk to the farm, though certainly more than the two miles Jowett had spoken of. As they went on, the country grew decidedly pretty, or perhaps it would be more correct to say one saw that in summer and pleasant weather it must be very pretty. Geoff, however, was hardly at the age for admiring scenery much. He looked about him with interest, but little more than interest. "Are there woods about here?" he asked suddenly. "I do like woods." Jowett hesitated. "I don't know this part of the country not to say so very well," he replied. "There's some fine gentlemen's seats round about, I believe. Crickwood Bolders, now, is a fine place--we'll pass by the park wall in a minute; it's the place that Eames's should by rights be the home farm to, so to say. But it's been empty for a many years. The family died down till it come to a distant cousin who was in foreign parts, and he let the farm to Eames, and the house has been shut up. They do speak of his coming back afore long." Geoff looked out for the park of which Jowett spoke; they could not see much of it, certainly, without climbing the wall, for which he felt no energy. But a little farther on they came to gates, evidently a back entrance, and they stood still for a moment or two and looked in. "Yes," said Geoff, gazing over the wide expanse of softly undulating ground, broken by clumps of magnificent old trees, which at one side extended into a fringe skirting the park for miles apparently, till it melted in the distance into a range of blue-topped hills--"yes, it must be a fine place indeed. That's the sort of place, now, I'd like to own, Jowett." He spoke more cordially again, for Jowett's acquaintance with the neighbourhood had destroyed a sort of misgiving that had somehow come over him as to whether his new friend were perhaps "taking him in altogether." [Illustration: THEY STOOD STILL FOR A MOMENT OR TWO.] "I believe you," said the countryman, laughing loudly, as if Geoff's remark had been a very good joke indeed. Geoff felt rather nettled. "And why shouldn't I own such a place, pray?" he said haughtily. "Such things, when one is a _gentleman_, are all a matter of chance, as you know. If my father, or my grandfather, rather, had not been a younger son, I should have been----" Ned Jowett turned to him rather gravely. "I didn't mean to offend you, sir," he said. "But you must remember you're taking up a different line from that. Farmer Eames, or farmer nobody, wouldn't engage a farm hand that expected to be treated as a gentleman. It's not my fault, sir. 'Twas yourself told me what you wished." Geoff was silent for a moment or two. It was not easy all at once to make up his mind to _not_ being a gentleman any more, and yet his common sense told him that Jowett was right; it must be so. Unless, indeed, he gave it all up and went back home again to eat humble pie, and live on Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's bounty, and go to some horrid school of his choosing, and be more "bullied" (so he expressed it to himself) than ever by his sisters, and scarcely allowed to see his mother at all. The silent enumeration of these grievances decided him. He turned round to Jowett with a smile. "Yes," he said; "I was forgetting. You must tell Farmer Eames he'll not find any nonsense about me." "All right, sir. But, if you'll excuse me, I'd best perhaps drop the 'sir'?" Geoff nodded. "And that reminds me," Jowett went on, "you've not told me your name--leastways, what name you wish me to give Eames. We're close to his place now;" and as he spoke he looked about him scrutinizingly. "Ten minutes past the back way through the park you'll come to a lane on the left. Eames's farm is the first house you come to on the right," he repeated to himself, too low for Geoff to hear. "Yes, I can't be wrong." "You can call me Jim--Jim Jeffreys," said the boy. "He needn't be afraid of getting into any trouble if he takes me on. I've no father, and my mother won't worry about me," he added bitterly. The entrance to the lane just then came in sight. "This here's our way," said Jowett. "Supposing I go on a bit in front. I think it would be just as well to explain to Eames about my bringing you." "All right," said Geoff. "I'll come on slowly. Where is the farm?" "First house to the right; you can't miss it. But I'll come back to meet you again." He hurried on, and Geoff followed slowly. He was hungry now as well as cold and tired--at least, he supposed he must be hungry, he felt so dull and stupid. What should he do if Farmer Eames could not take him on? he began to ask himself; he really felt as if it would be impossible for him to set off on his travels again like a tramp, begging for work all over the country. And for the first time it began faintly to dawn upon him that he had acted very foolishly. "But it's too late now," he said to himself; "I'd die rather than go home and ask to be forgiven, and be treated by them all as if I deserved to be sent to prison. I've got enough money to keep me going for a day or two, anyway. If it was summer--haymaking-time, for instance, I suppose it would be easy enough to get work. But now----" and he shivered as he gazed over the bare, dreary, lifeless-looking fields on all sides, where it was difficult to believe that the green grass could ever spring again, or the golden grain wave in the sunshine--"I really wonder what work there can be to do in the winter. The ground's as hard as iron; and oh, my goodness, isn't it cold?" Suddenly some little way in front he descried two figures coming towards him. The one was Jowett; the other, an older, stouter man, must be Farmer Eames. Geoff's heart began to beat faster. Would he be met by a refusal, and told to make his way back to the station? And if so, where would he go, what should he do? It had all seemed so easy when he planned it at home--he had felt so sure he would find what he wanted at once; he had somehow forgotten it would no longer be summer when he got out into the country again! For the first time in his life he realized what hundreds, nay, thousands of boys, no older than he, must go through every day--poor homeless fellows, poor and homeless through no fault of their own in many cases. "If ever I'm a rich man," thought Geoff, "I'll think of to-day." And his anxiety grew so great that by the time the two men had come up to him his usually ruddy face had become almost white. Jowett looked at him curiously. "You look uncommon cold, Jim," he said. "This 'ere's Jim Jeffreys as I've been a-talking to you of, Mr. Eames," he said, by way of introduction to the farmer. "Ah, indeed!" Farmer Eames replied; "seems a well-grown lad, but looks delicate. Is he always so white-like?" "Bless you! no," said Jowett; "he's only a bit done up with--with one thing and another. We made a hearly start of it, and it's chilly this morning." The farmer grunted a little. "He'd need to get used to starting early of a morning if he was to be any use to me," he said half-grudgingly. But even this sounded hopeful to Geoff. "Oh, I don't mind getting up early," he said quickly. "I'm not used to lying in bed late." "There's early _and_ early," said the farmer. "What I might take you on trial for would be to drive the milk-cart to and fro the station. There's four sendings in all--full and empty together. And the first time is for the up-train that passes Shalecray at half-past five." Geoff shivered a little. But it would not do to seem daunted. "I'll be punctual," he said. "And of course, between times you'd have to make yourself useful about the dairy, and the pigs--you'd have to see to the pigs, and to make yourself useful," repeated the farmer, whose power of expressing himself was limited. "Of course," agreed Geoff as heartily as he could, though, truth to tell, the idea of pigs had not hitherto presented itself to him. "Well," Farmer Eames went on, turning towards Jowett, "I dunno as I mind giving him a trial, seeing as I'm just short of a boy as it happens. And for the station work, it's well to have a sharpish lad, and a civil-spoken one. You'll have to keep a civil tongue in your head, my boy--eh?" "Certainly," said Geoff, but not without a slight touch of haughtiness. "Of course I'll be civil to every one who's civil to me." "And who isn't civil to thee, maybe, now and then," said the farmer, with a rather curious smile. "'Twon't be all walking on roses--nay, 'twon't be all walking on roses to be odd boy in a farm. But there's many a one as'd think himself uncommon lucky to get the chance, I can tell you." "Oh, and so I do," said Geoff, eagerly. "I do indeed. I think it's awfully good of you to try me; and you'll see I'm not afraid of work." "And what about his character?" said the farmer, speaking again to Jowett. "Can you answer for his honesty?--that's the principal thing." Geoff's cheeks flamed, and he was starting forward indignantly, when a word or two whispered, sternly almost, in his ear by Jowett, forced him to be quiet. "Don't be an idiot! do you want to spoil all your chances?" he said. And something in the tone again struck Geoff with surprise. He could scarcely believe it was the simple young countryman who was speaking. "I don't think you need be uneasy on that score," he said. "You see it's all come about in a rather--uncommon sort of way." "I should rather think so," said the farmer, shrugging his shoulders, but smiling too. "And," pursued Jowett, "you'll have to stretch a point or two. Of course he'll want very little in the way of wages to begin." "Half-a-crown a week and his victuals," replied the farmer, promptly. "And he must bind himself for three months certain--I'm not going to be thrown out of a boy at the orkardest time of the year for getting 'em into sharp ways. And I can't have no asking for holidays for three months, either." Jowett looked at Geoff. "Very well," said Geoff. "And you must go to church reg'lar," added the farmer. "You can manage it well enough, and Sunday school, too, if you're sharp--there's only twice to the station on Sundays." "On Sundays, too?" repeated Geoff. Sundays at worst had been a day of no work at home. "To be sure," said Eames, sharply. "Beasts can't do for themselves on Sundays no more than any other day. And Londoners can't drink sour milk on Sundays neither." "No," said Geoff, meekly enough. "Of course I'm used to church," he added, "but I think I'm rather too old for the Sunday school." "I'll leave that to the parson," said the farmer. "Well, now then, we may as well see if dinner's not ready. It's quite time, and you'll be getting hungry, Mr. Jowett," he added, with a slight hesitation. "Why not call me Ned? You're very high in your manners to-day, Eames," said the other, with a sort of wink. Then they both laughed and walked on, leaving Geoff to follow. Nothing was said about _his_ being hungry. "Perhaps _I_ shall be expected to dine with the pigs," he thought. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. PIGS, ETC. It was not quite so bad as that, however. Farmer Eames turned in at the farmyard gate and led the two strangers into a good-sized kitchen, where the table was already set, in a homely fashion, for dinner. A stout, middle-aged woman, with a rather sharp face, turned from the fire, where she was superintending some cooking. "Here we are again, wife," said Eames. "Glad to see dinner's ready. Take a chair, Mr. Ned. You'll have a glass of beer to begin with?" and as he poured it out, "This here's the new boy, missis--I've settled to give him a trial." Mrs. Eames murmured something, which Geoff supposed must have been intended as a kind of welcome. She was just then lifting a large pan of potatoes off the fire, and as she turned her face to the light, Geoff noticed that it was very red--redder than a moment before. He could almost have fancied the farmer's wife was shy. "Shall I help you?" he exclaimed, darting forward to take hold of the pan. Eames burst out laughing. "That's a good joke," he said. "He knows which side his bread's buttered on, does this 'ere young fellow." Geoff grew scarlet, and some angry rejoinder was on his lips, when Jowett, who to his great indignation was laughing too, clapped him on the shoulder. "Come, my boy, there's naught to fly up about. Eames must have his joke." "I see naught to laugh at," said Mrs. Eames, who had by this time shaken the potatoes into a large dish that stood ready to receive them; "the lad meant it civil enough." "You're not to spoil him now, wife," said her husband. "It's no counter-jumpers' ways we want hereabouts. Sit thee down, Ned; and Jim, there, you can draw the bench by the door a bit nearer the dresser, and I'll give you some dinner by-and-by." Geoff, his heart swelling, did as he was bid. He sat quietly enough, glad of the rest and the warmth, till Mr. and Mrs. Eames and their guest were all helped, and had allayed the first sharp edge of their appetites. But from time to time the farmer's wife glanced at Geoff uneasily, and once, he felt sure, he saw her nudge her husband. "She means to be kind," thought the boy. And her kindness apparently had some effect. The farmer looked round, after a deep draught of beer, and pushed his tankard aside. "Will you have a sup, Jim?" he said good-naturedly. "I can't promise it you every day; but for once in a way." [Illustration: HE SAT QUIETLY ENOUGH.] "No, thank you," Geoff replied. "I never take beer; moth----" but he stopped suddenly. "As you like," said the farmer; "but though you're not thirsty, I dare say you're hungry." He cut off a slice of the cold meat before him, and put it on a plate with some potatoes, and a bit of dripping from a dish on the table. The slice of meat was small in proportion to the helping of potatoes; but Geoff was faint with hunger. He took the plate, with the steel-pronged fork and coarse black-handled knife, and sat down again by the dresser to eat. But, hungry though he was, he could not manage it all. Half-way through, a sort of miserable choky feeling came over him: he thought of his meals at home--the nice white tablecloth, the sparkling glass and silver, the fine china--and all seemed to grow misty before his eyes for a minute or two; he almost felt as if he were going to faint, and the voices at the table sounded as if they came from the other side of the Atlantic. He drank some water--for on his refusing beer, Mrs. Eames had handed him a little horn mug filled with water; _it_ was as fresh and sweet as any he had ever tasted, and he tried at the same time to swallow down his feelings. And by the time that the farmer stood up to say grace, he felt pretty right again. "And what are you going to be about, Eames?" said Jowett. "I'll walk round the place with you, if you like. I must take the four train up again." "All right," the farmer replied; "Jim can take you to the station when he goes to fetch the cans. You'll see that he doesn't come to grief on the way. Do 'ee know how to drive a bit?" "Oh yes," replied Geoff, eagerly. "I drove a good deal last summer at--in the country. And I know I was very fond of it." "Well," said the farmer, drily, "you'll have enough of it here. But the pony's old; you mustn't drive him too fast. Now, I'll tell one of the men to show you the yard, and the pig-sties, and the missis'll show you where she keeps the swill-tub. It'll want emptying--eh, wife?" "It do that," she replied. "But he must change his clothes afore he gets to that dirty work. Those are your best ones, ain't they?" Geoff looked down at his suit. It was not his best, for he had left his Eton jackets and trousers behind him. The clothes he had on were a rough tweed suit he had had for the country; he had thought them very far from best. But now it struck him that they did look a great deal too good for feeding the pigs in. "I've got an older pair of trousers in my bag," he said; "but this is my oldest jacket." "He should have a rougher one," said Mrs. Eames. "I'll look out; maybe there's an old coat of George's as'd make down." "All right," said Eames. "But you've no need of a coat at all to feed the pigs in. Whoever heard o' such a thing?" Just then a voice was heard at the door. "I'm here, master," it said, "fur the new boy." "All right," said Eames; and, followed by Geoff, in his shirt-sleeves by this time, he led the way to the farmyard. It was interesting, if only it had not been so cold. Matthew, the man, was not very communicative certainly, and it seemed to the new boy that he eyed him with some disfavour. Eames himself just gave a few short directions, and then went off with Jowett. "Them's the stables," said Matthew, jerking his thumb towards a row of old buildings, "and them's the cow-houses," with a jerk the other way. "Old pony's with master's mare, as he drives hisself. I've nought to say to pony; it's your business. And I'll want a hand with cart-horses and plough-horses. Young folks has no call to be idle." "I don't mean to be idle," said Geoff; "but if Mr. Eames doesn't find fault with me, _you_'ve no call to do so either." He spoke more valiantly than he felt, perhaps, for Matthew's stolid face and small, twinkling eyes were not pleasant. He muttered something, and then went grumbling across the yard towards a wall, from behind which emanated an odour which required no explanation. "Them's pigs," said he. Matthew had a curious trick of curtailing his phrases as his temper waxed sourer. Articles, prepositions, and auxiliary verbs disappeared, till at last his language became a sort of spoken hieroglyphics. Geoff looked over the pig-sty wall. Grunt, grumph, snort--out they all tumbled, one on the top of the other, making for the trough. Poor things! it was still empty. Geoff could hardly help laughing, and yet he felt rather sorry for them. "I'll go and fetch their dinner," he said. "I don't mind pigs; but they are awfully dirty." "Ax the missus for soap to wash 'em," said Matthew, with a grin. He hadn't yet made up his mind if the new boy was sharp or not. "No," said Geoff, "I'll not do that till the first of April; but I'll tell you what, Matthew, I'll not keep them as dirty as they are. And _I_ should say that the chap that's been looking after them is a very idle fellow." Matthew scowled. "Pigs don't _need_ to be so dirty," Geoff went on. "I know at Cole----" But he stopped abruptly. He was certainly not going to take Matthew into his confidence. He asked to be shown the pony--poor old pony! it didn't look as if it would be over "sperrity"--and then he went back to the house to fetch the pigs' dinner. Very hot, instead of cold, he was by the time he had carried across pail after pail of Mrs. Eames's "swill," and emptied it into the barrel which stood by the sty. It wasn't savoury work, either, and the farmer's wife made a kind of excuse for there being so much of it. "Matthew were that idle," and they'd been a hand short the last week or two. But Geoff wasn't going to give in; there was a sort of enjoyment in it when it came to the actual feeding of the pigs, and for their digestion's sake, it was well that the farmer's wife warned him that there _might_ be such a thing as over-feeding, even of pigs. He would have spent the best part of the afternoon in filling the trough and watching them squabble over it. He was tired and hot, and decidedly dirtier-looking than could have been expected, when Eames and Jowett came back from the fields. "Time to get the pony to!" shouted the farmer. Geoff turned off to the stable. He wanted to manage the harnessing alone; but, simple as it was, he found it harder than it looked, and he would have been forced to apply to Matthew, had not Jowett strolled into the stable. He felt sorry for the boy, sorrier than he thought it well to show, when he saw his flushed face and trembling hands, and in a trice he had disentangled the mysteries of buckles and straps, and got all ready. "Been working hard?" he said good-naturedly. "Seems a bit strange at first." "I don't mind the work; but--it does all seem very rough," said Geoff. There was a slight quiver in his voice, but Jowett said no more till they were jogging along on their way to the station. Geoff's spirits had got up a little again by this time. He liked to feel the reins between his fingers, even though the vehicle was only a milk-cart, and the steed a sadly broken-winded old gray pony; and he was rather proud at having managed to steer safely through the yard gate, as to which, to tell the truth, he had felt a little nervous. "Is there anything I can do for you on my way through town?" asked Jowett. "I'll be in your part of the world to-night." "Are you going to sleep at the livery stables?" asked Geoff. Jowett nodded. "I wish----" began the boy. "If I'd thought of it, I'd have written a letter for you to post in London. But there's no time now." Jowett looked at his watch--a very good silver watch it was--"I don't know that," he said. "I can get you a piece of paper and an envelope at the station, and I'll see that your letter gets to--wherever it is, at once." "Thank you," said Geoff. "And Jowett"--he hesitated. "You've been very good to me--would you mind one thing more? There's some one I would like to hear from sometimes, but I don't want to give my address. Could I tell them--her--it's my sister--to write to your place, and you to send it to me?" "To be sure," said Jowett. "But I won't give my address in the country. You just say to send on the letter to the care of 'MR. ABEL SMITH, LIVERY STABLES, MOWBRAY PLACE MEWS,' and I'll see it comes straight to you. You won't want to give your name maybe? Just put 'Mr. James, care of Abel Smith.'" "Thank you," said Geoff, with a sigh of relief. "You see," he went on, half apologetically, "there's some one ill at home, and I'd like to know how--how they are." "To be sure," said Jowett again; "it's only natural. And however bad one's been treated by one's people--and it's easy to see they must have treated you _on_common badly to make a young gent like you have to leave his home and come down to work for his living like a poor boy, though I respects you for it all the more--still own folks is own folks." He cast a shrewd glance at Geoff, as he spoke. The boy could not help colouring. Had he been treated so "oncommon badly"? Was his determination to run away and be independent of Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's assistance a real manly resolution, or not rather a fit of ill-tempered boyish spite? Would he not have been acting with far more true independence by accepting gratefully the education which would have fitted him for an honourable career in his own rank? for Mr. Byrne, as he knew well by his mother's trust in the old gentleman, was not one to have thrown him aside had he been worthy of assistance. "But anyway, it's done now," thought the boy, choking down the feelings which began to assert themselves. At the station, Jowett was as good as his word. He got the paper and a pencil, and Geoff wrote a short note to Vicky, just to tell her he was "all right," and enclosing the address to which she was to write. And Jowett undertook that she should have it that same evening. Had the boy been less preoccupied he could not but have been struck by the curious inconsistencies in the young countryman, who, when he had first met him that morning, had seemed scarcely able to find his way to the station, and yet, when occasion arose, had shown himself as sharp and capable as any Londoner. But as it was, when the train had whizzed off again, he only felt as if his last friend had deserted him. And it was a very subdued and home-sick Geoffrey who, in the chilly, misty autumn evening, drove the old pony through the muddy lanes to the farm, the empty milk-cans rattling in the cart behind him, and the tears slowly coursing down his cheeks now there was no one to see them. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER X. POOR GEOFF! He drove into the yard, where Matthew's disagreeable face and voice soon greeted him. Half forgetting himself, Geoff threw the reins on to the pony's neck and jumped out of the cart, with his carpet-bag. He was making his way into the house, feeling as if even the old bag was a kind of comfort in its way, when the farm-man called him back. "Dost think I's to groom pony?" he said ill-naturedly. "May stand till doomsday afore I'll touch him." [Illustration: MATTHEW, THE MAN.] Geoff turned back. Of course, he ought to have remembered it was his work, and if Matthew had spoken civilly he would even have thanked him for the reminder--more gratefully, I dare say, than he had often thanked Elsa or Frances for a hint of some forgotten duty. But, as it was, it took some self-control not to "fly out," and to set to work, tired as he was, to groom the pony and put him up for the night. It was all so strange and new too; at Colethorne's he had watched the stablemen at their work, and thought it looked easy and amusing, but when it came to doing it, it seemed a very different thing, especially in the dusk, chilly evening, and feeling as he did both tired and hungry. He did his best, however, and the old pony was very patient, poor beast, and Geoff's natural love of animals stood him in good stead; he could never have relieved his own depression by ill temper to any dumb creature. And at last old Dapple was made as comfortable as Geoff knew how, for Matthew took care to keep out of the way, and to offer no help or advice, and the boy turned towards the house, carpet-bag in hand. The fire was blazing brightly in the kitchen, and in front of it sat the farmer, smoking a long clay pipe, which to Geoff smelt very nasty. He coughed, to attract Mr. Eames's attention. "I've brought my bag from the station," he said. "Will you tell me where I'm to sleep?" The farmer looked up sharply. "You've brought the milk-cans back, too, I suppose? Your bag's not the principal thing. Have you seen to Dapple?" "Yes," said Geoff, and his tone was somewhat sulky. Eames looked at him again, and still more sharply. "I told you at the first you were to keep a civil tongue in your head," he said. "You'll say 'sir' when you speak to me." But just then Mrs. Eames fortunately made her appearance. "Don't scold him--he's only a bit strange," she said. "Come with me, Jim, and I'll show you your room." "Thank you," said the boy, gratefully. Mrs. Eames glanced at her husband, as much as to say she was wiser than he, and then led the way out of the kitchen down a short, flagged passage, and up a short stair. Then she opened a door, and, by the candle she held, Geoff saw a very small, very bare room. There was a narrow bed in one corner, a chair, a window-shelf, on which stood a basin, and a cupboard in the wall. Mrs. Eames looked round. "It's been well cleaned out since last boy went," she said. "Master and me'll look in now and then to see that you keep it clean. Cupboard's handy, and there's a good flock mattress." Then she gave him the light, and turned to go. "Please," said Geoff, meekly, "might I have a piece of bread? I'm rather hungry." It was long past his usual tea-time. "To be sure!" she replied. "You've not had your tea? I put it on the hob for you." And the good woman bustled off again. Geoff followed her, after depositing his bag in the cupboard. She poured out the tea into a bowl, and ladled in a good spoonful of brown sugar. Then she cut a hunch off a great loaf, and put it beside the bowl on the dresser. Geoff was so hungry and thirsty, that he attacked both tea and bread, though the former was coarse in flavour, and the latter butterless. But it was not the quality of the food that brought back again that dreadful choking in his throat, and made the salt tears drop into the bowl of tea. It was the thought of tea-time at home--the neat table, and Vicky's dear, important-looking little face, as she filled his cup, and put in the exact amount of sugar he liked--that came over him suddenly with a sort of rush. He felt as if he could not bear it. He swallowed down the tea with a gulp, and rammed the bread into his pocket. Then, doing his utmost to look unconcerned, he went up to the farmer. "Shall I go to bed now, please, sir?" he said, with a little hesitation at the last word. "I'm--I'm rather tired." "Go to bed?" repeated Eames. "Yes, I suppose so. You must turn out early--the milk must be at the station by half-past five." "How shall I wake?" asked Geoff, timidly. "Wake? You'll have to learn to wake like others do. However, for the first, I'll tell Matthew to knock you up." "Thank you. Good-night, sir." "Good-night." And the farmer turned again to the newspaper he was reading. "You'll find your bed well aired. I made Betsy see to that," called out Mrs. Eames. "Thank you," said Geoff again, more heartily this time. But he overheard Eames grumbling at his wife as he left the room, telling her "he'd have none of that there coddling of the lad." "And you'd have him laid up with rheumatics--dying of a chill? That'd be a nice finish up to it all. You know quite well----" But Geoff heard no more. And he was too worn-out and sleepy to think much of what he had heard. He got out what he required for the night. He wondered shiveringly how it would be possible to wash with only a basin. Water he was evidently expected to fetch for himself. He tried to say his prayers, but fell asleep, the tears running down his face, in the middle, and woke up with a sob, and at last managed somehow to tumble into bed. It was very cold, but, as Mrs. Eames had said, quite dry. The chilly feeling woke him again, and he tried once more to say his prayers, and this time with better success. He was able to add a special petition that "mother" might soon be well again, and that dear Vicky might be happy. And then he fell asleep--so soundly, so heavily, that when a drumming at the door made itself heard, he fancied he had only just begun the night. He sat up. Where was he? At first, in the darkness, he thought he was in his own bed at home, and he wondered who was knocking so roughly--wondered still more at the rude voice which was shouting out-- "Up with you there, Jim, d'ye hear? I'm not a-going to stand here all day. It's past half-past four. Jim--you lazy lout. I'll call master if you don't speak--a-locking of his door like a fine gentleman!" Gradually Geoff remembered all--the feeling of the things about him--the coarse bed-clothes, the slightly mildewy smell of the pillow, helped to recall him to the present, even before he could see. [Illustration: KNOCKING SO ROUGHLY.] "I'm coming, Matthew!" he shouted back. "I'll be ready in five minutes;" and out of bed he crept, sleepy and confused, into the chilly air of the little room. He had no matches, but there was a short curtain before the window, and when he pulled it back the moonlight came faintly in--enough for him to distinguish the few objects in the room. He dared not attempt to wash, he was so afraid of being late. He managed to get out his oldest pair of trousers, and hurried on his clothes as fast as he could, feeling miserably dirty and slovenly, and thinking to himself he would never again be hard on poor people for not being clean! "I must try to wash when I come back," he said to himself. Then he hurried out, and none too soon. [Illustration: GEOFF AT THE STATION.] Matthew was in the yard, delighted to frighten him. "You'll have to look sharp," he said, as Geoff hurried to the stable. "Betsy's filling the cans, and rare and cross she is at having to do it. You should have been there to help her, and the missis'll be out in a minute." The harnessing of Dapple was not easy in the faint light, and he could not find the stable lantern. But it got done at last, and Geoff led the cart round to the dairy door, where Betsy was filling the last of the cans. She was not so cross as she might have been, and Mrs. Eames had not yet appeared. They got the cans into the cart, and in a minute or two Geoff found himself jogging along the road, already becoming familiar, to the station. It seemed to grow darker instead of lighter, for the moon had gone behind a cloud, and sunrise was still a good time off. Geoff wondered dreamily to himself why people need get up so early in the country, and then remembered that it would take two or three hours for the cans to get to London. How little he or Vicky had thought, when they drank at breakfast the nice milk which Mrs. Tudor had always taken care to have of the best, of the labour and trouble involved in getting it there in time! And though he had hurried so, he was only just at the station when the train whizzed in, and the one sleepy porter growled at him for not having "looked sharper," and banged the milk-cans about unnecessarily in his temper, so that Geoff was really afraid they would break or burst open, and all the milk come pouring out. "You'll have to be here in better time for the twelve train," he said crossly. "I'm not a-going to do this sort o' work for you nor no chap, if you can't be here in time." Geoff did not answer--he was getting used to sharp words and tones. He nearly fell asleep in the cart as he jogged home again, and to add to his discomfort a fine, small, chill, November rain began to fall. He buttoned up his jacket, and wished he had put on his overcoat; and then he laughed rather bitterly to think how absurd he would look with this same overcoat, which had been new only a month before, driving old Dapple in the milk-cart. He was wet and chilled to the bone when he reached the farm, and even if he had energy to drive a little faster he would not have dared to do so, after the farmer's warning. Mrs. Eames was in the kitchen when, after putting up the cart and pony, Geoff came in. There was a delicious fragrance of coffee about which made his mouth water, but he did not even venture to go near the fire. Mrs. Eames heard him, however, and looked up. She started a little at the sight of his pale, wan face. "Bless me, boy!" she exclaimed, "but you do look bad. Whatever's the matter?" Geoff smiled a little--he looked very nice when he smiled; it was only when he was in one of his ill-tempered moods that there was anything unlovable in his face--and his smile made Mrs. Eames still more sorry for him. "There's nothing the matter, thank you," he said; "I'm only rather cold--and wet. I'm strange to it all, I suppose. I wanted to know what I should do next. Should I feed the pigs?" "Have you met the master?" said the farmer's wife. "He's gone down the fields with Matthew and the others. Didn't you meet 'em?" Geoff shook his head. "No; I went straight to the stable when I came back from the station." "You'd better take off your wet jacket," she said. "There--hang it before the fire. And," she went on, "there's a cup of coffee still hot, you can have for your breakfast this morning as you're so cold--it'll warm you better nor stir-about; and there's a scrap o' master's bacon you can eat with your bread." She poured out the coffee, steaming hot, and forked out the bacon from the frying-pan as she spoke, and set all on the corner of the dresser nearest to the fire. "Thank you, thank you awfully," said Geoff. Oh, how good the coffee smelt! He had never enjoyed a meal so much, and yet, had it been at home, _how_ he would have grumbled! Coffee in a bowl, with brown sugar--bread cut as thick as your fist, and no butter! Truly Geoff was already beginning to taste some of the sweet uses of adversity. Breakfast over, came the pigs. The farmer had left word that the sty was to be cleaned out, and fresh straw fetched for the pigs' beds; and as Betsy was much more good-natured than Matthew in showing the new boy what was expected of him, he got on pretty well, even feeling a certain pride in the improved aspect of the pig-sty when he had finished. He would have dearly liked to try a scrubbing of the piggies themselves, if he had not been afraid of Matthew's mocking him. But besides this there was not time. At eleven the second lot of milk had to be carted to the station, and with the remembrance of the cross porter Geoff dared not be late. And in the still falling rain he set off again, though, thanks to Mrs. Eames, with a dry jacket, and, thanks to her too, with a horse-rug buckled round him, in which guise surely no one would have recognized Master Geoffrey Tudor. After dinner the farmer set him to cleaning out the stables, which it appeared was to be a part of his regular work; then there were the pigs to feed again, and at four o'clock the milk-cans to fetch. Oh, how tired Geoff was getting of the lane to the station! And the day did not come to an end without his getting into terrible disgrace for not having rinsed out the cans with boiling water the night before, though nobody had told him to do it. For a message had come from London that the cans were dirty and the milk in danger of turning sour, and that if it happened again Farmer Eames would have to send his milk elsewhere. It was natural perhaps that he should be angry, and yet, as no one had explained about it to Geoff, it seemed rather hard for him to have to take the scolding. _Very_ hard indeed it seemed to him--to proud Geoff, who had never yet taken in good part his mother's mildest reprimands. And big boy though he was, he sobbed himself to sleep this second night of his new life, for it did seem too much, that when he had been trying his very best to please, and was aching in every limb from his unwonted hard work, he should get nothing but scolding. And yet he knew that he was lucky to have fallen into such hands as Farmer Eames's, for, strict as he was, he was a fair and reasonable master. "I suppose," thought Geoff, "I have never really known what hardships were, though I did think I had plenty to bear at home." What would Elsa have said had she heard him? [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. "HOOT-TOOT" BEHIND THE HEDGE. That first day at the farm was a pretty fair specimen of those that followed. The days grew into weeks and the weeks into one month, and then into two, and Geoff went on with his self-chosen hard and lonely life. The loneliness soon came to be the worst of it. He got used to the hardships so far, and after all they were not very terrible ones. He was better taken care of than he knew, and he was a strong and healthy lad. Had he felt that he was working for others, had he been cheered by loving and encouraging letters, he could have borne it all contentedly. But no letters came, no answer to his note to Vicky begging her to write; and Geoff's proud heart grew prouder and, he tried to think, harder. "They would let me know, somehow, I suppose, if there was anything much the matter--if--mamma had not got much better yet." For even to himself he would not allow the possibility of anything worse than her not being "much better." And yet she had looked very ill that last evening. He thought of it sometimes in the middle of the night, and started up in a sort of agony of fright, feeling as if at all costs he must set off there and then to see her--to know how she was. Often he did not fall asleep again for hours, and then he would keep sobbing and crying out from time to time, "Oh, mamma, mamma!" But there was no one to hear. And with the morning all the proud, bitter feelings would come back again. "They don't care for me. They are thankful to be rid of me;" and he would picture his future life to himself, friendless and homeless, as if he never had had either friends or home. Sometimes he planned that when he grew older he would emigrate, and in a few years, after having made a great fortune, he would come home again, a millionaire, and shower down coals of fire in the shape of every sort of luxury upon the heads of his unnatural family. But these plans did not cheer him as they would have done some months ago. His experiences had already made him more practical--he knew that fortunes were not made nowadays in the Dick Whittington way--he was learning to understand that not only are there but twenty shillings in a pound, but, which concerned him more closely, that there are but twelve pence in a shilling, and only thirty in half-a-crown! He saw with dismay the increasing holes in his boots, and bargained hard with the village cobbler to make him cheap a rough, strong pair, which he would never have dreamt of looking at in the old days; he thanked Mrs. Eames more humbly for the well-worn corduroy jacket she made down for him than he had ever thanked his mother for the nice clothes which it had _not_ always been easy for her to procure for him. Yes, Geoff was certainly learning some lessons. [Illustration: SOBBING AND CRYING.] Sundays were in one way the worst, for though he had less to do, he had more time for thinking. He went twice to church, where he managed to sit in a corner out of sight, so that if the tears did sometimes come into his eyes at some familiar hymn or verse, no one could see. And no more was said about the Sunday school, greatly to his relief, for he knew the clergyman would have cross-questioned him. On Sunday afternoons he used to saunter about the park and grounds of Crickwood Bolders. He liked it, and yet it made him melancholy. The house was shut up, but it was easy to see it was a dear old place--just the sort of "home" of Geoff's wildest dreams. "If we were all living there together, now," he used to say to himself--"mamma quite well and not worried about money--Elsa and Frances would be so happy, we'd never squabble, and Vicky----" But at the idea of _Vicky's_ happiness, words failed him. It was, it must be allowed, a come-down from such beautiful fancies, to have to hurry back to the farm to harness old Dapple and jog off to the station with the milk. For even on Sundays people can't do without eating and drinking. [Illustration: GEOFF STOOD STILL IN AMAZEMENT.] One Sunday a queer thing happened. He was just turning home, and passing the lodge at the principal entrance to the Hall, as it was called, when behind the thick evergreen hedge at one side of the little garden he heard voices. They were speaking too low for him to distinguish the words; but one voice sounded to him very like Eames's. It might be so, for the farmer and the lodge-keeper were friends. And Geoff would have walked on without thinking anything of it, had not a sudden exclamation caught his ear--"Hoot-toot, hoot-toot! I tell you----" But instantly the voice dropped. It sounded as if some one had held up a warning finger. Geoff stood still in amazement. _Could_ Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot be there? It seemed too impossible. But the boy's heart beat fast with a vague feeling of expectation and apprehension mixed together. "If he has come here accidentally, he must not see me," he said to himself; and he hurried down the road as fast as he could, determined to hasten to the station and back before the old gentleman, if it were he, could get there. But to his surprise, on entering the farm-yard, the first person to meet him was Mr. Eames himself. "What's the matter, my lad?" he said good humouredly. "Thou'st staring as if I were a ghost." "I thought--I thought," stammered Geoff, "that I saw--no, heard your voice just now at the lodge." Eames laughed. "But I couldn't be in two places at once, could I? Well, get off with you to the station." All was as usual of a Sunday there. No one about, no passengers by the up-train--only the milk-cans; and Geoff, as he drove slowly home again, almost persuaded himself that the familiar "Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" must have been altogether his own fancy. But had he been at the little railway-station again an hour or two later, he would have had reason to change his opinion. A passenger did start from Shalecray by the last train for town; and when this same passenger got out at Victoria, he hailed a hansom, and was driven quickly westward. And when he arrived at his destination, and rang the bell, almost before the servant had had time to open the door, a little figure pressed eagerly forward, and a soft, clear voice exclaimed-- "Oh, dear uncle, is that you at last? I've been watching for you such a long time. Oh, do--do tell me about Geoff! Did you see him? And oh, dear uncle, is he very unhappy?" "Come upstairs, my pet," said the old man, "and you shall hear all I can tell." The three awaiting him in the drawing-room were nearly as eager as the child. The mother's face grew pale with anxiety, the sisters' eyes sparkled with eagerness. "Did you find him easily, uncle? Was it where you thought?" asked Vicky. "Yes, yes; I had no difficulty. I saw him, Vicky, but without his seeing me. He has grown, and perhaps he is a little thinner, but he is quite well. And I had an excellent account of him from the farmer. He is working steadily, and bearing manfully what, to a boy like him, cannot but be privations and hardships. But I am afraid he is very unhappy--his face had a set sad look in it that I do not like to see on one so young. I fear he never got your letters, Vicky. There must have been some mistake about the address. I didn't want to push the thing too far. You must write again, my little girl--say all you can to soften him. What I want is that it should come from _his_ side. He will respect himself all his life for overcoming his pride, and asking to be forgiven, only we must try to make it easy for him, poor fellow! Now go to bed, Vicky, child, and think over what you will write to him to-morrow. I want to talk it all over with your mother. Don't be unhappy about poor old Geoff, my dear." Obedient Vicky jumped up at once to go to bed. She tried to whisper "Good night" as she went the round of the others to kiss them, but the words would not come, and her pretty blue eyes were full of tears. Still, Vicky's thoughts and dreams were far happier that night than for a long time past. As soon as she had closed the door after her, the old gentleman turned to the others. "She doesn't know any more than we agreed upon?" he asked. "No," said Elsa; "she only knows that you got his exact address from the same person who has told you about him from time to time. She has no idea that the whole thing was planned and arranged by you from the first, when you found he was set upon leaving home." Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot nodded his head. "That is all right. Years hence, when he has grown up into a good and sensible man, we may, or if I am no longer here, _you_ may tell him all about it, my dears. But just now it would mortify him, and prevent the lesson from doing him the good we hope for. I should not at all like him to know I had employed detectives. He would be angry at having been taken in. That Jowett is a very decent fellow, and did his part well; but he has mismanaged the letters somehow. I must see him about that. What was the address Geoff gave in his note to Vicky? Are you sure she put it right?" "Oh yes," said Frances; "I saw it both times. It was-- 'TO MR. JAMES, CARE OF MR. ADAM SMITH, MURRAY PLACE MEWS.'" "Hoot-toot!" said Mr. Byrne. He could not make it out. But we, who know in what a hurry Geoff wrote his note at the railway-station while Jowett was waiting to take it, can quite well understand why Vicky's letters had never reached him. For the address he _should_ have given was-- "ABEL SMITH, _Mowbray_ PLACE MEWS." "This time," Mr. Byrne went on, "I'll see that the letter is sent to him direct. Jowett must manage it. Let Vicky address as before, and I'll see that it reaches him." "What do you think she should write?" said Mrs. Tudor, anxiously. "What she feels. It does not much matter. But let her make him understand that his home is open to him as ever--that he is neither forgotten nor thought of harshly. If I mistake not, from what I saw and what Eames told me, he will be so happy to find it is so, that all the better side of his character will come out. And he will say more to himself than any of us would ever wish to say to him." "But, uncle dear," said Elsa, "if it turns out as you hope, and poor Geoff comes home again and is all you and mamma wish--and--if _all_ your delightful plans are realized, won't Geoff find out everything you don't want him to know at present? Indeed, aren't you afraid he may have heard already that you are the new squire there?" "No," said Mr. Byrne. "Eames is a very cautious fellow; and from having known me long ago, or rather from his father having known me (it was I that got my cousin to give him the farm some years ago, as I told you), I found it easy to make him understand all I wished. Crickwood Bolders has stood empty so long, that the people about don't take much interest in it. They only know vaguely that it has changed hands lately, and Eames says I am spoken of as the new Mr. Bolders, and not by my own name." "I see," said Elsa. "And," continued Mr. Byrne, "of course Geoff will take it for granted that it was by the coincidence of his getting taken on at my place that we found him out. It _was_ a coincidence that he should have taken it into his head to go down to that part of the country, through its being on the way to Colethorne's." "And you say that he is really working hard, and--and making the best of things?" asked Mrs. Tudor. She smiled a little as she said it. Geoff's "making the best of things" was such a _very_ new idea. "Yes," replied Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot. "Eames gives him the best of characters. He says the boy is thoroughly to be depended upon, and that his work is well done, even to cleaning the pigs; and, best of all, he is never heard to grumble." "Fancy Geoff cleaning the pigs!" exclaimed Elsa. "I don't know that I find _that_ so difficult to fancy," said Frances. "I think Geoff has a real love for animals of all kinds, and for all country things. We would have sympathized with him about it if it hadn't been for his grumbling, which made all his likes and dislikes seem unreal. I think what I pity him the most for is the having to get up so dreadfully early these cold winter mornings. What time did you say he had to get up, uncle?" [Illustration: VICKY WRITING THE LETTER.] "He has to be at the station with the milk before five every morning," said the old gentleman, grimly. "Eames says his good woman is inclined to 'coddle him a bit'--she can't forget who he really is, it appears. I was glad to hear it; I don't want the poor boy actually to suffer--and I don't want it to go on much longer. I confess I don't see that there can be much 'coddling' if he has to be up and out before five o'clock in the morning at this time of the year." "No, indeed," said the girls. "And he must be _so_ lonely." "Yes, poor fellow!" said the old gentleman, with a sigh, "I saw that in his face. And I was _glad_ to see it. It shows the lesson is not a merely surface one. You've had your wish for him to some extent, Elsa, my dear. He has at last known some hardships." Elsa's eyes filled with tears, though Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot had had no thought of hurting her. "Don't say that, please," she entreated. "I think--I am sure--I only wanted him to learn how foolish he was, for his own sake more than for any one's else even." "I know, I know," the old gentleman agreed. "But I think he has had about enough of it. See that Vicky writes that letter first thing to-morrow." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XII. A LETTER AT LAST. Christmas had come and gone. It brought Geoff's home-sick loneliness to a point that was almost unbearable. He had looked forward vaguely to the twenty-fifth of December with the sort of hope that it would bring him some message, some remembrance, if it were but a Christmas card. And for two or three days he managed to waylay the postman every morning as he passed the farm, and to inquire timidly if there were no letter--was he _sure_ there was no letter for James Jeffreys? But the postman only shook his head. He had "never had no letter for that name, neither with nor without 'care of Mr. Eames,'" as Geoff went on to suggest that if the farmer's name had been omitted the letter might have been overlooked. And when not only Christmas, but New Year's Day too was past and gone, the boy lost hope. "It is too bad," he sobbed to himself, late at night, alone in his bare little room. "I think they might think a _little_ of me. They might be sorry for me, even--even if I did worry them all when I was at home. They might guess how lonely I am. It isn't the hard work. If it was for mother I was working, and if I knew they were all pleased with me, I wouldn't mind it. But I can't bear to go on like this." Yet he could not make up his mind to write home again, for as things were it would be like begging for Mr. Byrne's charity. And every feeling of independence and manliness in Geoff rose against accepting benefits from one whose advice he had scouted and set at defiance. Still, he was sensible enough to see that he could not go on with his present life for long. "Work on a farm" had turned out very different from his vague ideas of it. He could not, for years to come, hope to earn more than the barest pittance, and he felt that if he were always to remain the companion of the sort of people he was now among, he would not care to live. And gradually another idea took shape in his mind--he would emigrate! He saw some printed papers in the village post-office, telling of government grants of land to able-bodied young men, and giving the cost of the passage out, and various details, and he calculated that in a year, by scrupulous economy, he might earn about half the sum required, for the farmer had told him that if he continued to do well he would raise his wages at the end of the first six months. "And then," thought Geoff, "I might write home and tell them it was all settled, and by selling all the things I have at home I might get the rest of the money. Or--I would not even mind taking it as a _loan_ from Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot. That would seem different; and of course I do owe him a great deal now, in a way, for he must be doing everything for mother and the girls, and if only I were a man that would be my business." And for a while, after coming to this resolution, he felt happier. His old dreams of making a great fortune and being the good genius of his family returned, and he felt more interest in learning all he could of farm-work, that might be useful to him in his new life. But these more hopeful feelings did not last long or steadily; the pain of the home-sickness and loneliness increased so terribly, that at times he felt as if he _could_ not bear it any longer. And he would probably, strong as he was, have fallen ill, had not something happened. It was about six weeks after the Sunday on which he had thought he had overheard Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's voice through the hedge. It was a Sunday again. Geoff had been at church in the morning, and after dinner he was sitting in a corner of the kitchen, feeling as if he had no energy even to go for his favourite stroll in the grounds of the Hall, when a sudden exclamation from Mrs. Eames made him look up. The farmer's wife had been putting away some of the plates and dishes that had been used at dinner, and in so doing happened to pull aside a large dish leaning on one of the shelves of the high-backed dresser. [Illustration: GEOFF READING VICKY'S LETTER.] As she did so, a letter fell forward. It was addressed in a clear, good hand to "JAMES JEFFREYS, AT MR. EAMES'S, CRICKWOOD FARM, SHALECRAY." "Bless me!" cried the good woman. "What's this a-doing here? Jem, boy, 'tis thine. When can it have come? It may have been up there a good bit." Geoff started up and dashed forward with outstretched hand. "Give it me! oh, give it me, please!" he said, in an eager, trembling voice. A look of disappointment crossed his face for a moment when he saw the writing; but he tore the envelope open, and then his eyes brightened up again. For it contained another letter, round which a slip was folded with the words, "I forward enclosed, as agreed.--Ned Jowett." And the second envelope was addressed to "Mr. James" in a round, childish hand, that Geoff knew well. It was Vicky's. He darted out of the kitchen, and into his own little room. He could not have read the letter before any one. Already the tears were welling up into his eyes. And long before he had finished reading they were running down his face and dropping on to the paper. This was what Vicky said, and the date was nearly six weeks old! "MY DARLING GEOFF, "Why haven't you written to us? I wrote you a letter the minute I got your little note with the address, and I have written to you again since then. Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot says you are sure to get this letter. I think you can't have got the others. But still you might have written. I have been so _very_ unhappy about you. Of course I was glad to hear you were getting on well, but still I have been VERY unhappy. Mamma got better very slowly. I don't think she would have got better if she hadn't heard that you were getting on well, though. She has been very unhappy, too, and so have Elsa and Frances, but poor Vicky most of all. We do so want you at home again. Geoff, I can't tell you how good old Uncle Hoot-Toot is. There is something about money I can't explain, but if you understood it all, you would see we should not be proud about his helping us, for he has done more for us always than we knew; even mamma didn't. Oh, Geoff, darling, do come home. We do all love you so, and mamma and Elsa were only troubled because you didn't seem happy, and you didn't believe that they loved you. I think it would be all different now if you came home again, and we do so want you. I keep your room so nice. I dust it myself every day. Mamma makes me have tea in the drawing-room now, and then I have a little pudding from their dinner, because, you see, one can't eat so much at ladies' afternoon tea. But I was too miserable at tea alone in the school-room. I have wrapped up our teapot, after Harvey had made it very bright, and I won't ever make tea out of it till you come home. Oh, Geoffy, darling, do come home! "Your loving, unhappy little "VICKY." The tears came faster and faster--so fast that it was with difficulty Geoff could see to read the last few lines. He hid his face in his hands and sobbed. He was only fourteen, remember, and there was no one to see. And with these sobs and tears--good honest tears that he need not have been ashamed of--there melted away all the unkind, ungrateful feelings out of his poor sore heart. He saw himself as he had really been--selfish, unreasonable, and spoilt. "Yes," he said to himself, "that was all I _really_ had to complain of. They considered me too much--they spoilt me. But, oh, I would be so different now! Only--I can't go home and say to Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot, 'I've had enough of working for myself; you may pay for me now.' It would seem _too_ mean. No, I must keep to my plan--it's too late to change. But I think I might go home to see them all, and ask them to forgive me. In three weeks I shall have been here three months, and then I may ask for a holiday. I'll write to Vicky now at once, and tell her so--I can post the letter when I go to the station. They must have thought me _so_ horrid for not having written before. I wonder how it was I never got the other letters? But it doesn't matter now I've got this one. Oh, dear Vicky, I think I shall nearly go out of my mind with joy to see your little face again!" He had provided himself, luckily, with some letter-paper and envelopes, so there was no delay on that score. And once he had begun, he found no difficulty in writing--indeed, he could have covered pages, for he seemed to have so much to say. This was his letter:-- "Crickwood Farm, February 2. "MY DEAREST VICKY, "I have only just got your letter, though you wrote it on the 15th of January. Mrs. Eames--that's the farmer's wife--found it behind a dish on the dresser, where it has been all the time. I never got your other letters; I can't think what became of them. I've asked the postman nearly every day if there was no letter for me. Vicky, I can't tell you all I'd like to say. I thought I'd write to mamma, but I feel as if I couldn't. Will you tell her that I just _beg_ her to forgive me? Not only for leaving home without leave, like I did, but for all the way I went on and all the worry I gave her. I see it all quite plain. I've been getting to see it for a good while, and when I read your dear letter it all came out quite plain like a flash. I don't mind the hard work here, or even the messy sort of ways compared to home--I wouldn't mind anything if I thought I was doing right. But it's the loneliness. Vicky, I have thought sometimes I'd go out of my mind. Will you ask Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot to forgive me, too? I'd like to understand about all he has done for us, and I think I am much sensibler about money than I was, so perhaps he'll tell me. I can ask for a holiday in three weeks, and then I'll come home for one day. I shall have to tell you my plans, and I think mamma will think I'm right. I must work hard, and perhaps in a few years I shall earn enough to come home and have a cottage like we planned. For I've made up my mind to emigrate. I don't think I'd ever get on so well in anything as in a country life; for, though it's very hard work here, I don't mind it, and I love animals, and in the summer it won't be so bad. Please, Vicky, make everybody understand that I hope never to be a trouble and worry any more.--Your very loving "GEOFF. "P.S.--You may write here now. I don't mind you all knowing where I am." By the time Geoff had finished this, for him, long epistle, it was nearly dark. He had to hurry off to the station to be in time with the milk. He was well known now by the men about the railway, and by one or two of the guards, and he was glad to see one he knew this evening, as he begged him to post his letter in town, for it was too late for the Shalecray mail. The man was very good-natured, and promised to do as he asked. "By Tuesday," thought Geoff, "I may have a letter if Vicky writes at once. And I might write again next Sunday. So that we'd hear of each other every week." And this thought made his face look very bright and cheery as he went whistling into the kitchen, where, as usual of a Sunday evening, Eames was sitting smoking beside the fire. "The missis has told me about your letter, Jim," said the farmer. "I'm right-down sorry about it, but I don't rightly know who to blame. It's just got slipped out o' sight." "Thank you," Geoff replied. "I'm awfully glad to have it now." "He's never looked so bright since he came," said Mr. Eames to his wife when Geoff had left the room. "He's about getting tired of it, I fancy; and the squire's only too ready to forgive and forget, I take it. But he's a deal o' good stuff in him, has the boy, and so I told the squire. He's a fine spirit of his own, too." "And as civil a lad as ever I seed," added Mrs. Eames. "No nonsense and no airs. One can tell as he's a real gentleman. All the same, I'll be uncommon glad when he's with his own folk again; no one'd believe the weight it's been on my mind to see as he didn't fall ill with us. And you always a-telling me as squire said he wasn't to be coddled and cosseted. Yet you'd have been none so pleased if he'd got a chill and the rheumatics or worse, as might have been if I hadn't myself seen to his bed and his sheets and his blankets, till the weight of them on my mind's been almost more nor I could bear." "Well, well," said the farmer, soothingly, "all's well as ends well. And you said yourself it'd never 'a' done for us to refuse the squire any mortal service he could have asked of us." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII. THE NEW SQUIRE AND HIS FAMILY. Tuesday brought no letter for Geoff--nor Wednesday, nor even Thursday. His spirits went down again, and he felt bitterly disappointed. Could his friend, the guard, have forgotten to post the letter, after all? he asked himself. This thought kept him up till Thursday evening, when, happening to see the same man at the station, the guard's first words were, "Got any answer to your love-letter yet, eh, Jim? I posted it straight away," and then Geoff did not know what to think. He did not like to write again. He began to fear that Vicky had been mistaken in feeling so sure that his mother and Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot and Elsa and Frances were all ready to forgive him, and longing for his return. Perhaps they were all still too indignant with him to allow Vicky to write, and he sighed deeply at the thought. "I will wait till I can ask for a holiday," he said to himself, "and then I will write and say I am coming, and if they won't see me I must just bear it. At least, I am sure mother will see me when the time comes for me to go to America, though it will be dreadful to have to wait till then." When he got back to the house that evening, the farmer called to him. _He_ had had a letter that morning, though Geoff had not; and had it not been getting dusk, the boy would have seen a slight twinkle in the good man's eyes as he spoke to him. "Jim, my boy," he said, "I shall want you to do an odd job or so of work the next day or two. The new squire's coming down on Monday to look round a bit. They've been tidying up at the house; did you know?" Geoff shook his head; he had no time for strolling about the Hall grounds except on Sundays, and on the last Sunday he had been too heavy-hearted to notice any change. "Do you know anything of gardening?" the farmer went on. "They're very short of hands, and I've promised to help what I could. The rooms on the south side of the house are being got ready, and there's the terrace-walk round that way wants doing up sadly. With this mild weather the snowdrops and crocuses and all them spring flowers is springing up finely; there's lots of them round that south side, and Branch can't spare a man to sort them out and rake over the beds." "I could do that," said Geoff, his eyes sparkling. "I don't know much about gardening, but I know enough for that." It was a pleasant prospect for him; a day or two's quiet work in the beautiful old garden; he would feel almost like a gentleman again, he thought to himself. "When shall I go, sir?" he went on eagerly. "Why, the sooner the better," said Mr. Eames. "To-morrow morning. That'll give you two good days. Branch wants it to look nice, for the squire's ladies is coming with him. The south parlour is all ready. There'll be a deal to do to the house--new furniture and all the rest of it. He--the new squire's an old friend of mine and of my father's--and a good friend he's been to me," he added in a lower voice. "Are they going to live here?" asked Geoff. He liked the idea of working there, but he rather shrank from being seen as a gardener's boy by the new squire and "the ladies." "Though it is very silly of me," he reflected; "they wouldn't look at me; it would never strike them that I was different from any other." "Going to live here," repeated the farmer; "yes, of course. The new squire would be off his head not to live at Crickwood Bolders, when it belongs to him. A beautiful place as it is too." "Yes," agreed Geoff, heartily, "it would be hard to imagine a more beautiful place. The squire should be a happy man." He thought so more and more during the next two days. There was a great charm about the old house and the quaintly laid out grounds in which it stood--especially on the south side, where Geoff's work lay. The weather, too, was delightfully mild just then; it seemed a sort of foretaste of summer, and the boy felt all his old love for the country revive and grow stronger than ever as he raked and weeded and did his best along the terrace walk. "I wish the squire would make me his gardener," he said to himself once. "But even to be a good gardener I suppose one should learn a lot of things I know nothing about." Good-will goes a long way, however. Geoff felt really proud of his work by Saturday evening, and on Sunday the farmer took a look at the flower-beds himself, and said he had done well. "Those beds over yonder look rough still," he went on, pointing to some little distance. "They don't show from the house," said Geoff, "and Branch says it's too early to do much. There will be frosts again." "No matter," said Mr. Eames; "I'd like it all to look as tidy as can be for Monday, seeing as I'd promised to help. I'll give you another day off the home-work, Jim. Robins's boy's very pleased to do the station work." [Illustration: THE FARMER TOOK A LOOK AT THE FLOWERBEDS HIMSELF.] Geoff looked up uneasily. It would be very awkward for him, very awkward indeed, if "Robins's boy" were to do so well as to replace him altogether. But there was a pleasant smile on the farmer's face, which reassured him. "Very well, sir," he said. "I'll do as you like, of course; but I don't want any one else to do my own work for long." "All right," said Eames. For a moment Geoff thought he was going to say something more, but if so he changed his mind, and walked quietly away. Monday saw Geoff again at his post. It was a real early spring day, and he could not help feeling the exhilarating influence of the fresh, sweet air, though his heart was sad and heavy, for his hopes of a reply from Vicky were every day growing fainter and fainter. There was nothing to do but to wait till the time came for a holiday, and then to go up to London and try to see them. "And if they won't see me or forgive me," thought the boy with a sigh, "I must just work on till I can emigrate." He glanced up at the terrace as he thought this. He was working this morning at some little distance from the house, but he liked to throw a look every now and then to the beds which he had raked and tidied already; they seemed so neat, and the crocuses were coming out so nicely. The morning was getting on; Geoff looked at his watch--he had kept it carefully, but he never looked at it now without a feeling that before very long he might have to sell it--it was nearly twelve. "I must go home to dinner, I suppose," he thought; and he began gathering his tools together. As he did so, some slight sounds reached him from the terrace, and, glancing in that direction, he saw that one of the long windows opening on to it was ajar, and in another moment the figures of two ladies could be seen standing just in the aperture, and seemingly looking out as if uncertain what they were going to do. "They have come," thought Geoff. "They'll be out here in another instant. I can't help it if it _is_ silly; I should _hate_ ladies and gentlemen to see me working here like a common boy;" and his face grew crimson with the thought. He hurried his things together, and was looking round to see if he could not make his way out of the grounds without passing near the house, when a quick pattering sound along the gravel startled him. A little girl was running towards him, flying down the sloping path that led from the terrace she came, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground, her fair hair streaming behind. "Oh!" was Geoff's first thought, "how like Vicky!" But it was his first thought only, for almost before he had time to complete it the little girl was beside him--_upon_ him, one might almost say, for her arms were round him, her sweet face, wet with tears of joy, was pressed against his, her dear voice was speaking to him, "Oh, Geoffey, Geoffey! My own Geoffey! It's I--it's your Vicky." Geoff staggered, and almost fell. For a moment or two he felt so giddy and confused he could not speak. But the feeling soon went away, and the words came only too eagerly. "How is it? Where have you come from? Do you know the new squire? Where is mamma? Why didn't you write?" And, laughing and crying, Vicky tried to explain. Did she know the new squire? Could Geoff not guess? Where were they all? Mamma, Elsa, Frances, Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot--where should they be, but in the new squire's own house? Up there on the terrace--yes, they were all up there; they had sent her to fetch him. And she dragged Geoff up with her, Geoff feeling as if he were in a dream, till he felt his mother's and sisters' kisses, and heard "the new squire's" voice sounding rather choky, as he said, "Hoot-toot, hoot-toot! this will never do--never do, Geoff, my boy." They let Vicky explain it all in her own way. How Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot had come home from India, meaning to take them all to live with him in the old house which had come to be his. How disappointed he had been by Geoff's selfish, discontented temper, and grumbling, worrying ways, and had been casting about how best to give him a lesson which should last, when Geoff solved the puzzle for him by going off of his own accord. "And," Vicky went on innocently, "was it not _wonderful_ that you should have come to uncle's own place, and got work with Mr. Eames, whom he has known so long?" In which Geoff fully agreed; and it was not till many years later that he knew how it had really been--how Mr. Byrne had planned all for his safety and good, with the help of one of the cleverest young detectives in the London police, "Ned Jowett," the innocent countryman whom Geoff had patronized! The boy told all he had been thinking of doing, his idea of emigrating, his wish to be "independent," and gain his own livelihood. And his mother explained to him what she herself had not thoroughly known till lately--that for many years, ever since her husband's death, they had owed far more to Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot than they had had any idea of. "Your father was the son of his dearest friend," she said. "Mr. Byrne has no relations of his own. We were left very poor, but he never let me know it. The lawyers by mistake wrote to _me_ about the loss of money, which uncle had for long known was as good as lost, so that in reality it made little difference. So you see, Geoff, what we owe him--_everything_--and you must be guided by his wishes entirely." They were kind and good wishes. He did not want Geoff to emigrate, but he sympathized in his love for the country. For two or three years Geoff was sent to a first-rate school, where he got on well, and then to an agricultural college, where he also did so well that before he was twenty he was able to be the squire's right hand in the management of his large property, and in this way was able to feel that, without sacrificing his independence, he could practically show his gratitude. They say that some part of the estate will certainly be left to Geoff at Mr. Byrne's death; but that, it is to be hoped, will not come to pass for many years yet, for the old gentleman is still very vigorous, and the Hall would certainly not seem itself at all if one did not hear his "Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" sounding here, there, and everywhere, as he trots busily about. [Illustration] PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. 
36760	----	MINNIE; OR, THE LITTLE WOMAN A Fairy Story. BY THE AUTHOR OF "VIOLET." BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY, 13 WINTER STREET. 1857. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. STEREOTYPED BY HOBART & ROBBINS, New England Type and Stereotype Foundry, BOSTON. [Illustration: MINNIE AND THE SQUIRREL.] HOW THE STORY CAME TO BE WRITTEN. One evening, last summer, a little girl, with laughing eyes that no one could resist, looked up into my face, and said, "'Touldn't you wite me a story?" "Yes. What shall it be about?" was the answer. "O, wite something I could wead myself,--something with pictures,--something like Tom Thumb, you know; and I shouldn't care if it had pink covers, too, and wasn't larger than--this." And she held up the palm of a rosy hand. In a moment more she came bounding back to whisper, "I shouldn't care if you left off the fingers, only make a _cunning_ story, and something I can wead." Instead of leaving off, I should have to add a great many of Minnie's fingers, to cover the book, which would grow so large, and I couldn't help it, any more than you can when a little bud opens out to a great flower. So, I ask her forgiveness; hoping that she will find, inside of the volume, something "cunning" enough to make her forget the covers. And now, dear children, if you like my story, you must all thank Minnie C----, to whom it is dedicated, with the heartiest good wishes of THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I.--RODOCANACHI, 9 " II.--DANDELION, 15 " III.--MINNIE'S HOME, 21 " IV.--MINNIE AND THE SQUIRREL, 26 " V.--A SQUIRREL-BACK RIDE, 31 " VI.--LIVING IN A TREE, 36 " VII.--MASTER SQUIRREL, 40 " VIII.--NIGHT, 45 " IX.--THE NEW HOME, 51 " X.--IN THE WOODS, 56 " XI.--THE SQUIRREL'S PARTY, 60 " XII.--BY THE RIVER, 63 " XIII.--YELLOW-BIRD, 70 " XIV.--IN A BIRD'S NEST, 75 " XV.--MINNIE AND THE BIRDS, 81 " XVI.--THE SQUIRREL'S TEAM, 87 " XVII.--THE MOONLIGHT DANCE, 92 " XVIII.--THE LITTLE NURSES, 96 " XIX.--MOUSE, 100 " XX.--HOUSEKEEPING, 104 " XXI.--TROUBLE FOR MINNIE, 108 " XXII.--TROUBLE STILL, 113 " XXIII.--FREE AT LAST, 118 " XXIV.--TURTLE, 123 " XXV.--MINNIE'S WINGS, 127 " XXVI.--HIDE-AND-SEEK, 130 " XXVII.--MINNIE IN PRISON, 135 " XXVIII.--NARROW ESCAPES, 140 " XXIX.--THE LITTLE SEAMSTRESS, 146 " XXX.--STORK, 151 " XXXI.--THE SEA-SHORE, 156 " XXXII.--STORM AND CALM, 161 MINNIE; OR, THE LITTLE WOMAN. CHAPTER I. RODOCANACHI. Somewhere in Massachusetts is a little town as beautiful as a garden. Nay, in summer-time I think this place is prettier than a garden; for it is not laid out in long, stiff beds and paths; but the roads wind about like rivers under its shady trees, and, wherever you see a bed of flowers, a cosey little house is sure to rise up in its midst; and then the hills,---- Did you ever read about the giant, who wouldn't give the fairies any peace, but chopped them up for mince-meat, and did all kinds of wicked things, till they resolved to kill him, if they could? The fairy queen, who was very wise, knew that the giant's strength lay in a great brass helmet which he wore; so she told her people to watch, and, if ever he laid it aside, to steal this, and hide it away. Now, one summer's day, the giant went hunting, and had such good success that he came home with his arms full of game, tired and warm enough. I don't remember the giant's name: perhaps it was Ugolino, or Loeschigk, or Rodocanachi. We'll call it Rodocanachi. Down he threw his game,--the deer and squirrels he had killed to eat; and the poor little robins, and blue-birds, and humming-birds, he had only killed for the pleasure of seeing them flutter down from the boughs where they were singing sweetly--down to the ground, with their broken, bloody wings. Rodocanachi threw his game aside, and then lay down himself to drink from a pretty stream that ran bubbling and sparkling under the shady trees. He was so thirsty, and had such a monstrous swallow, that, before long, the stream stopped flowing, and, wherever the sun fell into its bed, the pebbles began to grow white and dry. He had drank it almost up, when the giant said to himself, "Bah! what a shallow river, and how the pebbles get into my teeth! I must have a drop of wine to take away the earthy taste." There, under the shady trees, Rodocanachi drank and smoked, till his head grew hotter than ever, and so confused, that he stretched himself upon the grass; and, while trying to collect his thoughts, fell fast asleep. Then, how the fairies flew into sight! Down they swung, from all the high oaks and elms, on rope-ladders made of spider-web; and, from under the broad mulleins, up they poured in a swarm; from the other side of the stream they fitted up rafts of pond-lily leaves, and came floating across; for, after the giant turned away, the river had run full again. What had seemed beds of fern-leaves came marching down from the hill-side, or out from the deep shade,--they were fairy armies, with banners all astir; and such a rustling as they made, and such a patter of little feet, and flutter of tiny wings, and singing and shouting of soft, glad voices, you never heard! Last came the car of the fairy queen, a pearly pond-lily, lined and fringed inside with gold, with a golden seat, and drawn by six bright-blue dragon-flies, that sprinkled a light from their transparent wings, as the car shed fragrance all along its way. The queen arose and lifted her sceptre; which was tipped with a diamond so bright it shone like a star, and could light a path at midnight through the densest wood. She stretched this wand forth, and the noisy multitude grew so still--so still that you could not hear a sound, except the giant's breathing;--then she spoke: "The time we have watched and waited for so long, so impatiently, has come; the wicked Rodocanachi is in our power at last. Say, what shall we do with him, my subjects?" Then swelled forth a breeze of little voices, so confused that you could not tell one from another; and the queen's wand rose again. "We have not a moment to waste, be still, and hear the advice of my general." "If I have led your armies bravely, O, great queen--" "Yes, yes," interrupted the queen, "but what shall I do with Rodocanachi? I'll praise you, and receive your compliments afterwards." "Suffer me, then, to go alone, and, with my spear, this tough acacia-thorn, put out the giant's eyes." The fairy shook her head, and turned to a statesman, the greatest in all her kingdom: "What say you?" "Cut off his hands and feet, and make mince-meat of them, as he made of my cousin's family!" Again the queen shook her head, and turned to a grave judge, the wisest man in Fairy-land: "Let us go together, and, while he sleeps, roll this old sinner off from the mountain-top, that his bones may be well broken when he reaches the valley below!" At this the little people all shouted for joy, and some ran towards Rodocanachi, impatiently, to begin; but the fairy, with her sparkling sceptre, called them back. Puzzled and sorrowful, great queen as she was, she wrung her little hands and wept. "I cannot bear to do such cruel deeds," she sighed; "and yet how shall I banish this tyrant, and make my people happy? O, I wish any one, who thinks it a pleasant thing to be a queen, could stand in my place to-day!" CHAPTER II. DANDELION. In the court of the fairy queen was a child, as pretty and gentle as a flower; a little boy, whose work it was to gather dew and honey, and bring it to his mistress in an acorn-cup, or strewn in separate drops over some broad leaf. Now, this child loved his mistress dearly, and his heart was large and true as if it had beat in a larger bosom; he could not bear to think of torturing even the cruel Rodocanachi,--much less could he bear to see his dear queen grieve. Little fellow as he was, he tried to make his way toward the fairy's chariot; but the people crowded so, and moved their banners about so restlessly, that more than once he was thrown to the ground, and trodden under their feet. But Dandelion--that was his name--caught at the tip of one of the fern-leaf banners, which happened to lean toward him; and, when it was lifted into the air, he swung himself, like a spider, from banner to banner, over the heads of the crowd. Then he climbed up among the pearly, perfumed lily-leaves of the fairy's car, and, all powdered over himself with gold-dust from its splendid lining, knelt at his mistress' feet. The queen smiled through her tears,--for she was fond of Dandelion,--and asked why he had come at such a time; then said: "Perhaps my pretty one can give me some advice." And all the fairy-people laughed at the thought of a poor little boy being wiser than statesmen and generals. Dandelion did not care how small they thought him, if he could but help his queen; so he said, bravely: "O, my great mistress, I was shaking dew out of the cups of white violets that grow by the stream, when this giant lay down near me and fell asleep. Then all the people hurried, and I with them, to your court. I heard you ask what should be done with the wicked Rodocanachi; and, when no one had an answer to give, and my mistress sorrowed, I crept back all alone to the hill-top, where the giant lay, and climbed on his shoulder--" [Illustration: DANDELION TICKLES THE GIANT'S NOSE.] "My brave little Dandelion!" said the queen. "I had picked up a feather, that a wood-dove had just let fall on the grass; and with this I tickled Rodocanachi's nose--" "Fine work!" growled the general. "Suppose you had wakened him, and we were all slaves again!" But the queen, waving the general back to his seat with her sceptre, said, "Let the boy go on: I am curious to hear the rest." "The giant stirred; his head was on uneven ground, and the great brass helmet tipped, tipped, tipped, and at last it rolled away, and left his forehead bare." "O, Dandelion, you have saved my kingdom!" said the queen; and the people all shouted "Bravo!" and "Hurrah for Dandelion!" as, without waiting longer for leave, they rushed to the hill-top where Rodocanachi lay. Then came a clanging sound, as if all the mountains were great brass drums, and twenty giants were beating them--it echoed so far and wide. "Ah, it's the giant's helmet! and now we fairies are safe!" exclaimed the queen. She clapped her hands, and the six blue dragon-flies flew to the hill-top with their chariot in time for Dandelion to see the helmet, still jarring where it had been thrown by the fairy-people, far down among the rocks. "Now, fly, fly quickly," said the queen, "and tear up sods and bushes, and gather leaves, till you've hidden the helmet so safely that Rodocanachi can never find it again." Fairies, though little people, are not slow; and when at last the giant, with a snore that sounded like thunder, awoke from his sleep, the helmet, for which he began to look at once, was nowhere to be seen. And the giant's strength was gone. He could not break the stem of a wild-flower, much less lift the game he had killed that very day. He could hardly totter home; and, when there, could not open his own door. So Rodocanachi began a search for his helmet: all in vain, in vain. He stepped his great feet into it, and never guessed it was hid underneath the grass, and bushes, and flowers, that looked as if they had always grown where they were. For a year he wandered up and down the earth, growing thinner and sadder every day. He had nothing to satisfy his monstrous appetite except berries and mushrooms. Sometimes the fairies, in pity of his wretched state, would crack a handful of nuts, or kill a frog or two, for his breakfast; but Rodocanachi fairly starved and worried himself to death. And the queen was so grateful to dear little Dandelion, that she made him always dress in cloth-of-gold, and gave him a beautiful golden shield. But this was only to remind the people how he looked when the boy crept up into her chariot that day, all dusted over with gold. When Dandelion died, a plant sprang out of his grave,--and every one said the fairy put it there,--that had blossoms exactly like his golden shield; and, when these withered, there came globes of seed, with starry wings, that could fly about in the air, and swing on the wind, from leaf to leaf, as Dandelion swung on the fern-leaf banners once. We call the flowers Dandelions, to this day. When, in summer-time, you see these golden shields sprinkled over the meadows, and along the roadsides, you must think of the brave little fairy, who did great things because so willing to do the best that he could. CHAPTER III. MINNIE'S HOME. We have found, from the history of Dandelion, that no one is too small to be of use. We have found that kind hearts may succeed where wise heads and strong arms fail; but perhaps you will wonder what Rodocanachi has to do with my story. I'll tell you. Have you forgotten that I began to describe a beautiful little town, with roads that wound about like rivers, and houses set in the midst of garden-beds? Great hills rose on every side, folding against each other as if they meant to shut out the rest of the world, with its noise, and trouble, and weariness. So the valley looked, from a distance, like a bird's nest lined with moss, and leaves, and long fine grass; and the houses and churches seemed like white eggs scattered among the greenery. Or, if you stood in the centre, the slopes of the hills were so smooth and round, that the valley was like the inside of a painted bowl:--here were woods and waterfalls like pictures; here meadows of grass and grain; white patches of buckwheat, and the tender green of oat-fields, were striped along with brown potato-beds, and patches of dark-green tasselled maize. In this gay-painted bowl, in this soft grassy nest, lived a little girl, whose name was Minnie, and whose history I mean to tell. But what has it all to do with Rodocanachi? Why, this: people say that the beautiful valley between the hills was nothing less than the inside of the giant's great brass helmet! Rivers had found their way through it now, and forests had rooted themselves on the sods that were spread by fairy hands; yet, deep down underneath, the helmet still was wedged among the rocks. Think what a giant Rodocanachi must have been, when you could thus put a whole town into his hat! Whether the wonderful place in which she lived had anything to do with Minnie's strange history, I cannot tell. See what you think about it. The house of Minnie's father was near the centre of the town, and in a street where there were many other houses. These were not joined together in a block, like city dwellings, but each had a garden and summer-house, and a patch of grass in front for the children's play-ground. Around Minnie's house was a curious fence, made of thin strips of iron, bound at the top with a square board, painted white. In the next house lived a boy named Frank. He was a bright, good-natured little fellow, just of Minnie's age, with rosy cheeks and curly hair, and as full of fun as he could be. Minnie herself was very fond of play. Perhaps she played too hard, for she did not look hearty and rosy like Frank, but was slight and quick as a humming-bird, and fluttered about so from one thing to another, that it was more than her mother could do to keep her always in sight. One minute she'd be seated quietly on the door-step, looking at the pictures in a book; the next she was away, and you only caught sight of her curls going round the corner of the house. Or, perhaps, after you had looked for Minnie in the garden, she would start up with her laughing eyes from behind your very chair, and the next instant she was fluttering along the top of the fence, standing on one foot, and, with her bright pink dress, looking more like a flower than a little girl. The iron strips of the fence were so far apart that Minnie could easily peep through, and could even crowd her little hand between the squares, to stroke Franky's curls, or pat his rosy cheeks. As soon as breakfast was over, every morning, both Minnie and Frank would run to the fence, and talk and play there for hours. But Minnie was not satisfied with this; she wanted to swing on the boughs of her father's young fruit-trees, and, as I told you, would climb the fence, and skip along the rail upon one foot. Again and again her mother warned her that she might fall and kill herself, or at least soil and tear her dress, and that it was rude for little girls to be climbing trees and fences. It was of no use. Even while she was talking, Minnie would clamber into some place so dangerous that her mother would have to run and take her down. CHAPTER IV. MINNIE AND THE SQUIRREL. One day, when Minnie's mother had been telling her how wicked it was to be so disobedient, and how much trouble she gave every one that loved her, the little girl thought she never would climb another fence, but would begin now, and be good. So she seated herself on the door-step, and was quiet as many as two minutes. Then a little brown sparrow came hopping, hopping along the top of the fence, and stopped a short way off, and chirped, as if he were saying, "You can't catch me!" "Can't I?" said Minnie, and another minute she was dancing along the rail. The sparrow flew away, and then Minnie, remembering the promise which she had made to her mother, went back to her seat. She was quiet longer this time, for she began to think how hard it was to be good. Then she remembered how the sparrow had flown away--away off alone up into the bright blue air, and could sing as loud as he chose, and tilt on the highest boughs of the trees, and nobody call him rude. And the sparrow didn't have to be washed and dressed in the morning, and to eat his breakfast at just such a time, and be careful to take his fork in his right hand, and not to spill his milk. O, how much better breakfasts the sparrow had! First, a drink of dew from the leaves about his nest; then, a sweet-brier blossom to give him an appetite; and then, wild raspberries and strawberries, as many as he wanted; and, afterwards, wild honey to sweeten his tongue, or smooth gum from the cherry-tree to clear his throat before the morning song! Then for a merry chase through the woods, instead of going to school. "O, dear! O, dear!" said Minnie, "why wasn't I made a sparrow?" Just then she heard a chattering in the pine-tree over her head, and a squirrel tripped in sight. Minnie happened to have some nuts in her pocket, so she quietly rolled one along the top of the fence, and squirrel came down for it. I think wild creatures know which children are their friends, and which their enemies. At all events, this squirrel did not feel afraid of Minnie, but sat there nibbling at the nut she gave him, until he had eaten out all the meat. Just then her mother came to the door with some ladies, who had been making her a call, and off darted squirrel, quicker than you can think. "Now, where has he gone?" thought Minnie; "down under the cool grass, I suppose, or far off into the pleasant woods, where he can have all the nuts he wants, and play hide-and-go-seek among the boughs. O, dear! I wish I had been a squirrel! I wonder if I couldn't run along the fence as quickly as he did just now!" Her mother was talking so busily with her friends that she forgot to watch Minnie, and off the little girl flew, along the rail, skipping and dancing, and twirling upon one foot. And now comes the wonderful part of my story. Minnie thought she heard somebody scream, and then she looked round, and her mother was gone, and she was seated on the door-step all alone again, and squirrel, on the fence beside her, was eating his nut. "Come, give us another!" he said, at last, throwing away the shell, and speaking with the queerest little squeaky, grumbling voice. "Why, who taught you how to talk?" asked Minnie, in surprise. "O, nobody. Squirrels don't go to school. They couldn't keep us quiet on the benches, you see. It makes us ache to sit still!" and he ran round and round the rail of the fence, to rest himself. "Pray, don't go away yet," called Minnie; "I want to know if all squirrels talk, or what you did to learn." Down the squirrel jumped into the grass, pulled the blades apart with his paws, and smelt of this weed and that, till at last he found what seemed to satisfy him, for he broke off a sprig, and went back to his seat on the fence. "Minnie, how should you like to live with us?" he said. "We have good times, I tell you, out in the woods. We do nothing but chatter, and eat, and fly about, all day long. We haven't any master, and the whole world's our play-ground; the deep earth is our cellar; the sun is our lamp and stove." "But I should frighten the squirrels, I'm so large!" and Minnie stood on tip-toe, to let him see what a great girl--as indeed she was, beside a squirrel! "The same weed that made me talk like a little girl, will make you grow small as a squirrel. Do you dare to taste it?" and he tossed the green sprig into Minnie's lap. "Dare? yes, indeed! who's afraid?" She ate the leaves at a mouthful. CHAPTER V. A SQUIRREL-BACK RIDE. Minnie had only half believed what the squirrel said, and was surprised and almost frightened when she felt herself growing smaller in every limb. Did you ever drop a kid glove into boiling water? It will keep its former shape, but shrink together so as to be hardly large enough for a doll. Thus Minnie's whole form shrank, until she was no taller than squirrel himself, and not half so stout, and her hands were as tiny as his paws. "Now we'll have plenty of fun," said squirrel; and they started together for the woods. But Minnie walked so slowly, with her little feet, that her guide soon lost his patience. He would dart on out of sight, and come back for her, again and again; he would wait to eat nuts, and dig holes in the ground to bury some against winter-time; and still Minnie, for all her hurrying, lagged behind. At last squirrel said, "This will never do; seat yourself on my back, and I'll carry you faster than any steam-car that ever you saw. Here we go!" It was a pretty sight--the little rider and her frisky steed, bounding so gracefully over the road. They had not gone far, however, when Minnie called, "O, squirrel, pray, pray stop!" "What's the trouble now?" "You go so fast it takes away my breath, and the underbrush all but scratches my eyes out; and the grass is full of bugs and ugly caterpillars, that stretch their cold claws to catch at me as I go past." "Is that all?" He darted by a post, along the fence-rails, and up the trunk of a tree, and into the leafy boughs. But now it was the squirrel's turn to complain. "Don't pull at my ears so hard! Why, my eyes are half out of my head! It is bad enough to carry such a load!" "But, dear squirrel, I shall tumble off! Here we are, away up in the air, higher than any house, and you skip and leap, and scramble so, it frightens me out of my wits." "Jump off a minute, then; I know a better way to carry you." No sooner had Minnie obeyed, than he was out of sight. With one spring, he had leaped to the bough of a taller tree;--and now would he ever come back? It made her dizzy to look down. It seemed further than ever to the ground, now, she had grown so small. And the insects that crept and flew around her looked so large! A great mosquito came buzzing about with his poisoned bill, and then a hard-backed beetle trolled past, and two or three fat ants. And a bird alighted on the bough, and began to sing. Minnie drew down a broad leaf to hide her face, for she felt afraid that the bird would think her some kind of bug, and eat her up. Perhaps he meant to do so, for he kept hopping nearer and nearer as he sang. "O, how I wish I were at home!" thought Minnie. "Perhaps my mother is looking for me now; and Franky has been standing ever so long at the fence, with the half of his cake that he promised to save for me. How could that old squirrel be so wicked as to leave me here alone?" Still the bird hopped nearer, and eyed her as he sang, and looked as if his mouth were watering for a taste. "I shall be killed and eaten up by ants and worms if I fall to the ground," thought Minnie; "or, even if I reached it alive, I could never, never find the way home, with these small, slow feet. Let the robin eat me, then." But now came a rustling amongst the leaves, and a chirping, chattering sound, and, lo! her friend the squirrel frisked into sight. He seemed to be quarrelling with the bird, for she half spread her wings, and stretched her beak as if she could bite him; and squirrel chattered and chuckled at her, and his bright brown eyes flashed with anger, till the robin flew away. "A moment later, Minnie, and you would have been changed into a song. That saucy fellow meant to eat you for his luncheon," said squirrel. "Now, don't complain that I went away; if you do, I shall go again. We never allow any grumbling out here in the woods." "Yet they allow quarrelling, and murder, and mischief of many kinds, I see," thought Minnie; "but as I've come so far, I will not go home without learning how birds and squirrels live." CHAPTER VI. LIVING IN A TREE. The squirrel now tucked his little friend under his chin, as if she were a nut, and off they went together, fast as any bird could fly. Minnie soon found there was no use in urging squirrel to go in a straight line, and pick out the smoothest paths: it was not his way. He made her dizzy, often, by running along the under side of the boughs, or twirling round them in his frisky way; and, in passing from tree to tree, whichever branches were farthest apart, they were the ones he chose for a leap. If he heard with his quick ears any sound that frightened him, down squirrel darted into some hollow trunk, that was full of ants and rotten wood, and wiry snails; but Minnie found he was growing very tired, and was all in a perspiration with carrying such a burden; so she did not complain. Yet, when, in passing, her curly hair caught on the rough bark, and had many a pull, and her cheeks became bruised with brushing against the leaves, and she shook black ants and beetles out of her dress, Minnie more than once wished herself home again. At last, with a chuckle of delight, squirrel darted up the trunk of a beautiful elm, and seated Minnie where the great boughs parted into something like an arm-chair; while he went to find his mate. This, then, was her new home! Tired and hungry as she was, the little girl looked about her with pleasure--it was such a lovely place. On one side were sunny fields; on the other, stretched the silent, shady wood, with its beds of moss, and curtains of vine, and clumps of wild-flowers. Closer about her, fanning her warm cheeks, were the green leaves of the elm--more thousands of them than she could think of counting, and all so fresh, and creased, and pointed so prettily. "Many a game of hide-and-seek I'll have here!" she thought. But now squirrel returned with his wife, who shook hands with her little guest very politely, and begged her to feel quite at home. Madam Squirrel was not so handsome as her husband, but was such a kind, motherly person, that you would not notice her looks. She had brought some dry moss from her nest, and with this made a soft bed for Minnie to rest upon while she prepared dinner. The good soul even wove the twigs together into a leafy bower above her head, and called one of her young ones to stand near and keep the flies away, so that Minnie might have a nap. The young squirrel, however, was less thoughtful than his mamma. He had so many questions to ask, and so much news to tell, that sleep was out of the question. And Minnie found that the wonderful herb had not only made her grow small as squirrels, but at the same time had taught her to understand their language. And not this alone; by listening carefully, at first, she could soon make out what all the creatures around her were saying--the bees, and birds; and grasshoppers, and wasps, and mice. Even the leaves she saw talked to each other all day long; the wind had only to come, and make them a call, and start a subject or two--then there was whispering enough! And the grass underneath whispered back, and perfumed wild-flowers talked with the grass, and the river talked to the flowers, or, when they would not listen, talked to its own still pebbles. The sun, if he did not speak, smiled such a broad, warm smile, that any one could guess it meant, "I know you, and love you, friends!" And at night the silent moonshine stole into the wood, and kissed the leaves till they smiled with happiness, and kissed the flowers till the air was full of perfumes they breathed back to her, and kissed the brook till all its little wavelets sparkled and laughed together for joy. Meantime the stars were winking at each other, to think they had caught the cold moon making love! CHAPTER VII. MASTER SQUIRREL. No sooner had young Master Squirrel taken up his stand by Minnie's couch, than he began to tell how fortunate she was in having such friends. "Yes," Minnie replied, "I was thinking of them this very minute, and wishing I could send word to my dear mother that I was safe. Poor Franky must be tired of waiting for me by this time; there's no one else to play with him. And then, if you could only see our baby; she's so sweet and cunning!" "Nonsense!" said Master Squirrel; "she is not half so cunning as you are, now. I was speaking of your new friends, my father and mother." "Well, what about them?" "O, we belong to such a fine family, and are so much respected here in the woods, and my father is so rich!" Minnie laughed. "Who ever heard of a rich squirrel? Where do you keep your money? Are there any banks in the woods?" "Banks enough, but they bear nothing except grass and violets. We are not so foolish as to put our wealth into pieces of white and yellow stone. My father may not have gold, but he has more nuts and acorns hidden away than any other squirrel in creation. As for the silly birds, they never save anything, and the worms and beetles live from hand to mouth." "What happens to the frogs and flies?" "O, they creep into a hole, when winter comes, and freeze, like stupid flowers, till the spring sun is ready to thaw them out again. You see, we squirrels are the only wise and prudent creatures. And to think that, among all squirrels, you should have become acquainted with the richest one--you are very lucky!" "If all your father's nuts were brought together and measured," said Minnie, "how many bushels would there be?" "What do I know about bushels? He has at least as many as would make a wagon-load!" Master Squirrel said this with a great air, but Minnie only laughed. "My father does not pretend to be rich, but he gives away more than a wagon-load of nuts every year; besides keeping all we want for ourselves." Dear children, as Minnie looked upon the squirrel's nuts, that made him feel so important, just so God's angels look upon _our_ treasures. Money, fine horses and carriages, are to them no reason for being proud. They smile at our gains and savings, which seem foolish toys to them. The angels have better wealth. The squirrel was silent, and so ashamed that Minnie said, to comfort him: "I should not mind never seeing a nut, if I were as bright and spry as your father; and, whether she were rich or poor, I know any one as kind and generous as your mother would always be respected." "Poh! it is easy enough to be kind. I've seen one ant help another home with his dinner; I've seen a ground-sparrow, when her neighbor was shot, feed the hungry young ones left in the nest; but that's nothing--that doesn't give one a place in the best society!" "I don't believe the little orphan-birds waited to ask if their friend belonged to the aristocracy. But, Master Squirrel, what do you call society?" "I will show you, to-morrow. I heard my mother say that she should give a grand party in honor of your coming. Though it will be like my parents (who are very condescending) to ask some of the common people, you may expect to see along with them all the aristocracy of the woods." Now the mother-squirrel came with Minnie's dinner; and, sending her talkative son away to give invitations for the party, busied herself with spreading out the tempting meal. Of course there were nut-meats in plenty; walnuts on one leaf, chestnuts on another, and ground-nuts and grains of wheat on a third. Then there was a bit of honey-comb, and a ripe red strawberry that squirrel had run a mile to pick on the mountain-top; and there were some slices of what Minnie thought must be squirrels' tongues, they were so small and tender; she ate them with a great relish. Then squirrel brought, in a nut-shell, a drink of fresh water from the brook; and, filling her shell again, dropping in a sweet-brier leaf or two to perfume it, she bathed Minnie's forehead till the tired little traveller went fast asleep. CHAPTER VIII. NIGHT. Upon awaking, Minnie was surprised to find all dark about her. The good old squirrel had tucked the moss of her couch together so nicely that she was warm and comfortable; but, on reaching out a hand, she felt the leaves wet with dew. Then a wind stirred the branches, and far up in the sky she saw the twinkling stars, and knew that it was night. Night, and the little girl was alone there out of doors! No mother in the next room listening to see if her children breathed sweetly, and all was well; no sister Allie to nestle close beside her, now; but the great lonely sky above her, and the creaking elm-bough for her cradle. And how high this cradle lifted her into the air! She hardly knew which was farthest off, the ground or the sky. It was all so strange that Minnie thought she must be dreaming. She stretched her hands out in the starlight; they were small as squirrels' paws,--ten times smaller than even baby Allie's dimpled hands,--small as those of her smallest doll. Who ever heard of such hands for a little girl? Yes, she felt sure it was a dream; but, turning to sleep, she was aroused by a loud snoring. Could a man be hidden up here among the boughs? And suppose he should catch her alive, and shut her up in a cage, to be advertised, and talked about, and pointed at with canes and parasols in Barnum's museum? But now the snores seemed changing to sounds more like the purring of a cat. Were not tigers a kind of cat? Suppose this were a tiger, ready to spring down and seize her in his great paws, as a cat might seize a mouse! No; there came next a loud, rough laugh, startling to hear in the silence; and then a great flutter, and a scratching sound, and something alighted on the bough above her--something heavy, for the bough bent till its leaves were crushed upon her face. As soon as Minnie could push the leaves apart she looked up, and saw to her dismay two great round eyes staring full at her! She covered her own eyes, and in her terror would have fallen from the tree, had not her dress been caught among the leaves. "What's that? What's that?" a gruff voice called. Then Minnie remembered what she had heard her mother, and even the little squirrels, say, that it is foolish to fear anything; so, as loudly as she could with her trembling voice, the little woman shouted: "How do you do, sir? It's a fine evening, all but the cold!" And, venturing to look once more, she saw what a curious animal she had addressed; with the eyes of a man, he had the face of a cat, and the bill and body of a bird. "Who's here? who are you?" was his only answer. "I am a traveller, sir. I have come from my home in the village, to make my friends, the squirrels, a visit; perhaps I shall have the pleasure of meeting you at their house." "Not so fast! I'm an owl, I'd have you know, and do not keep company with chattering squirrels. If you wish to see me you must come to my own home." "And where is that?" "In the hollow around on the other side of the elm. We owls are satisfied to sit thinking over our wisdom, and do not go scrambling about like squirrels, and other simple creatures." "How did you happen out to-night?" "O, every evening I come up on this branch to take the air, and study astronomy." "Astronomy?--what's that?" "It is counting the stars, and telling how they move, and watching when they fall. I expect to catch one, some day." "What shall you do then?" "Hide it in my nest, to be sure, until I can plant the seeds, and raise another crop." "Hide a star in an owl's nest! Why, the stars are worlds," laughed Minnie. "O, that is what ignorant people say. This, that you see above your head, is a huge tree with dark leaves, and hung all over with golden oranges. When the stars seem to move, it is only the boughs that are waving; when the stars seem to fall, it is ripe fruit that drops to the earth. Let me catch one, and you'll see what a fine orange-bush I'll grow from the seed!" "I'd sooner fly out, in the pleasant morning sunshine, and pick up strawberries, blueberries, checkerberries, all the nice things that grow in the wood," said Minnie; "but, if you can't be happy without the stars,--" "I never can!" exclaimed the owl. "Then I would fly up where they grow, and pick them myself from the boughs;--not sit in a dark hole, and wait for them to fall." But the owl--who thought no one's opinion worth much, except his own--could not agree with her, and flew away. Then Minnie, tired of talking so long, fell asleep once more, hoping, with all her heart, that she should awake in her little room at home, with Allie's rosy cheek pressed close to hers, and her mother stooping to give them both her morning kiss. CHAPTER IX. THE NEW HOME. Cool air and pleasant music were about her, when Minnie awoke the next day, but no home. She was wrapped in a bundle of moss, on the elm-bough, still. The bright morning sunshine lay over the leaves, fragrant odors came stealing out from the wood, and wreaths of beautiful white mist floated above the brook, and, slowly rising, reached, at last, and melted in with those other white clouds far up in the sky. Yet the lower end of the mist-wreath rested still upon the brook, so that it seemed like a long pearly pathway, joining the earth and heaven. Many birds had their nests in the elm, and they were feeding and singing to their young; or, floating up in the sky, still kept a close watch over their little homes among the leaves. Minnie found she had plenty of neighbors. The tree was like a town, filled with people of all colors, and sizes, and occupations. Of course, these were only birds or insects; but Minnie had grown so small that they looked monstrous to her. The birds were as large as herself, you remember. Little lady-bugs seemed as big as a rabbit does to us, and fire-flies were great street-lanterns; butterflies' wings were like window-curtains; bees were like robins; and squirrels, as large as Newfoundland dogs! As her friends did not come to bid her good-morning, the little girl thought she would go in search of them. She felt afraid to move, at first, but found soon that the bough was as wide for her small feet as a good road would be for larger ones; so, steadying herself now and then by help of a twig or leaf, she wandered on. Sliding carefully down the slope of a bough, she found herself, at length, close by the entrance of the squirrel nest. Her friend, the young squirrel, was just sweeping the door-way with his bushy tail; but, when he took Minnie in to see his brothers and sisters, she did not find their home a very orderly place. She could not step without treading on empty nut-shells, bits of moss, or broken sticks; then the place was dark, and did not have a clean, sweet smell, like her mother's parlor. In one corner lay a heap of young squirrels, some so small you could put them into a nut-shell--others larger, and larger still. The nest was so cold and damp that the poor little things had crept together to keep warm. Master Squirrel said, by way of excuse, that his mother was so busy, preparing for the party, she had not been able to set her house in order this morning; but Minnie never afterwards happened to go there when it was in better order than now. "Where is your mother?" she asked. "In the woods, at some of our other houses; for we squirrels don't live always in one place. She is gathering nuts and all kinds of goodies for our supper, and will scold me well if I have not the table set when she comes home." "O, let me help you!" Squirrel was glad to accept her offer, and they went to work in earnest. First, Minnie insisted upon bringing all the young ones out into the sun, when they stretched out their little heads and paws to receive the pleasant warmth, while Minnie returned to see if anything could be done with their disorderly home. She sent squirrel into the woods for some pine leaves, and of these made a broom as large as she could handle. Then she swept, and dusted, and brushed black cobwebs down, and wiped the mouldy walls, and put fresh leaves in place of the musty moss on which the children had laid. By this time the old squirrel had come back from the woods again; and told what a beautiful place his wife had found for their feast, and how glad she would be of Minnie's help. He limped a little, and said his back ached still from carrying such a load the day before; but, as there was no other way for the little woman to reach the ground, she might go with him, only be sure not to pull his ears! No sooner said than done. Down the trunk of the tall tree they went with a leap or two, and along the stone walls, over bushes, through hollows, further and further into the wood, till they came to a lovely spot. CHAPTER X. IN THE WOODS. A number of trees stood so closely together that they seemed like a solid wood; but, when the squirrel had made a way for Minnie to pass under the heavy boughs, she found inside a circle, covered only with fine soft grass and moss, a few wild flowers nodding across it, and the leaves, with their low, pleasant rustle, closing around it like a wall. "Now," said the old squirrels, who were too wise to be proud and boastful like their son, "now, Minnie, you know better than we what is proper, and you must tell us how everything shall be arranged." Nothing could please Miss Minnie better than this. Her mother had not even allowed her to go into the supper-room before company came; and here she was to order all things, and be herself the little mistress of the feast! They decided to have their party in the afternoon, because at that time the sunshine always slanted so pleasantly through the wood. If they waited till evening, the dew would begin to rise, and there was no depending on the moon for light; and their children, besides, would be needing them at home. First, Minnie said, they must have a more convenient entrance to the supper-room. On one side stood a large azalea, or wild honeysuckle, in full flower, and near it a sweet-brier; between these were some whortleberry bushes, around the roots of which last Minnie made the squirrels burrow till she could drag them away. Then, smoothing the broken earth, she covered it with sods of fresh moss, while overhead the sweet-brier and azalia met in a beautiful archway of fragrant leaves and flowers. And it was so much prettier to have flowers growing in the ground than if they had been cut and brought from some green-house! Both Minnie and the squirrels were delighted with their dining-hall. Next they spread shining oak-leaves for a table-cloth, which was better so than if it had all been in one piece, because now, wherever a tuft of violets grew, or any of the slight starry flowers that dotted over the grass, they could remain there, and save the trouble of arranging vases. Then came a great variety of food,--nuts, honey, grain and berries, apple and quince seeds, bits of gum, and strips of fragrant bark. Minnie was shocked when she saw among the game a dish of dead ants, and one of frogs' feet, and another of red spiders; but the squirrel said she must have something to suit all tastes, and the birds would be disappointed if they had not animal food. Then she begged Minnie to slice some cold meat for her, and brought a big black beetle to be shaved up like dried beef, and an angle-worm to be cut in slices for tongue. "O, dear!" exclaimed Minnie, as the little round slices of this last fell into the plate, "can this be what I mistook for tongue, and relished so heartily last night?" "Very likely," squirrel answered; "it is one of the tenderest meats we have." Minnie resolved to eat no more dainties in the wood, until she had first found out their names; but she had not time to grieve much over her mistake, for the father-squirrel came to tell that he had promised his oldest children a race in the woods, and invited her to make one of the party. She was glad to take lessons in running of such a quick little body as he; and, while his young ones frisked and bounded, and chased each other, he was very patient in teaching her all his arts. Before many such lessons, Minnie could balance herself on the most uneven and unsteady place; could climb slippery boughs, skip without stopping over the crookedest places, and even leap from branch to branch, so nimbly that squirrel was proud of his pupil. He would not let her go very far that day, because she must be fresh for the afternoon, when his guests would come. CHAPTER XI. THE SQUIRREL'S PARTY. In due time the company arrived, and all were in such good spirits, and so polite, that Minnie thought she had never known a more charming party. On each side of herself sat the birds; a blue-bird and yellow-bird first, then a thrush and an oriole, then--cunning little creatures!--a wren and an indigo-bird. The robins and bobolinks were not invited, because they were such gluttons. The crows could not come, because they were so quarrelsome, and the cherry-birds were too great thieves. Then came a whole row of squirrels, that sat with their bushy tails up in the air, and paws folded quietly, notwithstanding the nuts before them, while they made themselves agreeable to the meek mice and moles, that were all a-tremble, not often finding themselves in such grand company. One large gray squirrel came in his rough hunting-coat; but he talked so loud and boastfully, and seemed to look down upon all the others with such contempt, they were not sorry when he said, at last, that he had promised to take a walk with his distinguished friend the rabbit, and must therefore go home. Several toads were invited, and Minnie had even taken pains to roll some round stones into the room for their seats. They came, and were chatting gayly, when their eyes, that wandered over the delicious feast, fell upon the dish of frogs' feet, and home they hopped at once, offended. It was a great mistake, on the squirrel's part, to bring such guests and such a dish together; for who could be expected to relish seeing his cousin chopped up into souse? The butterflies came, but declined taking seats at the table, as they never ate anything. They fluttered above, with their beautiful velvet wings, and clung to the flowers, bending them down with their weight; and, when Minnie observed how wistfully the birds were eying them, she thought perhaps the butterflies had a better reason than they gave for keeping at a distance. After eating all they wanted, squirrel proposed that his guests should go to the brook for a drink. It was not far, and Minnie had swept the path nicely with her broom, and spread new moss wherever the ground was bare; so they seemed to be walking on a strip of green velvet carpeting, as, two by two, they started for the water-side. Some little green, graceful snakes followed on from curiosity, while over the heads of the party fluttered all the butterflies; and a rabbit, chancing to see them, very politely asked squirrel if he might join the guests. Meantime the toads, that had crept into a corner to mutter about their insult, hopped back to the table, and, along with a swarm of flies and ants, and greedy robins, crows, and bobolinks, soon finished all that the company had left. CHAPTER XII. BY THE RIVER. A yellow-bird was the companion of Minnie's walk, and a pleasant little man he was, with his gayly-spotted wings, his graceful manners, and musical voice. The oriole was handsomer, and had a sweeter song; but he was proud, and spoke in a sharp, short way, that was not agreeable. Minnie said to herself, "I can listen to oriole while he sings at the top of the tall elm; but for my friend I will choose some one with gentler behavior, if he hasn't so loud a song." Do you think Minnie was wise? Yellow-bird was equally pleased with his companion, and very ready to converse. He told her that he had often wished to become acquainted with some of his neighbors in the village, but dare not trust them. "Why?" Minnie asked. "O, one of my brothers, after eating the plant that makes us wise, heard a little girl begging him to come and live with her. She promised a beautiful cage in the summer-house, and plants to eat and drink." "And he went?" "Yes; he was so unwise. Before the end of a week the little girl had forgotten to feed him, and he lay dead in the bottom of his cage." "Yet that was an accident; the little girl was sorry, I am sure." "Her sorrow did not bring him to life again; and I could tell sadder stories--O, too sad stories for to-day!" Here yellow-bird stopped talking, and breathed forth a low, mournful song. The squirrel, hearing him, turned quickly: "This will never do! Why, friend, we're going to a feast, and not a funeral; pray give us some gladder music." "Excuse me, I never can sing so soon after eating," said yellow-bird, who was not willing to leave his new friend. As for Minnie, she had never stood so near a bird before in her life; and could not be satisfied with looking into yellow-bird's round eyes, and stroking the soft feathers on his neck. She had a hundred questions to ask; and he answered so graciously that she began to think she would rather live with those gentle creatures, the birds, than with her kind, but wild and frisky friends, the squirrels. You may remember it was Minnie's wish at first to live like a bird, on that morning--how long ago it seemed to her now!--when she had sat on her father's door-step, and watched a sparrow soar into the sky, and sing. They had not time for many words before reaching the water, which in one place spread to a little pond beneath the trees, and reflected the leafy branches on every side, and the sky, with its pearl-white clouds, and the sunshine that lay across it like a path of gold. An aged birch-tree, uprooted by the wind, had fallen into this pond. Its large and handsome boughs were still alive; and here flew oriole at once, singing as he alighted, and swung on the tip of a branch. The other birds followed through the air, except Minnie's friend, who walked quietly on with her. The squirrels bounded in a trice across the broad, white trunk of the tree. The mice and the moles followed them, and the rabbit was not far behind. The butterflies chose to hover above the sunny water in a flock. Then squirrel made a speech, thanking his guests for the honor they had done him in spending so much time at his poor feast. He was glad it had been in his power to make some return, by presenting to them so distinguished a guest. The rabbit took this compliment to himself; so he replied by assuring squirrel that the obligation was all on the part of his guests. In ending, he regretted that he had not chanced to meet earlier with such pleasant companions; the truth was, he had only an hour ago been able to rid himself of a gray squirrel, a rough, unmannerly fellow from the backwoods, whom he would have been ashamed to bring into such polite society. "Ha!" said squirrel, forgetting his dignity as host, "the very chap that honored us with his presence a little while, and boasted about his mighty friend, the rabbit." Rabbit folded his ears together very wisely at this, and replied: "A person who feels it necessary to boast of his friends, is never much in himself. Now, _I_ always feel that I'm as good as any of my acquaintance." "I wonder which is worse vanity," thought Minnie, "to boast of one's friends or one's self!" But here yellow-bird hopped upon a spray, and sang a delightful little song in honor of their fair guest, whom he compared to a flower, a little cloud, a soft willow-bud of the spring-time, a white strawberry, and many other things in which birds delight. The company were so pleased that they begged to hear the song again,--all except rabbit, who, finding his mistake at last, hopped further in among the leaves, and hid himself, feeling very much ashamed. Then yellow-bird, instead of repeating his first song, sang another, which was sweeter still. It told how full the world might be of love and happiness, how many such good times as this all creatures might have, if they would but be gentle and kind, willing to please, and ready to forgive. As the last note died away, oriole, impatient to show his skill, remarked that yellow-bird's song was too much like a sermon; and, without waiting for invitation, he then gave what seemed to him a better one. And it was enchanting music. O, so clear, and wild, and joyous, that it made the other birds lift their wings, and long to fly! Hearing a plunge in the water near, and a sigh of pleasure, Minnie looked down between the branches, and saw a handsome green frog, that had come to listen to the music; and swarms of little fish, with rainbow-colors on their silver scales, all listening too. So the afternoon passed in speeches and music. The squirrels, who could not sing, told stories that made the company laugh right heartily. Even Minnie took her part in the entertainment, by relating how people in the village lived, how they ate, and drank, and slept, and why they did many things which had puzzled the birds and squirrels amazingly. All this was as interesting to her listeners as it would be for us to read Robinson Crusoe, or Dr. Kane's travels among the icebergs and Esquimaux. Repeating their thanks to squirrel, and each one politely urging Minnie to visit him, the company now went home. Yellow-bird insisted upon taking Minnie on his wings, but soon found the little woman so heavy that he was satisfied to let her dance along by squirrel's side, and flew off to find his young. He had, too, a world to tell his mate about the merry feast, and the queer little lady in whose honor it was given. I am afraid all the birds and squirrels that were at the party kept their mates or their brothers and sisters awake that night, relating what they had seen and heard. Even the mice talked about it in their cellars under ground; and oriole did not sleep a wink, he worked so hard composing a song to Minnie's eyelashes. CHAPTER XIII. THE YELLOW-BIRD. At daybreak the next morning yellow-bird came with the indigo-bird and thrush, and awakened Minnie with their charming songs. Sunrise, you know, is the time birds always choose for serenades; and I am not sure they are wrong--everything is so fresh, and still, and dewy, then. She could hardly wait till the music was over before shaking away the moss in which she had slept, and going to bid her friends good-morning. Skipping fearlessly along the boughs,--for she had not forgotten squirrel's lessons,--just as the birds were preparing to fly away, Minnie surprised them with a sight of her merry face. They did not chat long, for Minnie could see that her friends were impatient for their morning sail up in the fresh blue air. So she begged them to fly away, while she would go to the squirrel-nest and find if breakfast was ready. She met squirrel, who, though much fatigued, and sometimes obliged to put his tail before his mouth in order to hide his gapes, was as civil as ever, and bade her a pleasant good-morning. His wife did not happen to be in so amiable a mood. Not only was she tired from all the work and anxiety of the day before, but Minnie's sweeping and dusting, she said, had put everything out of order in her nest. Besides this, the children had taken cold from staying out of doors so long, and the light of the sun had given them weak eyes. Minnie was troubled, and offered her help in making things go right again. "No," Mrs. Squirrel replied, "I have had enough of such help, and now you can best assist me by keeping out of the way." This was very rude, and brought tears into Minnie's eyes. It was bad enough, she thought, to be so far from home, but to be treated unkindly, and after she had worked so hard in hopes to please the squirrel, this was more than she could bear. Running so far from the nest that she could not hear the angry voice within, Minnie seated herself on the bough, and, all alone there, thought of her pleasant home, and the mother who was so ready to praise her when she did right, and just as ready to forgive her when she did wrong. She seemed to see Franky looking through the fence, waiting, and wondering if she would never come. Then she saw Allie open her large eyes, and, peeping between the bars of her crib, look all about the room, and stretch her little hands forth for Minnie, and no Minnie there! Even if she went back now, would they know her, shrunk as she was to a mere doll? Before she could reach her father's door, wouldn't the boys in the street pick up such a curious little being, and put her in a cage, or sell her, perhaps, to be killed and stuffed for some museum? "O, I haven't any home, or friends in all the world!" she said, and, covering her face with her little hands, Minnie sobbed as if her heart would break. "Hallo, there! what's the matter?" shouted young Master Squirrel from the bough above. "It can't be you're crying because the old woman is cross? Why, she'll be good as chestnuts by the time you see her again. Here, catch these nuts! she made me crack them for your breakfast." Minnie thanked the squirrel, but she could not eat. Her heart was too heavy. She hoped that, when the birds came back, they would not find her, for she was too much grieved to talk, or even listen to music. She had hardly drawn the leaves about her, when she saw the indigo-bird, and then the thrush, making their way towards the elm. Minnie held her breath, while they alighted and hopped from bough to bough, and turned their heads on one side to peer between the leaves, and sang little snatches of song, that she might hear and answer them. At last they flew away, and when oriole came, he had no better success. Then came yellow-bird, with a fresh ripe strawberry in his mouth. He also looked in vain, until, just as he was lifting his wings to go, his quick ear caught a sigh, so low that only loving ears would have heard it, and he flew at once to Minnie's feet. She still held the leaves fast, and yellow-bird was obliged to tear them with his beak before he could be certain that she was within. "Poor little soul! what is the matter?" he said, when he saw her sad face, wet with tears. Then Minnie put her arms around yellow-bird's neck, and told all her troubles. He did not speak a word until she had finished, when he exclaimed, "You shall not live with the squirrels any longer. Come to my own warm little nest on the other side of the elm. My mate will be glad to see you, and you shall have sunshine and music all day long. Tell me, Minnie, will you come?" He ended with a little strain of song, so sweet and pleading that Minnie could have kissed him for it, only, you know, a bird's mouth is rather sharp to kiss. She pleased him better by promising to go that very hour to his nest. CHAPTER XIV. IN A BIRD'S NEST. Yellow-bird's nest was all that he had promised. It was built on one of the outer boughs of the elm, deep enough among the leaves to be shady at noon, yet not so deep but in the cool of morning the sunshine could rest upon it. Then the view was much finer than that from squirrel's side of the tree. Minnie looked down upon fields of wild flowers all wet with dew, across at hills that rose grandly against the sky; and, better still, between the trees she caught a glimpse of the town, with its white spires and cottages. It was an important day with yellow-bird, for a whole brood of young ones were leaving his nest for the last time. He had taught them to sing and fly, had shown them where to find food, and given so much good advice, that now he did not feel afraid to trust them by themselves. He brought his children to see Minnie before they left, made them sing a little song of welcome and farewell, and then watched with pleasure as they flew into the wood, and soon were lost amid its shady boughs. Minnie asked if it did not make him sad to lose his treasures all at once. "O, no," he said; "if one of my chicks had been blind, or had grown up with a broken wing, and could not leave the nest, I well might grieve. Now that all has gone well, I'm only too glad to see them fly away." "But suppose that, when out of your sight, they fall into trouble or mischief?" "They are never out of God's sight. Cannot he take better care of them than a little bird like me? Ah, Minnie, it isn't best to fret! The smaller and weaker we are, the more care our heavenly Father takes of us." Yellow-bird's mate came now to see what her husband could be talking about, and invited Minnie to take a nearer look at her nest, which she had been industriously cleaning and mending since her children went. It was a smooth, cool bed of horse-hair and moss, set prettily amidst the thick green leaves. Slender roots and threads were woven across the outside, and what was Minnie's delight to find among them a scrap of one of her mother's dresses, which yellow-bird said he had picked up beneath a window in the village, for it was so soft, and covered with such bright flowers, he knew it must please his mate! Minnie felt that the nest would be dearer to her, and more like home than ever now. Yet she knew it was not civil to leave her good friends, the squirrels, without a word of good-by; so, lighter-hearted than when she left it, she skipped back to their den on the other side of the tree. She found the old lady's temper very much improved, perhaps because she had her nest in what she called order again. Minnie tumbled over nut-shells, tore her dress against thorny sticks, and, when she stretched her hand toward the wall, trying to rise, she felt cold mushrooms growing out of the crumbling wood. It was dark, too,--no prospect there,--and there was the old musty odor, which she remembered so well, instead of the sweet air and fresh green leaves above yellow-bird's nest; and there was the heap of sleepy young squirrels squeaking in a corner. "O, dear!" thought Minnie, "how could I ever have wished to live in a place like this?" Mrs. Squirrel was polite once more, and kindly offered her some luncheon, but did not ask her to stay. And, though surprised, she did not seem grieved when the little lady told her that she had come to say farewell. Not so squirrel himself, who was proud of Minnie, and fond of her, and felt so badly at parting, that his lips trembled too much to bid her good-by, and he ran off into a hole in the ground to hide his tears. "Dear squirrel! he has done the best he could for me," she thought; "and now, because he doesn't happen to have a pleasant home, I am about to leave him! I have a great mind to go back!" Just then a nut-shell dropped on her head, and, looking up, she saw Master Squirrel, who laughed at her surprise. Leaping a little nearer, he began: "So you've returned, Miss Runaway! My mother said it would be too good luck to lose you in a hurry. She was sure we should see you before the sun went down." "Then your mother doesn't like me?" "O, yes! she says you're a cunning little body, and mean no harm; but, like all company, you make a great deal of trouble, and do no one any good, that she can see." "What does your father say to that?" "He takes your part; tells her he's ashamed that she is not more hospitable; and then they quarrel well, I tell you!" "There shall be no more trouble on my account," said Minnie, with dignity. "I am going to live with my friends, the yellow-birds. I have bidden your father and mother good-by, and now good-by, squirrel; you have all been very kind to me." "No we haven't, Minnie; and I have been rudest of all; and you, so good, to be satisfied with our poor home!" "Dinner-time! plenty of checkerberry buds and juicy berries in the wood!" sang yellow-bird on a bough above. "Come, Minnie, come!" "Good-by, squirrel! Yellow-bird, here I am." "O, Minnie!" was all the answer squirrel could make. She left him wiping his eyes on his hairy paws--left him, and skipped away with her new friend. CHAPTER XV. MINNIE AND THE BIRDS. For a little while Minnie was very happy with the yellow-birds; they were gentle and loving as the days were long, and only disputed to know which should have the pleasure of doing most for their company. At home it was all sunshine and music, exactly as they had promised; and, when there was too much sun, they flew to the wood, where hundreds of other birds met also, and merrily passed the long, bright afternoons. It was like a party every day. Instead of needing to set a table each time, there was the whole wood, with its flowers, berries, gums, and spicy buds, spread out for them to take their choice. The wine bubbled up freshly from their cellar, and spread into bright wells wreathed with flowers. No need of corkscrews and coolers; yet, the best wine in the world never tasted so good, nor left such clear heads, and such merry, thankful hearts, as this simple water--the only drink the birds asked at this woodland feast. Minnie made friends among great and small, she was so sprightly, and ready to please, and so willing to be pleased herself. This last is a great secret in winning friends. If people find it hard to amuse us, they very soon grow tired of trying, and leave us to entertain ourselves. But Minnie had a pleasant word and a merry answer for every one. She did not laugh at the oriole for his foolish pride, nor at the ant for her stinginess and silence, nor at the bee for making such a bustle, nor at the indigo-bird for her diffidence. She knew it was their way, and only took care not to imitate their faults herself. Meantime she never was tired of admiring their better traits of character. Let the oriole be proud as he would; she knew that hardly any one else could sing such lovely songs as he was always twittering. Let the ant be ever so mean and dumb; who else had such an orderly house, and such a store of food? Let the bee buzz; couldn't he turn the poorest weeds into delicious honey, and set it in waxen jars of his own making, yet so neat, and delicate, and well contrived, that any man or woman might be proud of them? Let the indigo-bird be shy; once hidden among the leaves, wasn't she willing enough to trill forth the clearest, loudest, sweetest little songs? Ah! in this great wide world there is no creature but has some precious gift for us, if we can only find it. The little bird is weak, but his voice can fill the whole sky with music. You may know some rough boy who seems wicked; but be sure there's a good spot in his heart, and, by treating him kindly, we may make that good spot larger. Isn't it worth while to try? Though yellow-bird, after giving many lessons, found he could not teach Minnie to fly, he taught her so much that, by resting one hand on his neck, she could easily glide along with him through the air. In this way they fluttered from bough to bough in the wood, then took longer flights through sunny meadows, and at last ventured up among the clouds, where Minnie had longed to go. Up, up, they soared,--yellow-bird singing for joy,--till there was nothing around them except the bright blue air, and, close over their heads, rose the pearly morning clouds. Many a time had the little girl sat on her father's door-step, and longed to be where she now found herself. Many a summer morning she had watched these same clouds gather and wrap themselves together, till they looked like splendid palaces of pearl--pearly domes and spires dazzlingly bright in the sunshine, and porticos with pillars of twisted pearl; and, at little openings, she could look through vast halls, all paved with pearl, and curtained with silvery hangings. At sunset the roof of her beautiful palace had changed from pearl to silver, and all its spires were gilded; the silvery hangings changed to rose-color; the floor, instead of pearl, was paved with solid gold, and the pillars were made of shining amethyst. "O," Minnie had thought, "if, instead of this little house, with its dull, iron fence, I could live in such a noble home as that, how proud and happy I should be!" Then, as a man passed, with his ladder, to light the street-lamps, she wondered if hundreds of ladders tied together couldn't reach as far as the clouds. "How I would skip up the rounds," she thought, "and, when I had reached the highest, send my ladder tumbling back to earth! The ladder would break, so no one could follow me; and all day long I'd fly from hall to hall, or, through great winding staircases, find my way to the golden cupolas, where I could look down into the poor old dusty earth I had left." And now, without tying a hundred ladders together, here she was among the clouds. Alas! the pearly halls, that from below had looked so beautiful, were damp and dismal vapors. It was chilly and lonesome up there, while, wonderful to tell! the earth seemed a warmer, sunnier, more cheerful place than she had ever known it. There was the pretty town, with its surrounding hills and woods, with its winding rivers, and green fields, and tranquil lakes. In all the sky there was nothing half so beautiful! CHAPTER XVI. THE SQUIRREL'S TEAM. After the long sky-journey, Minnie was glad to reach her home in the elm once more. She was weary, wet, cold, and disappointed. She longed for the blazing fire in her mother's room, and the warm, pleasant drink her mother could mix for her. She longed to hear Frank's merry voice, and to see baby Allie with her golden curls. There was no use in longing. Even if yellow-bird should fly with her to the very window, they wouldn't know her. They would only laugh at the curious little creature she had grown, and hang her up in the cage with their canary-birds. So she would make the best of her home that was left, and not distress her kind friends by wearing a gloomy face. She was trying to smile, when a pleasant chirp told her that the yellow-bird's mate was near. She soon hopped into sight, and, welcoming Minnie in her kind way, told that she had an invitation from no less a person than his majesty, the owl. The party was made especially for Minnie; so she could not refuse, although it was to be held at midnight. Yellow-bird would go with her. "And you, too?" Minnie asked. "Excuse me, dear, this time. I feel obliged to stay at home." "So do I, then." "Ah, I will tell you a secret. I have in my nest some of the prettiest little eggs you ever saw. If I should leave them they might be chilled with the night-air; so never mind me, Minnie, but go and have the pleasantest time you can." "To tell another secret, then," Minnie answered, "my dress is not only worn to rags, but so soiled that I am ashamed of it, and cannot think of going into company. See what a plight!" And she held up the skirt that was torn into strips like ribbon. "Is that all? I watched to-day while a cruel boy was shooting in the wood. He fired at a poor little humming-bird, and broke its wing. It fluttered down among the bushes, and lies there now, I suppose, for I took care to call the boy away." "How?" "O, we understand. I cried out as if he had also wounded me; and, when he began to search, went slyly round into another place, and cried again. So I led the boy on, till I felt pretty sure he could not find his game if he went back." "But why did you take so much pains?" "Partly so that he should not carry the pretty little creature home, and send half the boys in town out here, next day, hunting humming-birds, and partly because I thought the feathers would make you such a warm, handsome cloak. Fly with me, now, and we'll find it; for here comes my mate, to take his turn in staying with the nest." They quickly reached the bush, under which humming-bird lay dead; but how heavy he was! It was as much as ever Minnie could do to lift him from the ground. While they stood over him, wondering what was next to be done, Master Squirrel frisked in sight, rolling before him a large, round turtle-shell. "Stand out of the way!" he shouted. But Minnie stood across his path, and, for fear of throwing her down, he stopped; and, leaning on his shell, not very good-naturedly asked what she wanted. "O, squirrel, do leave your play a little while, and help us!" she said. "We have this heavy bird to carry home, and skin, and make the skin into a cloak, while the daylight lasts; do be kind, now, and help us!" "It isn't my way to be kind; but I'll make a bargain with you." "Well." "Yellow-bird shall fix a harness out of straw, fasten you into my shell for a horse, and I will drive home with your load." "That's a good plan," said Minnie, not waiting to think how squirrel had kept the best of the bargain for his own share. "What say you, yellow-bird?" "Poor little woman! after such a long journey you are too tired to drag this great fellow home. I will do it myself." "Then I will help you twist the ropes." To work they went, and soon had the harness finished. Squirrel, meantime, selected a good long twig for a whip, laid the humming-bird across the shell, and leaped into his place. He could hardly wait for the harnessing to be ended; but Minnie made him stay until he had promised only to snap his whip in the air, not use it on yellow-bird, and they darted on. CHAPTER XVII. THE MOONLIGHT DANCE. Minnie tripped behind, watching the little team. She had grown so nimble that she could keep nearer than squirrel thought. When he supposed he was out of sight from her, he lifted his whip, and gave yellow-bird a smart stroke across his shoulders. But she knew how to punish him;--spreading her wings at once, she rose into the air, and made the deceitful squirrel roll out of his chariot. He was ashamed to see Minnie after this, so limped away, whining that he had broken his paw, and would tell his mother. Then yellow-bird sung one of her droll little songs, that were like twenty laughs shaken together, and, when Minnie came, begged her to take the squirrel's place, and drive home. The little woman was too thoughtful of her kind friend for that. She went behind and pushed, while yellow-bird dragged the shell, and they soon had it safe beneath the elm. Then they slipped off the humming-bird's skin in a trice, hung it a while on the sunny side of the elm to dry, and Minnie's good friend pulled out from among the twigs of the nest that dear piece of her mother's dress, and gave it to her for a lining. You never saw a prettier and more fairy-like little garment than this when it was finished; the tiny feathers all lay together so evenly, and whenever the wearer moved they took such brilliant hues! Now the cloak was red, now brown, now green and gold, and again it glittered with all these colors at once. Minnie had always seemed like a bird, with her quick, light, flying ways, and more than ever she seemed one now, with her gay feather cloak, and the fluttering, sailing motions she had caught from yellow-bird. Mrs. Yellow-bird, having put the last stitch in Minnie's cloak, fastened it about her neck, and looked at her guest with great satisfaction. Then, at a chirp, her mate came, and readily consented to be Minnie's escort; so away they flew together. The evening was mild, and clear moonlight filled the wood. Owl had chosen a lovely green dell in which to meet his friends, and had fitted it up with taste, and no little pains. All among the bushes and lower boughs of the trees he had tied live fire-flies and bright green beetles. He had built for the dance a tent of bark, and had sanded the floor with a curious dust that is found in the wood countries, and is like pale coals of fire. The birds dared not step on this fiery carpet at first, for fear of singeing their feet; but owl assured them that it had no warmth. As for the fire-fly lanterns, it must be confessed that the birds' mouths watered in passing them, but they were too civil to eat up their host's decorations. There was an orchestra of crickets, and they played such merry tunes that the guests all danced and waltzed till they were tired, and then it was supper-time. Alas! owl had not been so thoughtful as the squirrels, and had only furnished such food as he liked himself. You may judge the surprise and disgust of the company, when, to the music of the band, they were marched in front of a heap of dead mice! The owl began to eat at once, and begged his guests not to be diffident. Not one of them tasted a morsel, however. Some politely refused, some went home angry, and a few had the courage to own that they were not fond of mouse-flesh. Thus owl's party ended, and, indeed, all his parties, for, the next time he sent out invitations, every bird in the wood respectfully declined. If we think of no one but ourselves, we shall soon be left to ourselves. CHAPTER XVIII. THE LITTLE NURSES. Minnie almost fell asleep on her way back to the elm, and found it hard to keep up with yellow-bird, who flew on briskly as ever. Her long morning journey, the labor and hurry of making her cloak, as well as the effort to bring the humming-bird home, and the party afterwards, the dancing and late hours, tired her so much--so much that she feared all the rest in the world would not make her strong again. And when the tree was reached, Minnie's friends did not, as usual, offer her their nest. They must keep it now for the eggs. Cold and weary as she was, the little girl must lie down among damp leaves, with no other bed than a mossy place which she found on the rough bark of the elm. In the morning she still felt tired, lame, and stiff, yet her spirits came back with the sunshine, and when she told yellow-bird she had not strength enough to fly away with him, he stayed and sung to her a while, and afterwards brought her delicious berries from the wood, all sweet and ripe, and cool with dew. With such an attentive friend to supply her wants, it was not very hard to sit quietly upon her couch of moss, so green and velvety, with sunshine all about her on the leaves, and the pleasant prospect below. You will remember that the tree was full of inhabitants, and our Minnie had made friends with almost all of them. When well and active, she had never passed them without a pleasant word, or at least a nod of welcome; and, now that she was sick, they were most happy to sit and talk with her, or offer their assistance. They brought her presents, each in his kind. The bee came up from among the clover-blossoms, to place clear drops of honey on the leaf beside his little friend. The silent ant stopped a moment to tell the news, and presented a morsel of sugar which she had hoarded in her nest till it was brown with age. Indigo-bird brought a berry, blue as his wings. Some of the birds brought good fat angle-worms or snails, which would be dainty morsels to them. These Minnie laid aside for her friend Mr. Yellow-bird, although she thanked the givers politely, as if what they brought were her own favorite food. This was not deceitful, because what Minnie enjoyed was the thoughtful kindness of her friends, and not their gifts. The berries were sweet, to be sure, but their friendship was sweeter. Master Squirrel came among the rest. He and a spider of his acquaintance had made Minnie a beautiful parasol, with the humming-bird's bill for a handle, and a wild rose for the top. The pink cup of this flower, turned downward as it was, cast such a glow upon Minnie's pale face, that Master Squirrel thought he had never before seen her look so handsome. Soon, tired of listening to his coarse compliments, the little girl asked what else it was that he kept so nicely covered in his hands. "O, that's my mother's offering!" he replied. "How the old woman would have scolded if I had forgotten to give it to you!" "Pray, let me have it. How kind your mother always is!" "Except when her nest is too clean, eh? Well, she saw me working over the humming-bird's carcass, and thought, as the meat was fresh, perhaps you'd like a scrap cooked for your dinner." "Cooked meat! O, I haven't tasted a morsel since I left my father's house!" said Minnie, in delight. "Where could your mother have found the fire, though?" "Not far off the woods are burning,--took fire in the dry season, as they often do,--and there were plenty of coals; so madam cut off the humming-bird's wing, and broiled it--O, my!--till it smells so nice that it made my mouth water to bring it to you!" He lifted the cover, and there, on a green leaf, lay the dainty wing, all crisp and smoking now. Minnie relished her dinner more than words can tell. CHAPTER XIX. MOUSE. Before Minnie was strong again, yellow-bird's eggs hatched, and both he and his mate were busy and anxious, all the time, with taking care of their nest full of little ones. She did not see her friends so often as formerly, and, when they came, their visits were hurried and short. And, one by one, her other acquaintances grew forgetful, for birds and insects don't have such good memories as we, you know. Each was occupied with his own cares and amusements. Perhaps the truth was that they had grown tired of Minnie, as you grow tired, in time, of your prettiest playthings. She felt all these changes. She remembered sadly what Master Squirrel had said, that his mother thought company a great deal of trouble, and herself, though a cunning body, of no use to any one. What if yellow-bird and his mate should begin to feel the same? She determined not to stay and trouble them any longer, after they both had been so kind; but where in the great world could she go for a home? Who would feed, and comfort, and love her? Ah! how sadly she remembered the dear mother who had made it all her care to watch over and supply her children's wants! Every creature in the wood had a home and friends, except herself! And yet none of these homes were so pleasant, none of these friends so sweet and loving, as the ones she had foolishly thrown away. "Ah!" thought Minnie, as in the dusky twilight she lay swinging on a lonely bough of the elm, "Ah! if I could whisper loud enough for every little boy and girl on earth to hear, I'd say, 'Be happy in your own home, with your own friends; for there are no others like them--none, none, none!'" Though these sad feelings were weighing on the heart, the rocking of the bough and sighing of the evening wind among the leaves lulled Minnie soon asleep. She awoke in a terrible storm. She was drenched with rain, which pelted like pebbles, in sharp, quick drops, beating the leaves, while the wind dashed the boughs together, and made Minnie fear that, though clinging with all her strength to the branch, she must fall. And she did fall into the wet grass far below, and was stunned, perhaps, for she did not awake until morning. Then the sun shone brightly once more, the elm above her glittered with sparkling drops, and the first sound which Minnie heard was yellow-bird's song of joy that his little ones were safe after all the wind and rain. "He has forgotten me, or he would not be so glad!" she whispered to herself. Then came the thought, "Perhaps he is happier because I am swept away out of his sight!" and with this she began to cry. "What's the matter?" asked a little mouse, that was running about in the grass, picking up worms and flies which had perished in the rain. "What's the matter? Have my proud cousins, the squirrels, been treating you badly again?" "No, they all do more for me than I can do for them; but, dear little mouse, I've stayed in the woods too long. Every one is tired of me. Couldn't you show me the way back to my mother's house?" "Why, Minnie, _I_ am not tired of you. Pray, don't go home yet. Come and make me a visit in my snug little hole, so quiet underground. No storms reach there. I shall not whisk you about as squirrel has done; nor take you long, weary journeys through the air, like yellow-bird. I'll bring you cheese, and meal, and melon-seeds, till you grow rosy as your little sister Alice." "My sister! What can you know about her, pray?" "Wasn't I at your house this morning? I have, not far from this very wood, a passage-way underground that leads into your mother's pantry. Come to my nest, and you'll hear news from home." CHAPTER XX. HOUSEKEEPING. Minnie gladly followed the mouse into his hole. To see some one who had been in her dear lost home, was almost as good as to feel her mother's gentle hand laid on her head once more. In the promised news she was disappointed! Alas! the mouse disappointed her in many things. Minnie had not lived with him long before she found that she had fallen into bad company. He was good-natured and hospitable in his way, but a sad thief, and his word could never be depended upon. The little girl even felt afraid of her own safety, when she saw what pleasure mouse took in betraying all who trusted in him. The first time she fell asleep, the mischievous fellow nibbled off what rags were left of her gown, to make a bed for his young. Minnie feared that next he might pick out her eyes for their luncheon, and determined to leave him before it should be too late. But it seemed as if the sly mouse saw into her mind, for, as she was composing her farewell speech, he came running out in the grass where she had seated herself, and said, in his squeaking voice, "Minnie, will you do me a great favor?" "I shall be glad to do anything in my power," was the reply. "Well, you didn't seem satisfied with the news I brought from home, and so I have resolved to go and try if I cannot pick up some more." "I suppose you won't pick up any of my mother's cheese and pie-crust?" said Minnie, laughing. "Of course not; at least, not more than enough to pay for my trouble in going. And now, Minnie dear, I want you to take care of my little ones while I'm gone,--to feed them, and see that they don't roll out of their nest." "That I will do very willingly." Mouse scampered away, and Minnie little thought how long it would be before she should see him again. The nest was narrower, deeper, and darker, than squirrel's, and quite as close and disorderly. It was hard for Minnie to crowd herself through the entrance; but, once within, she found paths winding in every direction, some of them ending in little chambers. Part of these rooms were store-houses of grain, cheese, and all manner of rubbish, which mouse must have stolen for the pleasure of stealing, Minnie thought, it was so wholly useless. The other rooms had each its brood of little mice, of all sizes and ages, some almost as large as the mother, some not much larger than a fly. It took the whole afternoon to wander from one room to another, explaining where the mother had gone, comforting those that began to fret, feeding the hungry, quieting the quarrelsome. Glad enough was Minnie when she had tucked up the last brood in their bed of wool, and could creep out into the grass for a breath of air and a look at the pleasant sky. Shaking the earth from her cloak of humming-bird feathers, and picking a handful of checkerberries, Minnie looked about for a stone to sit upon while she ate her supper. She soon found one, smooth as any pebble in the brook. Here she could eat at her leisure, while a band of crickets and katydids played to her, and all the beautiful stars twinkled over her head, and all the grass about her was strung with glistening drops of dew. "After all," she thought, "this is more to my taste than being shut up in my curtained bed at home. What's the use in stars and dew, if we never look at them? What use is there in the evening breeze, if we shut it out with our windows? It's a good thing to have our own way, and I may yet be glad that I left my father's house." CHAPTER XXI. TROUBLE FOR MINNIE. As Minnie sat meditating, suddenly the grass about her seemed to move. The long blades bent this way and that, and shook their dew-drops over her. What could this mean? Had the grass feet? Could it draw its roots up out of the ground and walk? Why, _she_ was moving! The grass behind lay bowed together in her pathway, and here she was, seated close under an evening primrose, which opened its yellow blossoms so far from the mouse-nest that she had only felt their fragrance when the wind blew. Presently something like the head of a great snake was stretched out from under her seat. Minnie sprang up at once, and, climbing into the primrose branches, wondered if she were awake or asleep, that such strange things should happen. Then the snake's head disappeared, and a low voice spoke from under the stone, "Why do you leave me? I live in a pleasanter place than the mouse, and am myself more honest and agreeable. Will not the little woman make me a visit?" "Why, what's your name, and where did you come from? and are you a stone, or something alive? and is that snake's head a part of you?" said Minnie, half frightened, and half amused. "What you are so polite as to call a snake's head is my own, and what you call a stone is my shell, and I am a turtle, Miss Minnie," the voice answered, with dignity. "Pray, don't be angry with me, turtle; I meant no harm. Now the moonlight has come, I can see the beautiful golden stars on your back; and, now my fright is over, I remember what a pleasant ride you took me through the grass." "You shall have as many such rides as you want, if only you'll come and stay with me by the side of the brook." Here was the very opportunity Minnie had wished, to find a safer home; but she could not forget her promise to the mouse, and leave the little ones to suffer. When she told turtle this, he said that she was perfectly right, and, creeping back with his load to the entrance of the nest, and finding the mouse was still away, he left Minnie, promising that by sunrise in the morning he would return for her. Accustomed as she had long been to the shelter of the elm-leaves, the dampness rising from the ground made Minnie sneeze so violently that the crickets stopped playing to listen. She was glad to go, at last, inside of the nest, and sleep in one of the close little rubbish-rooms. At daylight she was awakened by a small brown beetle running up and down her arm. Rubbing her eyes, she asked, rather sharply, why he could not let her sleep in peace. "The turtle wants to know why you don't keep your promises. He has been waiting this half hour, and sends word that it is a shame for you to sleep away the beautiful morning hours." Minnie sprang to her feet at once, and was following the beetle, when squeak, squeak! ho, hallo! wait a minute, Minnie! came from every room she attempted to pass. She found that mouse had not kept her promise of coming home, and, sending a message to the turtle, she was obliged to wait and hear a hundred questions and complaints, and settle a hundred disputes between the quarrelsome young ones. One had pushed the other out of bed; one had trodden on the other's tail; one tickled the other so that he could not sleep; one snored so loud it made another nervous; one had eaten up the other's grain. As Minnie crept about in this dark, disagreeable place, so full of angry voices, she remembered that lost home of hers, where all was peace and love. She remembered dear Franky, with his rosy cheeks and curly hair,--the good, generous little fellow that he was; and baby Alice, with her large brown eyes; and the kind parents who never went away and forgot _their_ little ones. Then she rummaged the store-rooms for food; and, not finding enough to satisfy the greedy mice, crept out into the air to see if she could not pick up something for their breakfast. She saw no turtle. The grass was bent still with his foot-tracks, but he was gone. So Minnie went busily to work picking off seeds and berries, and the honeyed end of clover-blossoms, till she had such a heap that it seemed to her she could never carry it all into the nest. Then thinking, "Perhaps, if I set the mice at work, it will stop their quarrelling," she called out several of the elder broods. CHAPTER XXII. TROUBLE STILL. The young mice seemed obedient to Minnie until they had reached the entrance of the nest; but, at the first taste of fresh air, they began to frisk about, and do whatever they chose. First they attacked her heap of food, and ate all the choicest bits which she had saved for the little ones. Then off they ran, this, that, and every way, Minnie calling after them in vain. She went in search of the runaways, but they hid safely under the leaves and grass, or burrowed into the ground. Tired and discouraged, the poor girl turned back to collect what food was left, and give it to the little ones. And still the old mouse did not come home. Minnie wondered if she had gone on purpose to be rid of her family, and if she must herself have the care of bringing up this great brood of noisy, troublesome mice. Why not let them starve? If they grew up, it would only be to cheat and steal, like their mother, and run away with people's meal and cheese. Ah! but Minnie had promised. And, besides, the old mouse had been kind in her way, and had offered Minnie a home when other friends forsook her. No, she would not desert the little ones. All at once she remembered a trap that used to stand in her mother's pantry; suppose the mouse was caught in it! She would go this instant, and see. Now the underground pathway was very, very narrow, and so close and warm that three times Minnie gave up her attempt, and as many times went back; for, when she thought that the friend who had fed her might be starving, it was enough to drive away all other thoughts. Still, not being a mouse, she could not breathe in that close cellar-way. Her strength all left her. The little heart, that had beat so fast when she thought of going home, home, only fluttered faintly now. She began to feel that she could not even creep back to the mouse-nest; that this dark passage was to be her grave. But one step forward brought Minnie into a good-sized room, and what was her surprise to find this the nest of the father-mouse! He didn't like the noise and trouble of children, he said, and so kept away from the sound of their voices. He hoped his mate was well, and was just on the point of going to see what had become of her. When Minnie told her fears, he uttered a frightened squeak, and said he was sure she must be right, and that he was a poor, lonesome widower, and should never see his dear, dear wife again. Minnie cheered him by telling that her mother's trap was not one of the cruel ones with teeth, but only a box with wires, in which his wife might live safely for several days. Then she explained how with his teeth and paws he could open the door and set her free. Away flew the mouse, first showing his friend a nearer and easier pathway out into the air. Minnie now began to consider how displeased the mother-mouse would be, on returning, to find her children scattered in all directions. If she could but call them together, and see them safe in the nest once more, bid the old mice good-by, and ride off quietly herself on the turtle's back, how happy she would be! She climbed the tall evening primrose, and looked on every side, but not a sign of a mouse. She leaped into the grass again, and, with the stick of her parasol, stirred every tuft of clover and bunch of violet or plantain leaves. In vain. Minnie had made up her mind that they were lost, drowned in the brook, or eaten by some bird of prey, when she caught sight of one, with his bright eyes and sharp little nose peeping up from under a toadstool. Then she knew that all the rest must be near, and, jumping on top of the toadstool, she said, "You mischievous fellows, I dare say you are all laughing at me in your hiding-places; but hear this! your mother is dead, perhaps, and as sure as you stay out of your nest at night, some mischief will come to you. I shall waste no more time in this search." Wasn't it ungrateful in the mice to disobey Minnie, when she had taken so much trouble for their sakes? And yet I have known children whose parents took as much pains for their sake, and who were as thoughtless and disobedient as Minnie's mice. CHAPTER XXIII. FREE AT LAST. When Minnie returned to the nest, whom should she meet but mouse in the midst of her little ones? The mate was there also. He had come partly to help home his wife,--who had lamed her foot in the trap,--and partly to boast of his wonderful courage and ingenuity in setting her free. Both were very profuse in their thanks to Minnie; for the young mice had already told of her kindness and care. Minnie interrupted their thanks to ask the news from home. This, mouse had half forgotten in her flight. She only remembered how, after the trap shut down upon her, the pantry-door had opened, and a lady came in. "Tell me exactly how she looked," said Minnie. "She wore a gown of pink muslin, and pink ribbons in her hair." "O, that was my own mother! How I wish I had been in your place!" "I wished so too. When she lifted her hand and took down a jar of sweetmeats, that stood close by the trap, I felt sure she'd see me, and have me killed. O, how I trembled! It was as much as ever I could do to keep from squeaking when I thought of my mate, and all the little ones." "Was my mother alone?" "No; a little boy came with her, and watched while she took the sweetmeats out into a dish. Before closing the jar, I saw her give him a taste of the delicious pine-apple." "How did you know it was pine-apple?" "O, after my mate had set me free, we waited to lap up a few drops that trickled down the side of the jar. We know the taste of good things! Was that boy your brother?" "No; it was dear Franky, my playfellow, who lives at the other side of the fence. Didn't he say anything?" "He asked the lady if she supposed Minnie was where she could have nice pine-apple for tea. I couldn't hear the answer, for they both left the pantry then." "My generous Franky! He always thought more of others than himself." "Don't cry, dear, and I'll call you my generous Minnie. Think! if you had not been so kind, all our little ones might have starved." "Yes; and my own wife might have dried up into a skeleton in that dreadful trap!" said the father-mouse. "How glad we are that we have such a kind friend to live with us always!" Alas, it was hard for Minnie now to tell that she meant to leave their nest! But, hearing the slow steps of turtle brush through the grass above, she thanked the mice for their good-will, and hurried out into the sunshine, to meet her new and faithful friend. As for the mice, they were so taken by surprise, that at first they could only look after her, without saying a word. But, before she had reached the brook, Minnie heard a squeaking and scrambling underground; and, from a little opening, which she had not seen before, up darted mouse and her mate, trembling with anger, and talking so noisily, both at once, that she could not make out what either said. Meantime turtle, who had little respect for mice, kept on at his steady, slow pace, through the grass. As Minnie was mounted on his back, the mice were obliged to travel also, in order that she might hear their complaints and reproaches. For they had forgotten all about gratitude, now, and could only grieve over the missing broods of young. As soon as Minnie discovered this, she begged turtle to wait a moment, that she might tell her side of the tale; but on he jogged, and, when the mice would not be still, snapped at them so fiercely with his snaky head, that they both scampered home in fright. They had not grieved for naught. Four of the truants had drowned themselves in attempting to cross the brook; two had been eaten by a crow; and the rest were snapped up at a mouthful, by a spaniel, that happened to run through the field. CHAPTER XXIV. TURTLE. You remember Minnie was a restless little soul; and will not be surprised to learn that she had not lived with the turtle long before his slow ways tired her. He was stubborn and disobliging, too. If he started for a place, she couldn't make him turn one inch aside; but on, on, on he crept at the same slow pace,--no matter whether Minnie were wet, and half-frozen with rain, or parched with sunshine,--on, on, till he reached his goal. Still he was always quiet and dignified, had no quarrels with his neighbors, and seemed to treat his little guest as well as he knew how. It is true he surprised her in disagreeable ways sometimes. If he saw a pool of deep mud by the road-side he would wallow through it, sadly soiling Minnie's fine cloak of humming-bird feathers. She knew he was partial to mud, and would not have blamed him so much had this excursion been all; but, instead of going back to the grass, where she might wipe herself clean, he would mount some slanting log that rose out of the water, and stand there sunning himself for hours. One day, a gentleman, who was driving past in a chaise, saw Minnie and the turtle perched thus on a log, and stopped to examine the curious object. Turtle drew his head inside of his shell at once, and left poor Minnie to her fate. Now it happened that the traveller was a great naturalist, and especially fond of collecting turtles. He had hundreds of them, snapping at each other, and scrambling over each others' backs, in his yard at home. Still he was always on the watch for a new specimen; and here was a famous one, he thought. Springing from his chaise, the gentleman ran to the other side of the brook, and was walking cautiously toward them, when turtle thought it time to look out for his own safety. So, dropping from the log, he disappeared in the thick, muddy bottom of the brook. The naturalist went back, disappointed, to his chaise. Minnie, in passing, caught at some iris-leaves, and clung to them. As soon as she could wipe the water from her mouth, she called out, "Allow me to bid you good-by, Mr. Turtle. I think I can take as good care of myself as you've taken of me thus far, and henceforth I will save you the trouble." "What's that? I'm rather thick of hearing," said turtle, from under the mud. "Good-by, that's all!" And, by the time he had reached the end of his log once more, Minnie was floating down the brook on a pond-lily leaf, diving every now and then to cleanse herself from the mud which turtle had dragged her through. "Why shouldn't I live by myself? Where's the use in giving others so much trouble?" she said now. "Why cannot I play with the flowers and butterflies, run races with the ripples, and bright little fishes, in the brook; or sleep on any bank of moss, or in any empty bird's nest that I can find? At least, let me try; and, if I grow hungry or lonesome, there are enough good people to take me in." CHAPTER XXV. MINNIE'S WINGS. Now came the most beautiful and happiest part of Minnie's wandering life. So nimble was she, and ready for sport, and so droll, and withal so gentle and ready to oblige, that she made friends on every side. Wherever she went you'd be sure to find a flock of butterflies, or bees, or birds, about her. They taught her all the pretty sports which they had practised among themselves; once more she flew across the meadows with the birds, fed on the fresh, clear honey of the bee, and played hide-and-seek with butterflies. Sometimes the butterflies lifted her far up into the air. How do you suppose they contrived to do it, with their slender wings, which even the wind could break? Minnie told them that, in her father's house stood a statue, with wings on the wrists and feet. This was Mercury, whom the Greeks in old times worshipped as one of their many gods. Now, she thought the butterflies might make a little Mercury of her. No sooner had she said as much than a beautiful pair, spreading wings large enough for sails to her lily-leaf boat, floated through the sunshine to settle upon the little woman's shoulders. Then followed smaller ones, with blue, white, and yellow wings; and, fastening themselves to her ankles and wrists, up, up, they all flew together! But the next day Minnie found her little friends creeping about with their wings sadly sprained. So she would not often let them repeat this experiment. O, I should have to write a larger book than this to tell you what good times Minnie had with the butterflies; into what pleasant places they were always leading her; how gentle and playful they were, and how their wings were perfumed with the flowers they had lived among. She loved to have them follow her when she walked, especially that little golden kind you have often seen in the meadows. Some followed, some fluttered on before, as if she were a little queen, and they her body-guard. There were no angry voices now, no envious neighbors; no Master Squirrel came to repeat disagreeable stories. Instead of that stifled squirrel-hole in the elm, she had the sweet air of heaven about her now. Instead of that crowded yellow-bird's nest, where Minnie had felt in the way, she had now the wide meadow, with room enough in its soft, green lining, for herself and all her friends. But, alas! Minnie was the one, this time, to cause trouble and discontent. Only to gratify her wilful temper, she did what she would have given half the world to undo afterwards. It was a little thing,--you would hardly call it wicked; and yet it grieved and drove away her gentle friends, and would have cost her own life, but for an accident. These _little things_ make half the mischief in the world. CHAPTER XXVI. HIDE-AND-SEEK. One afternoon, tired of playing in the hot sun, Minnie thought she would creep under some shady cluster of leaves, and sleep. But the butterflies could never have play enough, and the hotter the sunshine, the better for them. So they did not understand that the little girl needed rest, and, thinking her weariness only make-believe, would not give her any peace. They ran across her hands, they tickled her cheeks with their feathery feelers, they pelted her with buttercups, and at last began to cover her over with leaves of the wild rose. So full of mischief were they, that one could no more sleep, while they were about, than if they'd been so many bees. At first Minnie tried to be good-natured, and laugh at their pranks; but, warm and tired as she was, you cannot wonder that her patience didn't last. Some children would have roughly driven the butterflies away--have pelted them with stones, perhaps, and broken their beautiful wings. But Minnie could not forget how kind they had been; and besides, you know, they were not such little things to her as they seem to us; they were almost as large as herself. She only arose, and, turning her back, would not speak to them, or spoke in such a snappish manner that the butterflies were frightened, and flew away. Left alone, she espied, near the wood, something that looked like a side-saddle, just large enough for a little body like herself. She sprang to see if there were a tiny horse to fit, and thought how quickly he should gallop off with her, so far that the butterflies could not follow--no, not if they wore their wings off! But the saddle proved only to be a flower, so much like a wadded leather cushion, that Minnie took her seat upon it, and was swaying back and forth with its tall, stiff stem, when she noticed that it was surrounded by a row of leaves more curious, even, than the flower. Each leaf was like a little pitcher, with such great ears that Minnie wondered if it were not the very kind she had heard her mother talk about, when she was whispering secrets. There they stood, like the forty jars in which Ali-Baba caught the forty thieves, in the Arabian Nights. "Here's a place to hide!" She had hardly said it, when the butterflies came in sight, and Minnie slipped into the tallest pitcher, unseen by them, she thought. But no--they found her; and now was Minnie's time to laugh. Fold their wide wings together, crumple them as they might, not one of the butterflies could crowd himself through the narrow neck of the pitcher. They could only stand and look down wistfully at the roguish face within. "I'm glad to see you! shake hands!" said Minnie, shaking their slender wrists till they begged her to be still. "Ah! Minnie, not so rough! Come, now, don't be cross any longer. Come out and play with us!" "Don't you wish I would? Don't you wish you could catch me?" was all the answer she made. "But we've found a bee that a bird killed, and we saved the honey-bag for you." In vain they urged. Minnie was very stubborn. She laughed at the butterflies, and teased them, until they were offended, and, one by one, flew back to the brook. And, now that she had leisure to look about, the little girl found herself in an uncomfortable place. Not only was the pitcher half full of water, but so narrow that she could hardly move, and lined with stiff hairs, that seemed like thorns to tiny hands like hers. She would not stay here. But how to escape was the question! She only climbed the sides to slip back again; her arms were scratched till they bled; her garments were heavy with the water in which they drabbled. Night was coming down; she could hear the crickets sing; she caught glimpses of birds flying home to their nests; yet all were so noisy or so busy that they could not hear her voice. How she wished, now, that her rudeness had not driven the butterflies away! But it was too late for such wishes; they had gone. CHAPTER XXVII. MINNIE IN PRISON. Minnie thought the night would never end. She watched the stars that moved so slowly overhead; she watched the moonlight slant into the wood, and the pale flowers fill with dew. She heard the night wind creep among the leaves; and her old friend the owl, and other wild creatures that hide by day, she heard prowling about in the dark. Sometimes there would be a quick cry, or a patter of light little feet, or the dull hoot of the owl; and then all was still again, and Minnie gazed once more to see how far the stars had moved. O, it was such a little way, and they had so far to go before the sun would shine again! At last she fell asleep from very weariness, and awoke to find a faint red light above the eastern hills. It was morning--morning! Another hour would see the sun rise, and bring some friend, perhaps, to help her away from her prison. When some kind friend awakens you at sunrise on a summer morning, and, feeling drowsy, you long to turn and sleep again, and wish daylight would never come, you must suppose that you were in Minnie's place, and see then if you do not find it easier to spring from your beds. Because the sunshine comes to us so freely, we must not forget how precious and beautiful it is. Suppose the darkness, instead of lasting for one night, should last whole months, as it does at the far north. What a damp, dismal world it would be! How we should grope from place to place, and, sitting in our houses by the flicker of poor lamps, how we should long for the sunshine--for the beaming, generous light and pleasant warmth that spread now over all the land! The birds began to rustle among the boughs, or, half asleep still, sing short dreamy songs upon their nests; but Minnie could not make them hear her little voice, and had resolved to call no more, but drown or starve, if she must, when a humming-bird came wheeling and buzzing by. He was such a noisy fellow himself, that, like the rest, he might have passed on without noticing Minnie's cry, but he paused to drink at the pitcher, where he knew that water was hid; and what was his surprise to find an old acquaintance there! Minnie was always ready for a joke; so she popped up her head like the little men you have seen shut into boxes, that, when the cover is lifted, start up and frighten you. She knew very well that if humming-bird flew away at first, his curiosity would lead him back again. She laughed to see how quickly he flitted into the wood, and then how cautiously he came forth, and, from bough to bough and plant to plant, made his way to her side once more. Then Minnie's face grew serious, as she told her little friend how much she had suffered and feared through the long, long night, and begged that he would help her to escape. He was not half strong enough to lift her, though he tried till his bill ached with dragging at her tangled hair. And this work, if hard to him, was not, as you may judge, the most agreeable to Minnie. She persuaded the humming-bird to leave her for a while, and see if he could not find help, or, at least, find something for her to eat. It happened that, in seeking food for Minnie, the bird found something of which he was especially fond himself; so, after eating his fill, he went humming across the meadow, never thinking again of the friend he had promised to help. Very impatiently the little girl expected him every moment, until an hour had passed, and still she waited, hungry and alone. Then came a great flapping of wings overhead, and a rustling such as she had once heard when a hawk flew into her father's poultry-yard. He had eaten the white chicken that she called her own, and it was as large as she was now. Suppose he should eat her! The rush of wings came nearer, and the bird, whatever his name might be, alighted close beside Minnie, who ventured to peep over the edge of her pitcher, and beheld a curious, tall, awkward creature, such as she had never seen before in her life. She coughed to attract his attention, and he turned toward her a bill as long as her own arm was once, and began to stalk about on legs longer, even, than his bill, and that looked like a pair of stilts. CHAPTER XXVIII. NARROW ESCAPES. "It's a pleasant morning for a walk," Minnie ventured to say. Her visitor answered with a croak so rough that she couldn't tell whether he agreed with her or not. But, taking a long step, the stork came nearer, and looked directly down into Minnie's prison, and upon the little, tired, mournful, frightened face. "Pray, don't hurt me! I have lost my way, and fallen into this dreadful place." "Why do you stay here, if it is not pleasant?" "O, I cannot climb out, I'm so small; and the sides are so slippery, and all these thorns so rough!" Then, without waiting to be asked, the stork broke the leaf-stem, and, turning it upside down, shook Minnie out into the grass. It was so good to stretch herself in the pleasant sunshine, that Minnie folded her hands, and lay there quietly as if she was asleep, or dead. The stork travelled around her on his stilts, and Minnie heard him say, "In all my flying, I never came across such an odd little creature before; it looks like a woman, yet isn't larger than a bird. Its feathers are like a humming-bird's, and yet they are pretty well worn out. I wonder how it happens!" With this he began to poke and pull at her cloak; finally, off it came, and stork held it up in the sun for examination. Then he eyed the little silk apron her mother had made, and twitched it by one corner, till Minnie began to think he would eat her piece by piece. So, the first time he turned his head away, she sprang to her feet, and, without once looking behind, ran, leaped the fences and the fallen boughs, and, reaching her home by the brook-side, hid under the shadow of a stone. And high above her, she watched the stork beating the air with his heavy wings, and sailing on out of sight. After eating some savory roots, which the mouse had taught her how to find, and taking a berry or two for dessert, Minnie jumped into the brook, which looked warm and tempting as it rippled through the sunshine. She could swim as swiftly as any fish, and was so very fond of the sport that she soon forgot her weariness. Laughing and shouting, she started in chase of a swarm of little minnows, whose silvery sides shone like moonbeams when they darted across the brook. Minnie kept gaining ground, and thought, at last, that she could lay her hand upon the minnows, crowded all together as they swam; but, lo! at the first touch, like so many bubbles of quicksilver, they scattered far and wide. Some shot before her, some dodged behind her back, some hid their silly noses under stones and weeds, thinking, if only their eyes were out of sight, that nobody else could see them. Of these last, Minnie caught several; but they slipped through her fingers again before she could be certain that she had them there. She might as well have tried to hold one of the ripples of the brook. Now that the butterflies had forsaken her, Minnie found it lonely in the meadow, and spent most of her time by the stream. When it was low she would trip over the wet, rough stones in its bed so fast that the dragon-flies, with all their wings, could hardly keep pace with her. And, when the little stream was full to its brim, she would nestle inside of a water-lily, and float for hours, half asleep, watching the sunny ripples pass. In more restless moods, she would climb tall bulrushes, or swing among the long, ribbon-like iris leaves. There was no end to the ways she had of amusing herself. But one day, when she was swinging, a boy mistook her for a butterfly, and, springing among the iris-leaves, had almost caught her in his hat. Another day, as she was floating in the brook, an angler came, and threw a pretty, gay-winged fly into the water. When Minnie seized this, a sharp hook pierced her hand, and, the next thing she knew, she was lifted high in the air on the fisherman's line! In an instant she freed herself from the hook, and fell back into the water; but it was many days before the wound stopped smarting, and many more before it healed. Still another time, Minnie found the brook covered with mosquitoes; the fields were parched with the August sun; and the road, where all the birds had gone to chat with the butterflies, was hot and dusty. So the little girl nestled under some cool violet leaves. In the woods violets blossom all the year round, you know, not plentifully as in spring, but here and there you find a cluster in bloom. Such an one Minnie found, and, when she stretched herself in the grateful shade of its leaves, the sweet flowers looked down at her like the blue eyes of her mother, and the wind, that was whispering through the long, fine grass, seemed her dear lullaby. But, as she leaned her head on the moss at the violet roots, and thought of home, there came a sudden jar, and the next moment she was rolling in a heap of dusty earth, and vainly striving to free herself, as you have seen ants when their nest was broken open. A man was digging up the sod of violets to plant on the grave of his little child that was dead. Minnie feared that, if he detected her, he would stick her on a pin, as some new kind of butterfly, for his cabinet. She hardly dared breathe until his work was finished, and the man had gone away. CHAPTER XXIX. THE LITTLE SEAMSTRESS. All dusty and ragged, Minnie stood wondering whither she should turn next, and what would become of her. No place seemed safe, no friends stood by her long; her garments were torn to fringes, and the hot sun pelted down its rays upon her so that she was faint. She had barely strength to climb a tall pine-tree near, in whose boughs she had often swung through the long afternoons. But that was in happier days. The sighing of the wind among the branches, which used to be such pleasant music, was so mournful now that it filled Minnie's eyes with tears. It seemed as if a hundred soft, sad voices were calling, just as Minnie's heart called, for her mother to come and fold her in her own dear arms once more, and comfort her, and forgive her, and take her home, never, never to wander or be disobedient again. "Halloa!" said a voice. "What's the matter this time? Have you lost your fine cloak, or has some one else grown tired of my little woman, and sent her off to starve?" "Pray, squirrel, don't tease me, now. I'm so homesick, and so poor, and tired, and discouraged, that it seems to me I shall die." "That's what I said you'd come to, when you left us; but I'm your friend, Minnie, though I am such a rude fellow, and I don't mean you any harm. Good-by!" Master Squirrel was frisking off, when Minnie called, "Wait, wait! Couldn't you--" "O, you mustn't ask any favors. I'm full of business and care. Since we parted I have found a mate; and have a nest of my own, and lots of little ones. Call and see us!" He had hardly gone, when Mrs. Yellow-bird came in sight. "My dear friend," Minnie began. "A pretty friend!" she interrupted; "think of the trouble you've caused me!" "How?" "Ah, you can pretend not to know; but I am sure Master Squirrel has told you what he did, in spite, because I helped carry the humming-bird home for you, one day, and tipped him out of the car. You never even came to say you were sorry." "How could I? I do not even know what the mischief was." "He upset my nest, and killed all my pretty little birds!" And she poured forth a song that seemed to say, "All my little ones, all my pretty birds gone! I can never be happy again!" Even after yellow-bird was out of sight, the sad notes of her song came back, and she never knew of the tears that Minnie shed for her. A spider now let herself down by her silken thread from the bough above, where she had been listening to Minnie's words, and pitying her sorrow. "Come! this is no way to be happy," she said, "and no way to make friends. Who'd care to know such a ragged little witch as you? And you're dusty as a toad. Why don't you wash your face, and mend your gown, and let folks see you are good for something?" "O, I have tried!" said Minnie, mournfully. "I tried to sew a new gown out of elm leaves; but they were so tender they wilted and tore before I could put them together. Then I picked some beautiful oak leaves, and they were so tough they blunted my needle, and frayed the spider-webs I was sewing with." "O, well, come down in the grass, and see what we can do together." Down leaped Minnie, like a squirrel, and down dropped spider on her silken thread. They ran through the grass together till they came to a dwarf-oak, from which Minnie picked the large leaves, while spider wove them together with her curious web. Minnie seated herself on a mushroom, and watched her good-natured friend at work. Spider wove her threads back and forth, till the seams appeared to be laced together with silvery, silken cords. She finished each with silver tassels; and, when Minnie had dressed in her handsome gown, wove a scarf of silver-gauze to throw across her shoulders. Then Minnie twisted grass-blades together, as yellow-bird had taught her, and made a strong girdle for her waist, and tucked a rose leaf under it for apron, and picked for bonnet a purple snap dragon, with a golden frill inside. But, alas, the happy, laughing look was gone from Minnie's eyes; and the rags and the little sun-burnt face looked out beneath all her finery! CHAPTER XXX. STORK. A few days after Minnie's escape from the pitcher-plant she heard the minnows telling each other about a dreadful creature, that had been wading in the brook, catching the fish in his wide bill, and gobbling them down two or three at a time. She thought it must be the stork, and that she would keep out of his way; but, when he really came at last, she couldn't help feeling how nice it would be to sit high and dry on his back while he waded up and down the stream. So Minnie came out of her hiding-place, and asked stork if he remembered her. "Don't I? It's all I have lingered here for--the hope of seeing my queer little woman again. My own home is far off, beside the blue ocean, where I can hear the pleasant music of the waves." "How I should like to hear them!" Minnie exclaimed. "Do they make as loud a sound as the water of the brook?" "Not much louder when the weather is fair; but, in a storm, they roar like thunder, and don't they throw dainty breakfasts upon the rocks for me, then!" "What! honey, and rose leaves, and berries?" "No; where should they come from? The waves bring good fat fish, and clams, and black lobster-claws, that get broken in the storm." "O, dear, is that all?" "If you like it better, they bring shells, and pebbles white as eggs, and beautiful seaweeds gay as any garden-flower, and little red crabs, and curious star-fish. Come home with me, and I'll show what the waves can do!" Minnie was not sorry to leave the brook, which had become so unsafe for her; and, besides, you know she was always ready for a change. So, begging the stork to bend his neck as near the ground as he could, she clambered upon his back. Then stork outspread his broad, strong wings, and up they flew, and on, on, on, I cannot tell how many miles, till they reached the ocean-side. [Illustration: MINNIE'S RIDE.] Minnie had seen wide rivers and lakes before; but never anything equal to this mighty ocean, which lay beneath them like an enormous mirror, as they flew,--like a great glittering floor of glass. On one side it stretched far out--nothing but water--till it reached the sky; on the other, it was bordered by a beach of smooth, white sand, over which lay strewn the gay seaweeds, and pebbles, and shells, about which stork had told her. Glad to stand on her feet again, Minnie skipped along the shore, stooping often to admire some smooth, pearly shell, or glistening pebble, or heap of shining bubbles thrown up by the waves, and changing like opals in the sun. It seemed as if the little waves were chasing her; as if they ran up the smooth sand on purpose to kiss her feet; as if they were asking her to accept the pretty weeds and stones which they kept tossing on the beach. "O, stork, what a beautiful place it is! We will stay here as long as we live!" she said. "I don't know about that. The beach is a good place after a storm; but we can't dine on bubbles and pebbles, Minnie, so climb my back again, and I'll take you across to the rocks." A long, black ledge, against which the waves kept dashing, to turn white with foam, and leap glittering into the air,--this was the place toward which stork now steered. The little woman could not but tremble as she looked down upon all the restless waves which stretched on every side as far as she could see. It was a beautiful sight; but Minnie knew that, if she should fall, the ocean would swallow her more easily than ever stork swallowed a minnow in the brook. The rocks were wet, they found, and slippery; half covered with coarse seaweed, that was brown as leaves in winter, and did not look like any growing thing. But, selecting a higher ledge, which the sun had dried, stork asked Minnie to sit here and rest, while he went in search of food. At first she watched the beautiful glittering foam, which leaped so lightly into the air, and then rolled back from the stones, in scattered drops, like showers of red pearls. Then a croak called Minnie's attention; and, looking across the rocks, she saw stork almost choking himself with trying to swallow a fish too large for his throat. Down it went, at last; and now she watched how cautiously and silently stork crept from stone to stone, lifting his wings that he might easier walk on tip-toe with his clumsy feet. Suddenly down went his snaky neck, and, when it rose, another fish was writhing in his bill. The little girl was so absorbed in watching her friend at his work, that she did not notice how night was falling, until a gust of cold sea-air made a chill creep over her. Then, looking about, she found that the water had risen on every side, so as almost to cover the rocks on which she sat. Stars one by one were coming out in the sky, and she called loudly for stork to take her back to the shore. CHAPTER XXXI. THE SEA-SHORE. Minnie did not call the stork a minute too soon. He had just caught sight of his mate, and, rather stupid with eating so hearty a supper, was about to fly away, forgetting his new friend. He did not tell her this, but treated her more kindly, perhaps, when he thought how near she came to being drowned by his neglect. For the tide, which rose every minute, would soon have swept her away. What should he find for Minnie's supper? She was not partial to raw fish. It was too dark now to look for checkerberries and violet buds. Ah! he would find some snails, and she should pick them out from their pretty white shells. They were sweet as smelts, he told her. But, when Minnie came to look at them, it seemed to her like eating worms, or bugs; and, though stork assured her that in England he had seen some of the finest people eat these snails, she could not make up her mind to put one in her mouth. So, a bright thought struck stork. Leaving Minnie on the beach, he seized a clam, rose high in the air, and let it fall with such force that the shell broke; out dropped its contents, and the little girl was hungry enough to eat them with a relish. And, on their way home, stork stopped where there were birds' eggs in plenty. Minnie remembered yellow-bird's grief over the loss of his young, and could not bear to rob the nests at first. But hunger drove her to it afterwards. Stork settled into his own quiet nest at last, and Minnie, creeping under his wing to keep warm, slept soundly, lulled by the music of the waves. The next morning Minnie found the beach all over star-shaped tracks, too small for the stork's great feet. She found, soon, that these belonged to a curious little bird, that came in flocks. These skipped about the beach, as if they were trying to dance, or learning to take their steps. They were not larger than a robin, but had long legs and bills, so as to wade and catch fish among the waves. Minnie made friends with them, and offered to give them lessons in dancing, of which they seemed so fond; but they told her they had only learned their droll steps from a habit of skipping away from waves when the tide was coming in. Still, they allowed her to arrange them for a contra dance, and, though she had some trouble in persuading part to wait while the others went through their figure, Minnie laughed till she was tired, with the funny sight they made. As the tide left the beach, Minnie found plenty of rocks, and all along the crevices of the rock were snails, such as stork had brought her the night before; and, on the sides, barnacles, a kind of fish that, except it is white and hard, looks like some plant growing. In hollows, where there were pools of water, she saw purple mussels, their shells half open that they might enjoy the sun. Then the seaweeds were different from anything she had ever seen. They were shaped like trees,--apple-trees, or willows, or elms; but were of the gayest colors you can think,--bright red, pink, purple, yellow, green, and some were jet black, and pretty shades of brown. Some had fruit on them,--dark yellow berries, or apples, with a rosy side like any on our trees, only small as the head of a pin. The tallest of the trees were not higher than the length of your hand. It was like a little fairy forest. Then Minnie found, to her surprise, that the snails, which seemed so fastened into the rocks by their shell, moved, shell and all. She found them travelling in every direction,--but O, so slowly! It made her ache to see them. She could run across the beach a dozen times before a snail had moved an inch. Sometimes she took them in her hands and carried them to the pool they were trying to reach; but they always said it made them dizzy and confused to fly along so fast, and they preferred their own slow way. Sometimes the snails ran races with each other. That was a droll thing to watch, for they all travelled as slowly, it seemed to Minnie, as the minute-hand on the clock in her father's office. They would start together, large snails and little ones, white snails and yellow, brown and black, striped, spotted, shaded, dragging their houses after them. There was a pretty little fellow, with a shell so bright it looked like gold; he almost always won the race. One day Minnie picked up a beautiful purple mussel-shell, lined with pearl, and with a ledge of pearl inside, that served her for a seat. She launched this on the waves, and they bore her out to sea, where she drifted on without a fear, she knew how to swim so well, in case her boat upset; and then the beach birds were always ready to sail alongside of her little bark, and they could carry tidings home, should any harm befall her. CHAPTER XXXII. STORM AND CALM. Minnie was very happy at the shore. A stranger stork did come one day, and, mistaking her for a fish, suddenly snatch her from her boat; but she held his bill so fast that he was glad to drop her on the beach. And at dark she was sorely afraid of the lobsters that crawled about the rocks, blindly stretching their black claws for food; but they had never harmed her yet, and, on the whole, the tiny woman thought she was having a beautiful time. She loved to chase the little dimpling waves; she was never tired of watching the flash of sunlight on the water by day, and at evening the sweet path of moonlight, that stretched so far, seemed like a path to her home,--if only she dared to trust herself on the waves! Then all the changing colors of the water, and the pretty wreaths of foam, delighted her. She built a house, for herself, of such white pebbles and shells that it looked like a little marble palace. And the tables and seats inside, and the bed, were all beautiful mother-of-pearl. But a storm came one day, and washed away her house, and dashed the waves so high upon the beach, that Minnie fled for her life. It happened a spruce-tree stood not far from the shore; so she scrambled up into its branches, both to be sheltered from, and to watch, the storm. It was awful to see the great waves rise and beat against the beach, as if they meant to wash the whole world away, and to hear the grating of the stones they clashed together, and see the great mats of seaweed they tore from the rocks, and the shells they swept out of their crevices, and tossed on the shore in heaps. And the water kept rising, and rising, till it covered the beach, and came nearer and nearer, until it reached the roots of the very tree into which Minnie had climbed. It had been hard enough to bear the beating of the branches in the wind, but now must she be drowned, so far from her home, and no one ever dream what had become of her? [Illustration: MINNIE AT HOME.] Minnie screamed with fright, and then, through the storm, she seemed to hear a low song, such as her mother used to sing, and, instead of the rough spruce branches, it seemed as if her mother's arms were about her now. She opened her eyes in wonder. Could it be that the soft hand she had missed so long was stroking her curls once more? that the dear voice she had never thought to hear again was singing soft lullabies over her? that Allie was looking in her face, and Frank was holding her pale hand in his? Yes, and, stranger still, her mother and Franky declared that they had been with her all the while. On that first day of my story, when the squirrel came,--it seemed years ago to Minnie, now,--she had fallen from the fence, and bruised her head, and had been sick with a fever ever since, and they thought she must have dreamed these marvellous things. Certain it was that, when the little girl looked in the glass, she found herself large as ever, though pale and very thin. Her gown, too, was made of muslin, instead of forest leaves; and, instead of being perched on a pine-bough, here she stood in her own father's home! And here she resolved to stay and be content. For, whether awake or in a fever-dream, Minnie had learned this, that, let it be large or small, there is, in all this great wide world, no place so safe and pleasant as our home. And this, besides, that the handsomest, kindest, gayest among strangers, will never make up for the loss of our own friends, the parents that have watched over us ever since we were born, the brothers and sisters that have played by the same fireside, and under the same green trees. Dear children, when you are older, you will find that all the people in this world have strayed, like Minnie; that they wander about, making acquaintance with many creatures, but still unsatisfied; that they encounter storms, and suffer weariness and loneliness, and long for those who dwell in the far-off home. Yes, and some morning we all shall wake in our Father's house, and find about us the blessed voices and dear forms of those we have loved; and then it will be like a dream that we seemed to lose them once. That home is on the other side of the stars. But Frank and Minnie are young yet, and expect to find it here. They are young, and cannot believe that their senses may be mistaken, and that all Minnie's curious changes happened in a dream. Many an afternoon they still spend in looking for the wondrous weed that will make them understand the language of birds, and squirrels, and butterflies. And, to tell you the truth, I more than half believe they will find it yet. 
44774	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 44774-h.htm or 44774-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44774/44774-h/44774-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44774/44774-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/mamieswatchword00math Little Sunbeams. V. MAMIE'S WATCHWORD. * * * * * * By the Author of this Volume. I. LITTLE SUNBEAMS. By JOANNA H. MATHEWS, Author of the "Bessie Books." I. BELLE POWERS' LOCKET. 16mo $1.00 II. DORA'S MOTTO. 16mo 1.00 III. LILY NORRIS' ENEMY 1.00 IV. JESSIE'S PARROT 1.00 V. MAMIE'S WATCHWORD 1.00 VI. NELLIE'S HOUSEKEEPING 1.00 _The Set in a neat box_, $6.00 II. THE FLOWERETS. A series of Stories on the Commandments. 6 vols. In a box $3.60 "It is not easy to say too good a word for this admirable series. Interesting, graphic, impressive, they teach with great distinctness the cardinal lessons which they would have the youthful reader learn."--_S. S. Times._ III. THE BESSIE BOOKS. 6 vols. In a box $7.50 "Bessie is a very charming specimen of little girlhood. It is a lovely story of home and nursery life among a family of bright, merry little children."--_Presbyterian._ ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, _New York_. * * * * * * MAMIE'S WATCHWORD. "Thou God Seest Me." by JOANNA H. MATHEWS, Author of the "Bessie Books" and the "Flowerets" [Illustration] New York: Robert Carter and Brothers, 530 Broadway. 1882. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Robert Carter and Brothers In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. CONTENTS. PAGE I. THE DOLL 9 II. HOW BELLE DID IT 27 III. THE BREAKWATER 47 IV. FORBIDDEN PLEASURES 69 V. THE DUCKLING 88 VI. POOR LITTLE WAGTAIL 110 VII. THE FIRST STEP 133 VIII. DISOBEDIENCE 151 IX. ADRIFT 172 X. RESCUE 190 XI. REPENTANCE 212 [Illustration] MAMIE'S WATCHWORD. I. _THE DOLL._ "MAMMA! can I have it? Can I, mamma? Buy it for me, buy it; will you, mamma?" "May be so, dear. I will see about it." "No, not may be; not see about it, mamma! I must have it, and I know you can afford it!" The speakers were Mrs. Stone and her little daughter Mamie; the scene, Miss Ashton's broad, shady piazza, where, at this time, a little fair was taking place. And what was the object on which Mamie's heart was so set; for which she was begging so persistently, you will ask. Why, just this. A beautiful doll; a famous, much-talked-of doll, dressed as an infant by Miss Annie Stanton, for the fair; a doll eagerly desired by all the children present, as any little girl will readily believe when she hears that seldom has a doll had such an outfit. Mamie's eyes were fixed eagerly upon her as she pleaded and entreated with her mother, holding fast to her hand, and almost dancing in her extreme anxiety to secure the much-coveted prize. "Perhaps I can, dear," said Mrs. Stone's rather languid voice, as she looked smilingly down at her little daughter; "perhaps I can afford it; but you know, Mamie, that the doll is to be sold to whoever shall offer the highest price for her." "Well, _you_ offer the highest price for her, mamma; do, oh, do! Offer a great deal more than any one else, so I shall be sure to have her. I want her so!" "But it is not to be known what each one offers till the fair is over, Mamie," said her mother; "then, whoever has said they will give the most, is to take the doll." "Ask Miss Stanton to tell you," pleaded Mamie. Mrs. Stone shook her head. "That would not be fair, Mamie; and Miss Stanton would refuse to tell if I asked her. I will make an offer for the doll, but you will have to take your chance with the rest, my darling." Mamie was so little used to any opposition or contradiction from her over-indulgent mother that she did not know how to meet it; and, though it was made thus plain to her that it might not be within her mother's power to give her the doll, she felt as though the possibility of disappointment were more than she could bear, and as if it would be altogether mamma's fault if the longed-for toy did not fall to her share. The eager face clouded over, a frown gathered between her eyes, and an ugly pout upon her lips. Oh, if little children who like to appear well only knew how such pouts and frowns disfigure the faces which God has made to be so pleasant and so fair, they would surely beware how they let Discontent set his hateful mark upon them! "But I want it so; and I must have it," Mamie muttered fretfully. "Yes, dear; we shall see," was Mrs. Stone's answer, as she went forward to the table where the baby doll lay in her glory. "Tell me what you are going to give," said Mamie, as her mother bent forward with a smile, and whispered her offer to Miss Stanton. "Ah! but that is a secret, Mamie," said the young lady, drawing forth the paper on which she wrote the names of would-be purchasers with the sum each one proposed to give; and putting down Mrs. Stone's, and the amount she had offered for the doll. "No one is to be told till this evening." "Did you offer the _most_, mamma?" repeated Mamie, upon whose mind it seemed impossible to impress the fact that no one would know this till the appointed time. "I doubt if any one will give more than I will," said Mrs. Stone, who thought that she had really offered more than the value of the doll, as indeed perhaps she had done, so anxious was she to gratify her little daughter. Mamie's face cleared a little. "I do want it so," she said less fretfully, but still with much energy in her tone. "Yes, I believe the children all do," laughed Miss Annie Stanton; "at least, I can answer for several, Maggie and Bessie among them." "I don't believe anybody wants it so much as I do," persisted Mamie. "I've been thinking about it and thinking about it till I feel as if I could not bear to give it up. Oh, I must have that doll, I must!" Somebody who was passing paused at her side as she spoke, and turning her eyes from the doll, they met those of Miss Ashton fixed rather anxiously upon her. Mamie's color deepened, and she looked a little ashamed, for she hardly knew herself how much she valued the good opinion of her teacher, and now it seemed to her that her last speech had been rather obstinate and selfish. "I mean if I could have it quite fairly, Miss Ashton," she said, as if in answer to the lady's look, for she had spoken no word. "Of course," said Miss Ashton, smiling; "we would not believe you wished to do what was unfair, even to gain the doll, Mamie." "No," answered Mamie half reluctantly; "but you can't think how much I want it, Miss Ashton. I'm sure none of the others care as much as I do about it." "I do not know about that," said Miss Ashton. "Look at Belle, Mamie. How do you think she feels?" Mamie turned and looked at Belle. Her little schoolmate stood beside the doll, quite absorbed in regarding its beauties,--not that they were new to her, for she had watched the progress of its magnificent wardrobe from the very commencement,--her eyes wandering from one pretty trifle to another with longing, almost loving, interest; her fingers touching them now and then, but so daintily and so carefully that there was no fear they would come to harm through her handling. Miss Stanton had found it necessary to warn off more than one little pair of hands that day, lest they should mar the splendor of that wardrobe, or its mistress; but there was no need of this with Belle, so gently and delicately did she smooth and touch them. Her face was very wistful as Mamie looked at her, showing plainly that her desire for the beautiful doll was quite as great as Mamie's own, and that her disappointment would be quite as severe if it did not fall to her lot. Mamie watched her for a moment, and then, leaving her mother's side, walked slowly over to the corner of the table where Belle stood. "Isn't she lovely?" she said, meaning the doll. "Yes," answered Belle. "I should think she is! Oh, I want her so! Don't you, Mamie?" "Indeed, I do," said Mamie with quite as much emphasis as Belle had used. "Indeed, I do." "But I don't s'pose you want her as much as I do," said Belle; "least I don't s'pose you need her so much." "Why not?" asked Mamie, half resenting such a supposition. "'Cause you have your little sister to play with," said Belle, "and I have no sister, nor any mamma to play with me," she added with a half-smothered sigh. That appeal seldom failed to touch the hearts of Belle's playmates and companions; the child's longing for her lost mother was so great, her sense of loneliness, at times, so pitiful; and the years which had passed since her mother's death seemed to have little or no power to weaken these in her loyal little heart. Mamie stood silent. The doll was not yet hers to give up; but she now had a feeling as if she ought to wish that Belle, rather than herself, should be the fortunate possessor. "I b'lieve if I had a little sister I should not care so much about dolls," continued Belle, with an air of deep consideration; "but this doll does seem so very _real_ and live; doesn't she, Mamie?" Mamie assented, with a half impatient, though unspoken wish that Belle did not care so very much about the doll. "Belle," she said, "if I do have her, I will let you play with her a great deal; and sometimes I'll let you take her to your own house, if you'll be careful of her." Belle shook her head. "That wouldn't be like having her for my very own, Mamie; I'd like to make believe that she was my sister if I had her, she's such a very real doll." "S'pose none of us have her; but somebody who is a stranger to the school," said Lily Norris, who had just drawn near, and who easily guessed what the other children were talking about. "Wouldn't that be a shocking occurrence?" "Yes," said Belle, giving a long sigh at the possibility of such a catastrophe. "Shocking! But we'll have to bear it, perhaps." "Belle!" called Bessie Bradford from the other end of the piazza where she stood behind the flower-table; "Belle, how long you've been away from our table!" and recalled thus to a sense of her duties as saleswoman, Belle ran back to her post, which she had been tempted to quit for a closer view of the coveted doll, so often seen, but of whose perfections she never tired. "I hope Mr. Powers will be the one to give the most for the doll, so Belle can have it," said Lily to Mamie, when Belle had left them. "Don't you want it yourself?" asked Mamie. "Yes," answered Lily; "but I think I'd 'most rather Belle would have it than any one. She seems to feel as if it would be a kind of company for her; and she's very lonesome sometimes. She don't have such large families as we do, you know; nothing but herself and her papa. Yes, I think I would rather Belle should have it than to have it myself." Mamie felt that she could not make up her mind to be as generous as Lily, were the opportunity offered to her; and still she wished that she could be so. Lily was not "one bit selfish," she saw; neither was Belle, spite of her intense desire to possess the doll, at all inclined to be jealous or ill-tempered about it, as Mamie felt she might be herself if another child carried off the prize. "Belle used to fret and cry like every thing if she didn't have what she wanted," she said to herself; "but she doesn't now. I wonder why;" and again there came a disagreeable consciousness to Mamie that she had not improved in this respect as much as her little schoolmate. The excitement and anxiety respecting the doll increased rather than lessened as the day wore on and the fair drew near its close. Every papa and mamma, grandmamma, uncle, or aunt, who came in, was introduced to the young lady, and besought to "offer a whole lot for her." But none were as eager as Belle and Mamie, though the former did not show the impatience Mamie had displayed. Her papa was seized upon the moment he entered the fair, it is true; and begged to offer so much for the doll that he should be sure to gain it for his little daughter; but she did not insist that she _would_ have it, as Mamie had done, or worry and fret her father. And somehow, she scarcely knew why, this seemed to keep Mamie a little in check. It really appeared as if Belle, lonely little Belle, needed the doll more than she did. True, Belle had "lots of toys," but so had she; and then she had a baby sister at home, and Belle had none, and "no mother;" and Mamie really caught herself wondering if she could resolve to wish that Belle, rather than herself, might have the doll, and if she ever could be so generous as to give it up to her if it were in her power to do so. The day passed on, evening came, the fair was drawing to its close, having proved a most triumphant success, and the time for announcing the name of the doll's purchaser had arrived. This was proclaimed by Mr. Stanton's voice from his sister's table at the end of the piazza, and instantly every little saleswoman had deserted her stand, and they all flocked to the place of interest. "I hope it is you, papa; oh, I hope it's you! I could almost pray it might be you," said Belle, holding fast to her father's hand, and squeezing it tight in breathless expectation, as all waited to hear the name of the happy owner. Mr. Powers smiled down at her rather sadly. He could not help a feeling of amusement, and still he did not like to see her so eager, so excited over that which might prove a disappointment. Mamie, who stood near, watched her, too; curious, despite her own interest in the grand affair of the day, to see what Belle would say and do if another than her papa should prove to be the munificent purchaser. Mr. Stanton took the list from his sister's hand, and casting his eye over it, proclaimed aloud that Mrs. Benjamin Howard had offered the largest sum for the doll, and hence it was hers. This was not Gracie Howard's mamma, but her grandmamma; but still each young hearer felt sure that the prize would be bestowed upon Gracie or one of her little sisters. For whom else could Grandmamma Howard want it? When Mrs. Howard's name was announced, Belle's face wore, for a moment, a look of blank and utter disappointment, and Mamie's was not more pleased. But still the latter kept her eye on Belle, and it seemed as if it only needed a display of temper from her to produce the same from Mamie. But that did not follow. Choking back her sobs, and dashing some bright drops from her eyes, Mamie saw her raise her face towards her father, and say some words which did not reach her own ear; saw Mr. Powers smile tenderly down on his little daughter as he answered her, and presently Belle was smiling and bright again. Mrs. Stone was agreeably surprised that her own little spoiled child made no loud outcry over her disappointment. It is true that Mamie could not or did not refrain from a pout and a fretful "I declare, it's just too bad! I wanted it so, and--and--so did Belle." And she was half inclined to feel resentful towards kind old Mrs. Howard, and to think she had no right to have purchased the doll; and later, when Maggie and Bessie came to her and said,-- "Mamie, we feel that it would be only taking a polite interest in Mrs. Howard for us all to go and congratulate her on having the doll," she refused to join her companions in doing so. But when she saw them all, even Belle, going up with cheerful and pleased faces to where the dear old lady sat, she felt ashamed to be left out, and fell into the ranks, standing by while Lily Norris delivered herself of the following speech, composed on the spur of the occasion by Maggie, who was too shy to speak it herself, and so begged Lily to be spokeswoman. "Dear ma'am: while we have to mourn for ourselves, we have also to rejoice for you, and to congratulate you because you have the doll; and we do it with all our hearts, 'cause you have been so kind and good to us about the fair." This little oration was pronounced by Lily without the slightest embarrassment or faltering; for, although not conceited, she was a self-possessed little monkey, and now she felt that the credit of the performance was due to Maggie, and not to herself. And lest there should be any mistake on this head, she added, almost in the same breath with the concluding words of the speech, "The praise of making that up is Maggie's, not mine;" and retired within the ranks of her schoolmates. Their congratulations were received by Mrs. Howard with much pleasure, and by all such as heard them with some amusement; after which a farewell look was taken of the famous doll, who was now carried away by her owner. Mamie was petted and made much of by her not over-wise mother, because she bore her disappointment so well, for it was something so new to see her conduct herself in such a peaceable and sensible manner when she was crossed in any way, that Mrs. Stone was surprised as well as pleased. Mr. Stone, too, and even her brother Walter, had each his word of praise for Mamie as they drove home; and she really felt herself quite a heroine, because she had not cried and fretted like any baby. But in spite of this consciousness of superior virtue, which was all the more pleasing because it was somewhat of a novelty, Mamie felt that Belle had been, to use her own words, "even better" than she had. Belle had not shown even a shadow of sulkiness or ill temper; and yet her heart had seemed to be set upon the doll even more than Mamie's own. "Belle is always so good now," she said to herself, "and yet she used to be so spoiled, and to be provoked if she did not have every thing she wanted, and cry about it just--just like me. I wish I could grow as good as she is now. Everybody says she has improved so. I wonder how she does it. Some time I'll ask her." Such were Mamie's thoughts and resolutions as she lay in her bed that night, and she dropped off to sleep on this last. The opportunity for putting it in practice came sooner than she had supposed probable; for it was vacation, and she did not expect to see Belle at school every day, as was usual. [Illustration] II. _HOW BELLE DID IT._ "WHY, Belle! Is that you?" "Why, yes, Mamie! Is that you?" These very unnecessary questions were put by the two little schoolmates as they stood facing one another within the saloon of the drawing-room car attached to the train which was on its way to Boston. There certainly could be no doubt in the mind of either that the one was Belle and the other Mamie; and the above exclamations were only due to the surprise felt by each one at the sight of the other. "Yes, it is I," was Mamie's answer. "Where are you going, Belle?" she questioned in the next breath. "To Netasquet," replied Belle; "and Lily Norris is there now." "Why, I am going there too!" exclaimed Mamie, in a delighted voice; "all of us are,--papa and mamma, and all the boys, and Lulu and me. How very fortunate, Belle, that so many of us are going there together! Won't we have nice times?" "Um--m, well, maybe so. Maggie and Bessie are not going there," said Belle in a tone which told that she thought all pleasure questionable in which her last-named two little friends did not share. "They've gone to Newport, haven't they?" said Mamie. "Yes, their papa has bought a house there, and now they'll go there every summer. Papa and I are going to make them a good long visit by and by; but first we have to go to Netasquet." Belle said this with a sigh, as if even the prospect of the "good long visit" could scarcely console her for the present separation from Maggie and Bessie. "Who are you with?" was Mamie's next question. "Papa and Daphne and Uncle and Aunt Walton," answered Belle. "Oh! and Ma--bel?" said Mamie, following the direction of Belle's eye, and seeing the head of her little cousin, Mabel Walton, peeping out from the door of a compartment at the end of the car. "Yes. You don't seem very rejoiced about Mabel," said Belle, who had noticed the tone in which Mamie uttered the last words,--a tone expressive of any thing but pleasure. "An' no wonder," muttered old Daphne, Belle's nurse, who stood behind her young mistress; but Mamie, thinking it as well to change the subject of conversation, only said,-- "Don't you want to see my little sister Lulu, Belle?" "Yes," answered Belle with alacrity, and would have followed Mamie at once to that part of the saloon where her friends were seated, if Daphne had not interfered, saying,-- "You just come back to your pa, honey. De hosses done pullin' us now, and dey're gwine for put to de injine, and dere'll be a screechin' an' a shakin' an' a jerkin' fit to knock de bref out of yer. 'Sides, I've foun' out it's best to stick close to yer pa when we're trabellin' roun'. Come to lose sight of him, 'taint easy sayin' what'll become of us." And with a fearful recollection of having been "gone off with" by the cars on one occasion, when she had been separated from her papa, Belle rushed back to the compartment of her own party, and, in dread of such a catastrophe occurring again, clung to him till the train was speeding on its way. Then she felt safe; neither she nor papa could leave the cars while they were rushing on at this rate. But after some time, just as she was beginning to tire of looking out of the window, and watching the rapidly changing scene without, Mamie's face showed itself at the open door of the compartment; and having nodded in her own free and easy way to the party in general, she said to Belle's papa,-- "Mr. Powers, couldn't Belle come with me to see our Lulu?" Mr. Powers consented, finding that his little daughter wished to go, and Belle, slipping from his knee, took Mamie's outstretched hand, looking back, however, at her Cousin Mabel. "Mabel can come too if she likes," said Mamie; but Mabel, feeling that there was a want of cordiality in the invitation, plumply and poutingly refused it; upon which Mamie looked rather relieved. Mabel and Mamie were never the best of friends; each one called the other "a horrid child," "selfish," "hateful," and other such uncomplimentary names; not always in one another's hearing, it is true; but Mamie knew pretty well what Mabel thought of her; and Mabel, on her side, felt that Mamie regarded her with no friendly eye. Some little readers may know the reason why; others may wish to ask it. It was this:-- _Both_ were spoiled, selfish children, allowed to do pretty much as they pleased, and each one so accustomed to having her own way that they were almost sure to clash and quarrel when they were thrown together. Out of school, that is; in school Miss Ashton's authority and the peace-making efforts of their little classmates kept matters pretty smooth; but in their play-time, or when they met one another elsewhere, there was apt to be some falling out which each always declared to be entirely the fault of the other. Mabel, a quiet child, to whom words did not come easily, would generally relieve her feelings by "making faces" at Mamie, in which ugly practice she had become quite an adept; but Mamie had a sharp little tongue of her own, and put no check upon it if she chose to say biting or taunting things to Mabel. So now you will understand the reason of Mamie's dissatisfied "oh! and Ma--bel?" when she heard of whom Belle's party was composed. Probably Mabel was not much more pleased when her cousin told her whom she had met without in the saloon. But Belle, who was at peace with Mamie, and who was extremely fond of babies and very little children, was only too glad to accept the latter's invitation, and go with her to play with her little sister. Lulu, a bright, cunning child nearly three years old, soon made friends with Belle, and graciously received all the petting and coaxing that were lavished upon her. But, pet and darling though she was, and though Mamie seemed both proud and fond of her, Belle could not but perceive that Mamie domineered over the little one, and sometimes needlessly contradicted or crossed her. Sometimes Lulu would take such things quietly; at others she would resist or fret, thereby making a disturbance, and annoying those about her. Belle noticed all this, though she made no remark; but Mamie did not fail to perceive that she looked at her once or twice with wondering disapproval, when some petty act of tyranny or selfishness showed itself towards the little sister. And once, although Belle meant no reproof, Mamie felt reproached and ashamed. For Mrs. Stone had given to each of the three children a cake. Mamie's and Belle's were alike, being the only two of the kind that the stock on hand afforded. Lulu's was quite as good if she could have thought so; but it did not strike her in that light, and she clamored for "a tate lite Mamie's." "There are no more, my darling. Change with her; will you not, Mamie?" said her mother. But no; Mamie, too, fancied her own cake the best, and she flatly refused to exchange with her sister, who sat upon papa's knee, holding the despised cake at arm's length, and regarding it with a comical expression of displeasure. Lulu put up a grieved lip at this, and would probably have burst into a loud cry, for there is no denying that she, too, was somewhat over-petted and spoiled; but Belle stepped forward and put her own cake in the baby's hand, taking the rejected dainty in exchange. "That is a kind, unselfish little girl," said Mr. Stone; "but are you sure you like that cake quite as well, my dear?" "I can eat this one quite as well, sir," answered Belle, too truthful to say that she did really like the one as well as the other, and then added, "Lulu is so little, sir, I s'pose it makes more difference to her than to me." She did not look at Mamie, nor did her manner seem to throw any blame on her; but the latter did feel thoroughly ashamed to think that a stranger should yield that which she had refused to give up for the sister over whom, at times, she made so much ado; and she ate her cake with very little real enjoyment. At first, too, she felt rather provoked with Belle for being more unselfish than herself; but presently that feeling passed away, and she looked at her with admiration, as she thought, "She is better than I, a great deal better." For spoiled though she was, and at times extremely perverse, fretful, and selfish, there was much that was good in Mamie Stone; and one of her best qualities was that she was always quick to see and acknowledge what was worthy of praise in others, and she was also honest with herself, and ready to confess her faults. But then the trouble was that she was too often satisfied with allowing that she had been wrong, and took little or no pains to correct herself, and to strive against such naughtiness for the future. Of late, however, Mamie had felt the wish to be a better and more amiable child; and she would often please herself with imagining how she would grow less selfish and exacting, more willing to give up her own will to that of others, more obedient and respectful to her parents and elders. But when the time arrived for these good resolutions to be put in practice they always seemed to fail her; temptation came in her way, some small trifle crossed her, and she saw herself, her own wilful, pettish, perhaps disobedient little self, not one whit improved by all those good resolutions and delightful dreams of the wonderfully good child she had intended to become. Still she did honestly wish to do better; but she did not seem to know the right way to set about this; perhaps she had not a good motive; perhaps it was from the desire to have people say what a good girl she had become; how much she had improved; to receive such praise as she often heard bestowed upon some of her young companions,--Belle for instance. "A kind, unselfish little girl," her father had called Belle; and Mamie would have been very much pleased to hear papa say that to her; but he never did,--and why? Because she never deserved it. Mamie felt that, although it did vex her that it was so. And she would really like to deserve it, she thought. "But I never can remember in time," she said to herself. "I wonder how Belle does it. People used to say she was spoiled when she first came to this country, and knew Maggie and Bessie and all of us, and went to Miss Ashton's school; and now every one says she is so good and sweet; and so she is too. And she has a right not to be so good as me, too, I s'pose, 'cause she has no mother, and her father and old Daphne do spoil her dreadfully, every one knows that." If "spoiling" meant indulgence, Belle certainly had her share of that; but, only child and motherless though she was, it was not the weak and foolish yielding to every whim and temper which had nearly been the ruin of poor Mamie's mind and character, and which were fast doing their own ill work even with little Lulu's sweeter and more docile disposition. "I'm going to ask Belle how she does it," Mamie said again to herself; and saying this recalled to her mind that she had made the same resolve on the day of the fair; but until now she had never had the opportunity to carry it out. Now, ever since that time, Mamie had not ceased to plume herself on her good behavior on the occasion, and her mamma had bestowed upon her praise enough to turn half a dozen little heads. So, her mind full of this, Mamie began the conversation in this manner. "Weren't we good that day, Belle?" "What day?" asked Belle, surprised, as she had reason to be, at this sudden reference to a matter she had well-nigh forgotten. "Why, _that_ day; the fair day," answered Mamie; "were we not good?" "Oh, yes," said Belle, still rather surprised; "every one was very good; and we made such a lot of money for Jessie and her grandfather. It was all very nice." "But _us_, _we_, you and I, I mean," persisted Mamie. "Were we not good about the doll?" "Well, yes, I s'pose so," said Belle, her great black eyes fixed wonderingly on Mamie. "But I don't know if we were any better than all the rest, and I think maybe I was not so good; for I was real provoked, at first, that I could not have it, and it was very hard work for me not to cry. But, do you know, Mamie, I think now I am glad Mrs. Howard had it, and gave it to Nellie Ransom, 'cause Nellie does not have so many toys and pretty things as most of us children in the school, and she was so very pleased to have it." "Um--well, I don't know about that," said Mamie, reflectively. "Mamma says I behaved beautifully about that doll, and the next morning she took me to Bruner's, and let me choose the prettiest one that was there; but it wasn't so lovely as _that_ one; but I don't think I'm such a mountain of goodness as to be so very glad Nellie had it instead of me. I'd 'most as lief _you_ had had it as to have it myself, Belle." "Oh, thank you, dear!" said Belle, flushing with pleasure, and kissing her playmate with as much gratitude as if she had really bestowed the doll upon her. "I would," repeated Mamie, feeling more and more virtuous; "and I do think that you were real good. Tell me how you do it, Belle;" and she lowered her voice and drew closer to Belle, so that no one might overhear her. "Do what?" asked Belle, more and more mystified by Mamie's obscure manner of expressing herself. "How is it that you try not to be--well--not to be spoiled--or--or--selfish--or to stop yourself when you feel like being naughty. For you do try, Belle, I know; and I would like to, too, and to have people say I try to cure myself and am good; but every time I make up my mind, I will go and forget, and am naughty again, and then it is too late." "But I'm _not_ always good," said Belle; "sometimes I am quite naughty, though I do know better than I used to. But you see, Mamie, papa is always sorry then, and that helps me to remember about being obstinate or selfish or naughty. I don't like to grieve papa, so I have to try to be good, so as to keep him as glad as I can." "Is that the reason?" said Mamie. "Well, I like to please my papa and mamma too; but then it is such a bother, and I cannot remember always." "Well," said Belle, solemnly, and with the air of one giving advice in a grave matter, as indeed she was; "there's another thing that might help you more than that if you could think about it, Mamie. Bessie put me in mind of it. She said it always helped her when she felt provoked, and felt like being in a passion with any one; and it does help me to be good. It is remembering that our Father in heaven sees us all the time, and knows all the naughty things we do, whether they are much naughty, or only a little naughty; and what He thinks about it." "Oh, yes," said Mamie, slowly, as if the thought had struck her for the first time. Presently she added: "Belle, do you suppose God noticed just now when I wouldn't give Lulu the cake?" "Yes, of course He did," answered the little Mentor. "And do you believe He thought I was dreadful?" asked Mamie. "Well, yes," said Belle. "I'm afraid He did. Pretty dreadful. You see Lulu is so little, and I s'pose He thinks such a big girl as you ought to know better and give up more." "Yes," said Mamie; "but, Belle, I don't know if I like to think God sees _every_ thing I do. It's a little uncomfortable." "When you're not good it is," answered Belle; "but that's the help, you see. And we can't help His seeing us whether we like it or not. And then you know if He sees when we're naughty, He knows right away when we're sorry too." Mamie sat as if thinking for one moment; then speaking in a still lower whisper than she had done before, she said,-- "Belle, don't tell anybody; but I believe I quite enjoy being naughty sometimes." "I'm not surprised," said her young teacher. "I do, too, sometimes, and so I thought there was not much hope of me; and I told Maggie Bradford about it, and she said she enjoyed it very much sometimes, but afterwards she felt so horridly about it that it did not make up for that. And that was just like me, so it encouraged me a good deal." "Yes," said Mamie, after another pause for reflection; "every one thinks Maggie is such a nice child that that is rather encouraging. It seems as if I couldn't help being obstinate or cross sometimes, or liking to fret mamma when she don't want to do what I want her to. She 'most generally does though, 'cause I fuss till she lets me." Mamie said these last words in a tone of some triumph, very different from the rather subdued way in which she had spoken before, and Belle was much shocked. "O Mamie!" she said; "s'pose your mamma was to go away from you to heaven." Mamie turned and looked at her mother, who was leaning back in her chair with a languid, weary air; and, smitten with a sudden fit of remorse for many past offences in the way of fretting and "fussing,"--one no longer ago than this very morning,--she rushed at her and half smothered her with penitent kisses; then, without giving her any explanation of this unexpected burst of affection, she returned to her conversation with Belle. "I don't see how I'm to remember always about God noticing what I do," she said. "That is bad habits," answered Belle. "You've never been accustomed to it, and so it seems hard at first. But you know that text, 'Thou God seest me.' Take that to remember by." "I don't want to," said Mamie, with a disdainful shrug of her shoulders; "that's too old-fashioned. I've known that ever since I was born. (I'd rather have something new.") "There's a Bible verse I had the other Sunday," said Belle, "that means the same, I believe. Maybe you'd like that." "Let's hear it," said Mamie, with an appearance of real interest. "'The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good,'" said Belle. "I s'pose you understand it." "Yes," said Mamie. "It means He sees us whether we are good or whether we are naughty. It's nice to think He sees us when we're good. Yes, I like that, and I think I'll have it to remember myself by. Tell it to me again, Belle." Belle did as she was asked, repeating the text till Mamie knew it quite well. "I'd be rather surprised at myself if I did turn good," she said, when this was accomplished; "but we will see. Now let's stop being sober, and play." [Illustration] [Illustration] III. _THE BREAKWATER._ NOW perhaps you may think that Mamie was irreverent and careless, and did not really wish to improve herself; but, heedless as she seemed, she had really in her heart a desire to be a better girl, less troublesome and wilful and disobedient. It was a wish that came and went; sometimes she felt as if she did not care at all about curing herself of her fretful, unruly ways; at others, she felt as if she "would give any thing to be as good as Maggie, Bessie, and Belle," who all were so much happier and brighter than she was, because--Mamie knew this--they were so much more contented and amiable. So, when Belle had left her and gone back to her own friends, she sat for a while quietly in her corner, thinking over what her little friend had said to her, and the verse she had given her for--a--a--what was it? Mamie had the idea in her mind, but she could not think of the word she wanted. It would be, as she had said to Belle, rather pleasant to know that the Father in heaven was watching her attempts to be a better girl, and she really thought it would be a help to have such a--what was that word? "Papa," she said at last, "when people take a text or any thing to remember by, what do they call it?" "To remember what by, daughter?" asked Mr. Stone. "Well, to remember--to remember how to behave themselves by; to keep good by. Don't you know what I mean?" "A motto, do you mean?" asked her papa. "No, not a motto. I s'pose it's the same as a motto, but it has another name. Dora Johnson had a motto; so I want something else." Now it is not very surprising that Mr. Stone did not immediately hit upon the word which Mamie wanted; but after he had suggested one or two which would not answer, she grew pettish and irritable, as she was too apt to do, leaning back in her seat with raised shoulders and pouting lips, and giving snappish, disrespectful replies to her father's efforts to help her. "Oh, don't! you bother me so I can't think myself." "You're real mean not to help me;" and such dutiful little speeches found their way from her lips. "Well," said Mr. Stone, after he had shown more patience with the spoiled child than most fathers would or should have done, "perhaps the word you want is 'watchword.'" "Yes, that is it," said Mamie, her face clearing, and her lips and shoulders settling themselves into their proper places; "watchword! I am going to have a watchword, and behave myself by it." "And what is your watchword?" asked Mr. Stone. "Now stop! you shan't laugh, or I won't tell you," pouted Mamie. "It is 'the eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.' So when I am good, He sees me, and is pleased." "Yes," said her father, becoming grave; "but how is it when a little girl wears a scowling brow and puckered lips at her papa? For 'the eyes of the Lord are in _every_ place.'" Mamie sat silent, quite confounded for the moment. This _was_ bringing it closely home to her. That All-seeing Eye had then marked the cross, fretful face she had put on to her father; that All-hearing Ear--for it flashed across her mind that the ear of the Lord was as quick to hear as His eye to see--had heard her disrespectful words to him when he was so kindly trying to help her out of her difficulty. Here, within a few moments, she had been selfish and unkind to Lulu, undutiful to her father; just, too, when she had been saying she wanted to be a good girl; and "the eyes of the Lord" had been watching her all the time. It was not a pleasant thought. Mamie turned her face away from her father, and, planting both elbows upon the window-frame, gazed out, but without seeing or heeding much of the rapidly changing landscape. She was thinking, half ashamed of herself, half vexed at she scarcely knew what. But she began to doubt if, after all, she would have "a watchword." It seemed likely to prove troublesome, perhaps more of a reproach than a help to her; and she half resolved that she would keep it in mind no longer. She "wished Belle had not told it to her." However, her reflections, unpleasant though they were, kept her quiet and thoughtful for so long, that her father, not wishing to see her make herself unhappy, spoke to her, saying,-- "There, never mind then, daughter. Papa did not mean to make you fret. We will think no more about it." But Mamie's thoughts had done her this much good. Turning to her father, she said, in a half shamefaced manner, so unused was she to making apologies when she had been in the wrong: "I'm sorry I was cross, papa, and spoke so to you." Mr. Stone was pleased, and showed that he was so, which restored Mamie's good-humor with herself; and she was much more amiable and tractable than usual during the remainder of the journey, which did not come to an end till quite late in the evening. They reached the station where they were to quit the cars some time before sunset, it is true; but then there was a ride of several miles in a great, jolting stage-coach,--rather a severe trial to the young travellers, tired with a long day's journey. Perhaps older and stronger people than Mamie, Belle, and Lulu were inclined to be fretful at the prospect, and to feel as if a very small trifle were too great to be borne after the heat and fatigue of the day. A large number of passengers had left the train at this point, all bound for the same watering-place as our friends, and had to be accommodated with places in the stage-coaches which were waiting their arrival. There was a choice of seats in the lumbering vehicles, those upon the top being generally preferred, as being cooler now that the day was drawing to its close, and also as affording a better view of the country than those inside. "I speak for a seat up on top! I speak for a seat up on top!" cried Mamie, as she saw several people climbing to the coveted places. "Papa, I want a seat up there." "Please, papa, go on top of the stage-coach, and take me," pleaded Belle; and Mr. Powers, who had his eye already on that airy position, and who had no one but Belle and old Daphne to care for, speedily swung his little daughter to her high seat, and, following himself, established her in comfort on his knee. "I want to go too; I will go too!" said Mabel Walton, who had been unusually fretful and aggravating during the last hour of the journey; but her mother interfered, saying that Mabel had not been very well, and she did not wish her to ride outside in the night air. Mamie's brothers, four in number, had clambered up, some on the top of one stage, some on another; but Mr. Stone, who had his wife, baby, and nurse to render comfortable, was too late to secure one of these seats. Every one was filled, and Mamie and her papa were obliged to ride inside. Mr. and Mrs. Stone both dreaded an outcry from their little girl, or at least some wayward behavior; and indeed there were signs of a coming storm on Mamie's lips and brow, as her father lifted her within the stage-coach. But it was perhaps held in check by the terrific howl which burst from Mabel when she found she could not have her own way, and ride where she chose; for while she had been arguing and fretting with her mother on the subject, every place without was filled, and when Mrs. Walton gave way it was too late to indulge the whim of the ungoverned child. Mamie saw the frowns, shrugs, and looks of annoyance with which the other occupants of the coach regarded the screaming, struggling Mabel, and at once resolved to form a pleasing contrast to her; and it was with a delightful consciousness of superior virtue that she nestled into her own corner. Her mother's praises added not a little to this, and altogether Mamie felt well satisfied with herself and her own behavior throughout the day. And in this state of feeling she resolved to keep to her "watchword" after all, for it was rather pleasant to believe that "the eyes of the Lord" had beheld more good than evil in her. Now, I cannot say that the state of Mamie's mind was altogether right, or that she was not a little self-righteous; but she certainly enjoyed it, and it had, at least, one good result, that it was productive of great comfort to those about her. For Mabel, even after she had screamed herself hoarse, did not cease to whine and fret till they had nearly reached their destination, and there could be no doubt that all the other passengers were ready to declare her a nuisance. To do her justice, it was some time since Mabel had shown herself so wilful and fractious, for her fits of perverseness were becoming less frequent than they once were. At last, however, her interest in the new scenes to which she was approaching took her thoughts from her own woes, and she ceased to grumble and complain. When they reached the shore it was almost too dark for the children to see more than the long line of hotels, the greater part painted white with green blinds, standing each in its plot of ground, surrounded by its white-washed picket fence, their piazzas thronged with people, their windows gleaming with lights. On the other hand was the sea,--the grand, glorious old ocean, calm and quiet to-night, as its gentle waves rippled and glanced in the beams of a young moon, and beat out their ceaseless song in a measured murmur on the shore. And now they parted company, Belle and her papa, Mabel and her parents, being left at one hotel, while Mr. Stone's family passed on to another. However, the houses were quite near enough for the little girls to feel sure they could have each other's society whenever they were so inclined. Belle was enchanted to be met by Lily Norris at the very door of the hotel; for Lily had heard that her little friend was coming, and was on the watch to welcome her. To Mabel, the pleasure of the meeting was more doubtful, for Lily sometimes took rather a high hand with some of her shortcomings, and teased her now and then when she was cross, so that they were not always the best of friends. But on the present occasion, Lily was gracious and rather patronizing, as was thought to become one who had been already on the ground for three days, and who was therefore entitled to do the honors of the place. There never was such a charming spot as Netasquet, according to Lily's showing; but just at present, supper and bed were the first things to be thought of for our tired, hungry little travellers, and all other pleasures must be postponed till to-morrow morning. Directly after breakfast, Mamie sauntered out upon the piazza, and stood gazing at the sea, not knowing exactly what to do with herself. Her brothers had started off on their own discoveries, the other children in the house were strangers to her, and she was just wishing for Belle and Lily, when she saw all three of her little playmates coming towards her, bright, good-natured, and gay. "Ask your mamma to let you come with us," said Lily; "we're going to have some fun, and I expect she'll be very glad to have you out of the way while the unpacking is being done; and mamma says my nurse can go with us to take care of us all." Mamie was only too glad to go, and at once signified her readiness to accept the invitation, not even thinking it necessary to ask the permission Lily had suggested, but contenting herself with simply telling her mother that she _was going_. The other children were too much used to such independence on her part, however, to pay much heed to it; and they all four went off pleasantly together. "Now, what shall we do?" said Lily. "You shall choose, 'cause you're the newest come. There's the beach, and there's the rocks and the river and the spring and the ditch and the breakwater,--lots of places to go, and lots of things to do." "What is the breakwater?" asked Mamie, for whom the name had a great attraction. "There it is, over there," answered Lily, pointing to where a long, narrow pier jutted out into the sea, the central part broken and ruined, the heavy stones of which it had been built lying in a confused mass, some on one side, some on the other. Useless as a pier, the only purpose it now served was that which its name denoted, to break the force of the waves as they rolled in on the bathing beach, save that it was also a fine, though not always a very safe spot from which to watch the breakers. "Mamma never allows me to go there alone," added Lily; "and she will not let me go even with some one to take care of me, if the waves are very high; but they are not high to-day, so Nora will take us." "Let's go there, then," said Mamie; and the others assented. But just then Mrs. Stone's voice was heard calling to Mamie from the piazza they had left. "Mamie," she said, "I do not wish you to go near that breakwater, my darling." Mamie ran back a few steps and then stood still, where all she said reached both her mother and the children. "Now," she said, in her most obstinate tones, "that's too bad, and I'm just going. We're all going, and Lily's nurse is going to take care of us." "No," said her mamma, far more decidedly than she was accustomed to speak to Mamie, "I cannot allow it. I am afraid for you to go there." Lily came forward as Mamie stood fuming and pouting. "Mrs. Stone," she said respectfully, "mamma thinks it is safe when the waves are so low as they are to-day, and she lets me go quite often with Tom or Nora, and sometimes she takes me herself. Nora will take good care of us all." "No, dear," said Mrs. Stone, who was rather a nervous, anxious mother; "I should not know one moment's peace till Mamie came back. I really cannot let her go. I think it a very unsafe place for children to play. Why cannot you amuse yourselves on the beach?" Now, having made up their minds to go to the breakwater, this proposal did not suit any of the children; but probably Belle and Lily would have submitted to the change of plan without murmuring, if Mamie had done so. But Mamie was the last to think of this; her mother's words and her mother's wishes had little weight with the spoiled child when they interfered with her own pleasure; and she shocked both Lily and Belle by declaring passionately that she _would_ go to the breakwater, and she was "not going to stay away for such old nonsense as that." "Children!" exclaimed Mrs. Stone, who knew too well the uselessness of contention with Mamie when she was in a contrary mood; "children! my dear little girls! Lily! I do beg of you not to tempt Mamie down on that dreadful breakwater! my dears, do give it up!" "Don't you be afraid, ma'am," answered Lily, magnificently, but quite oblivious in her indignation of her parts of speech; "don't you be afraid; neither us nor my nurse will help her to disobey you; and Nora never takes children when she knows their mothers don't want them to go. She won't let Mamie go on the breakwater." Mamie turned upon her angrily, with the words, "What business is it of yours?" upon her lips; but as she did so, she caught Belle's eye fixed reproachfully and anxiously upon her. She hesitated for one second, then tried to go on, and to put from her the thought which came to her mind; but somehow she could not, she _dared_ not; for Belle's reproachful eye had recalled the recollection of that other All-seeing Eye which even now was watching her. She was not yet penitent, not yet even thoroughly ashamed and subdued; but she was afraid; afraid to brave that Eye in the face of her forgotten resolution. She stood silent, still looking vexed and unamiable, but making no reply, when her mother said to Lily,-- "Be sure then to make Nora understand she is not to venture upon the breakwater." "Come on," whispered Lily, putting her arm through Belle's; "come on, Belle, and leave her to be sulky by herself. A child who speaks that way to her mother ought to be treated with lofty scorn;" and Lily threw her head back, and looked very stern in an attempt to manifest the feeling she spoke of. Belle suffered herself to be drawn on a few steps, Mabel following; but presently turning her head, and seeing Mamie still standing with downcast looks, she stopped, and said,-- "Don't let's be offended with her for that, Lily; I think she's sorry now, and she'll be good if we coax her. Come on, Mamie," in a louder tone. "Yes, come on," said Lily, forgetting her "lofty scorn," and already reproaching herself for having been so severe with her young playmate; "come on, there's lots of fun in other places. Shall we go to the beach?" With a mixed feeling of shame, repentance, and vexation, Mamie hung back for a moment, half resolving that she would not go; but reflecting that it would be "very stupid at home with nobody to play with," she thought better of it, and followed the others. Her thoughts, and those of her companions, were presently diverted from her misdoings by Lily saying,-- "Oh, there now! You have no spades and pails, and the beach is not a bit of fun without. You can buy them at the store. There's all your fathers standing by the gate. Why don't you go and ask for money to buy them?" No sooner said than done. Mr. Powers, Mr. Stone, and Mr. Walton, who were standing talking together, were immediately besieged by three eager little voices, begging for money to buy the articles which Lily had pronounced necessary for proper enjoyment of the beach. Their demands were readily gratified; and Lily having called Nora, the whole troop sallied down to the store, where Lily caused great amusement by asking the salesman for "pades and spails." This mistake served as a good joke for some time, and restored good humor and merriment to the young party. The beach proved quite as attractive as Lily had pictured it, and the time was happily whiled away there till the hour for bathing arrived, and people began to flock down for that purpose. Among them came the older friends of our little girls; and now there was a new delight for Lily and Belle, Mamie considering the pleasure of a surf bath, at the best, doubtful; and Mabel positively refusing to try it. Mabel chose to accept her mother's offer of driving home in the great, red "beach wagon" which was waiting on the sands for those who wished to use it; but the other children preferred to walk; and as little Belle, as usual, went clinging to her father's hand, it came to pass that Mamie and Lily were left to walk together, and they fell rather behind the rest of the party. "See here, Mamie," said Lily; "I didn't know you were really trying to improve yourself. You know it didn't look much like it this morning when you spoke so to your mother; but are you, really now?" "Yes, I am," answered Mamie; "and I've taken a watchword to help me, out of the Bible." "That is a good plan," said Lily approvingly. "What is it?" "The eyes of the Lord are in every place," repeated Mamie; "and this morning when I was mad because mamma wouldn't let me go to the breakwater, I just thought the eye of the Lord saw me then, and that stopped me. But I think mamma might have let me go, don't you?" "Well, yes, I think she might as well have let you go," said Lily, trying to mingle a mild disapprobation of Mrs. Stone's objections with the teaching of a due submission on Mamie's part, and a modest consciousness of her own better fortune; "and my mamma always lets me go with some one to take care of me. But then, Mamie, mammas are different, you know, and their children can't expect to alter them." "No," said Mamie, feeling, as perhaps Lily meant she should, that her little companion was more blessed in an accommodating mamma than she was, at least, in the matter of the breakwater; "no, but it is so stupid in mamma to be afraid of nothing. She ought to know that 'the eyes of the Lord' see me there, and He will take care of me." Lily looked at her doubtfully. She had a feeling that it was not quite proper for Mamie to speak of her Maker in this careless way, and still she did not wish to take her to task about it; nor, if she had, would she have exactly known how to express the feeling in words. But she felt herself called upon, at least, to show her disapproval of the manner in which Mamie spoke of her mother, and she said gravely,-- "I wouldn't call my mamma 'stupid,' anyway, whatever she wouldn't let me do." [Illustration] [Illustration] IV. _FORBIDDEN PLEASURES._ THEY were nearing the breakwater as Lily spoke these last words, and the rest of the party paused when they came opposite to it, and Mr. Norris held out his hand to his little daughter, saying,-- "We are going on the breakwater for a few moments, Lily, and Mr. Powers is going to take Belle. Do you want to come?" Lily assented, and seized upon her papa's hand, all the more eagerly because she saw her brother Tom and the Stone boys upon the pier, and Lily always liked to go where Tom was. Mamie rushed up to her father. "You come too, papa; you come too, and take me; will you?" she exclaimed. "Mamma does not wish you to go upon the breakwater, Mamie," answered Mr. Stone. "I promised her this morning that I would not take you there, nor allow you to go under any circumstances." "It's not fair," whined Mamie, her good resolutions and her watchword once more forgotten; "it's not fair! The other children are going, and why can't I, with you to take care of me?" "Because I _promised_ mamma, dear," said Mr. Stone. "I am sorry she has this fear of your going upon the breakwater; but since it is so, we must give way to it, for we do not wish to trouble her, and you know she seldom crosses any of your wishes." Ah! but Mamie had no thought for that now. She was crossed just at the present moment, and she forgot all her mother's indulgence; and it only seemed to her that she was very ill used, and her mamma very unkind and provoking. She begged and fretted, but all in vain; her father was usually firmer with her than her mother was, and now having, as he said, given a promise that he would not allow Mamie to go, he would not yield to her desire. In this mood she was led home, where she increased her own discontent and longing for a forbidden pleasure by refusing to employ or amuse herself in any other way; and standing sullenly at one end of the long piazza, idly leaning against a pillar, and watching the distant breakwater where she could see several figures, among whom she distinguished Belle and Lily, sitting or clambering around. "It was too bad," "too mean," "real hateful," she said to herself; she "knew the breakwater was just the very pleasantest spot in the whole place; it must be so grand to see the waves come up there;" and, resolutely putting from her all better thoughts and feelings, she nursed her ill-humor till she was thoroughly miserable. And from that time the desire to go upon the breakwater took complete possession of Mamie's mind. Not that she knew of any very special attraction there; there were half a dozen play-grounds quite as pleasant, some far more so than the forbidden spot; but I am sorry to say that it was for that very reason, because it _was_ forbidden, that she longed to go, and was determined to do so if she could possibly find the way. To _worry_ her mother into withdrawing her refusal was her first idea; but she soon found this was useless; all her teasing, oft-repeated though it was, could not move Mrs. Stone. She believed the place to be dangerous, was nervous and uneasy even when her great boys were there, and nothing could persuade her to give Mamie the desired permission. Still it must not be supposed that Mamie exactly planned an act of deliberate disobedience, and carried such a purpose about with her in her heart. But she was rebellious and discontented; thought her mother was "mean" and "foolish;" and nursed other undutiful feelings, and so paved the way for sin when temptation and opportunity came. She was not openly naughty and disobedient, as yet; and she forgot that the Eye which saw all her actions, good and bad, marked quite as plainly every thought of her heart. She was playing with Lulu that afternoon, when Lily came rushing over to her in a state of great excitement. "Come over to our house, and see the very cunningest and queerest thing you ever saw in your life," she said. "What is it?" asked Mamie. "Come and see," repeated Lily. "Can she come, Mrs. Stone?" to Mamie's mamma, who sat upon the piazza near by. Mrs. Stone gave the permission which Lily judged necessary, but which Mamie probably would not have thought of asking; and the latter dropped the tongue of the wagon which she was drawing, in the character of Lulu's horse. "Lulu do too," said the little one, who had no mind to be shut out from the promised entertainment. "O you pet! Could she come too, Mrs. Stone?" asked Lily. "We'd be very careful of her, and it's a very safe place, just behind the house, that we are going to." Permission was given for this also; Mamie, who was very fond of her little sister, and generally very good to her, also begging for it; and the delighted baby was led away by her two proud young protectors. Lily guided her guests to the back of "our house," as she called the hotel where she boarded; and there were gathered not only Belle and Mabel, but most of the other children who were staying there, even her brother Tom and some boys quite as large among them, much interested in a mixed brood of newly hatched chickens and ducklings which were running about a coop. Within was the mother hen, ruffling up her feathers till she was twice her natural size, clucking and scolding at what she plainly considered this unwarrantable intrusion upon her premises, and thrusting her head through the bars of her coop in wild but vain efforts to follow her nestlings. "There!" said Lily, "did you ever see any thing so cunning? The little ducks are rather ugly, but then they are funny; and it is so queer for a hen to have ducks for her children. I never heard of any thing so romantic. Now, you need not laugh, Tom. Does it not seem very strange?" "Not so strange when you know that they gave the old hen duck's eggs, as well as her own, to set on," said Tom. "But the little ducks' heads don't fit; they are too big for them. Is that because a hen set on them?" asked Belle, which question sent all the large boys into a fit of laughter, whereupon poor Belle looked as if she had half a mind to run away. But Tom Norris kindly drew her to him, and told her that young ducklings were always such awkward, top-heavy looking little things. "They're not one bit pretty, only funny," said Lily; "but the chickens are real cunning and pretty; dear little downy things. I'd like to have one in my hands; can I, Tom?" "No," answered Tom, "you must not touch them. Mrs. Clark would not like it, for you might hurt it; and it would distress the old hen." "She couldn't make much more fuss than she is making now, the cross old thing!" said Lily, shaking her fist at the hen, "and we're not doing a thing to her or her chickens." "She's afraid we will, you see," said Tom. "Hi! and there's Lulu after one now;" and dropping Belle's hand which had been confidingly nestling in his, he darted upon the little one just as she had succeeded in grasping a tiny chicken. For Lily and Mamie, in their own excitement over the birds, had left their hold of the child's hands, and being seized with the same desire which Lily had expressed, she had improved her opportunities, and made off after a chicken. She had barely secured her prize when Tom's hand was upon her, not rudely or roughly, but with a firm, though gentle hold; and Tom's voice was telling her that she "must let the poor little chickie go." "No, no. Lulu want it so. Lulu love it," lisped the little one in coaxing tones, holding up the peeping, struggling thing against Tom's cheek as if to persuade him by its downy charms to let her keep it. "But Lulu hurts it, and it is God's little chickie, and He don't want it to be hurt," said Tom, gently unclasping the fat, dimpled fingers, and releasing the poor, terrified bird before it had received much farther injury than a good fright. "Lulu dest only 'queeze it a little; dest only," said the child, with whom these last words, meaning "just only," were a favorite expression; and the distressed tone of voice and grieved lip told that she was taking the release of the chicken much to heart. "But it hurts it to squeeze it," said Tom, taking her up in his arms; "and Mrs. Clark will be angry if you hurt it or kill it." "Tlart don't see," said Lulu, looking around her to make sure of the truth of her argument. "But God sees," said Tom, "and He wants Lulu to be good and not catch the little chickens or ducklings." "Does He say Lulu naughty dirl if she tuts 'em?" asked Lulu, raising her eyes to the sky where she had been told God lived, as if she expected to see Him. "He says Lulu is naughty if she hurts the birdies, or don't mind what she is told," said Tom. "Den Lulu won't," said the little one; "but Lulu want de chittee so-o-o," she added, with a long-drawn sigh which told that the sacrifice was almost too much for her. "That's a good girl. Don't you want me to give you some pretty shells?" said Tom approvingly. This attempt to divert her attention proved quite successful, and Tom carried her away with all her smiles restored. "What a dear, good little thing!" said one and another of the childish group, all of whom had heard what passed. "Yes, so she is," said Mabel; "but Tom might have let her have the chicken a few moments. It was no such great harm, and it was real mean and silly of him." Lily turned upon her with threatening voice and manner. "Don't you dare to talk that way of my Tom," she said. "He's _not_ mean and silly, but he's wise as any thing, and knows a whole lot about what is right; and he is un-meaner than any one you know!" "I shall touch the chickens and ducks if I want to, and Tom shan't say any thing about it," said Mabel, defiantly. "It's none of my affairs if you do," returned Lily; "but you're not going to talk horridly about my Tom." That she would take very decided measures to prevent this, or, at least, to punish any repetition of the offence, Lily plainly showed by the very emphatic little nod of her head, with which she treated Mabel. The latter turned pettishly away, knowing that Lily generally had the best of it in any war of words, but she muttered as she did so,-- "I'll touch them when Tom's not here." "She forgets 'the eyes of the Lord' are everywhere," said Mamie, rather jauntily, for Lulu being her sister, she felt very proud of her good behavior on this occasion, and as if it reflected some credit on herself; "and she's not half as good as Lulu." Lily turned her eyes upon her with a look in which Mamie read some disapproval and questioning. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Nothing much. I was only thinking," said Lily, not feeling quite sure that she would be justified in calling Mamie to account for what she felt to be a careless way of speaking. Moreover, one quarrel was as much as she cared to manage at once; and, considering Mabel as the greater offender of the two, she allowed Mamie to go unreproved for the time. But, having spoken her mind on the subject of Mabel's criticism of Tom's conduct, her feelings were relieved, and she was ready to be friends again, which she showed by saying,-- "Let's all go to the Rocks now if our mothers will let us. Come, Mabel, make up, and come with us." Mabel certainly meant to go with the others, but she was resentful, and had no intention of "making up" so soon; and for some time she held aloof from Lily, regarding her with frowning and angry looks, and refusing to walk near her. "The Rocks make the most splendid place to play in that you ever went to," said Lily, with the confidence of one who was familiar with the spot in question, and therefore fully entitled to express an opinion; "and I'm going to take down some little boats Tom made me, and we'll sail them in a lovely pool that I know of. But then everybody must be pleasant and nice if they expect me to lend them to them," she added, by way of a persuasive admonition to the still sullen Mabel. But even this inducement did not move Mabel, and her good humor was not restored till they reached the Rocks, and the charms of the wonderful place made her forget all cause of offence. Lily had not, indeed she could not, say too much in praise of these magnificent rocks. They lay in a vast stretch along the coast, now low and shelving to the water's brink, now abrupt and precipitous, rising in huge masses piled one upon the other, or here and there standing out boldly in some single, grand bluff. All over them were curious natural steps worn in the solid stone. You might go some distance, and imagine you had come to a place whence there was no outlet for farther progress, and lo! turning to the right hand or the left, you would seldom fail to find these stepping-places to help you onwards. A light and active foot was an advantage, it is true; and now and then a good jump was necessary, unless one was contented to turn ignominiously back, and search for some easier way. But a rich reward for any amount of hard scrambling awaited you when you had reached some choice spot, and resting in a natural seat, carved by nature out of the stone, looked out over the great expanse of blue ocean before you, or cast your eye down the long line of coast where the white, curling waves were breaking in masses of snowy foam. Here in one spot, below where the great boulders lay massed in wild confusion, the waters came rolling in, in one grand, massive sweep; there, in another, they were boiling and churning as in some great caldron; farther on still, where some huge rock rose frowning and stern, thrusting itself into the sea far beyond its fellows, they were broken into countless showers of spray which, now and then, caught the sun's rays, and sparkled with all the colors of the rainbow. But perhaps the whole beauty and grandeur of the place could scarcely be felt by our little friends; and for them, the chief attractions were the cosey nooks these rocks afforded for playing baby-house; the famous hiding-places; and, most of all, the numerous pools either left by the tide, or collecting on higher ground, after some recent rain. These were extremely convenient for sailing vessels of various sizes and shapes, building docks and piers, bathing any dolls which might be made of such materials as would stand a bath, or which were past injury; in short, there were various ways in which they might be, and were made useful by the young frequenters of the spot. And many of the salt-water pools were miniature gardens, filled with tiny sea-plants of all lovely shades of green, purple, and brown, and here and there of a bright red like coral; and among them lived curious little fish and water animals, anemones, starfish, with others whose names are too hard for you to remember. None knew their advantages better than Lily, who jumped and sprang and clambered like a goat,--I beg her pardon, a gazelle would have been more complimentary. Nora and the other nurses who accompanied the young party held their breath as they saw her almost fly from point to point, graceful and fearless, seeming as if her tiny feet scarcely touched the ground; but the children themselves looked on admiringly, and were fired, by her example, with the desire to do likewise, rebelling against the restraining hands which were laid upon them when they tried to follow too rapidly. Ah! those famous rocks made a capital play-ground with an endless variety of entertainment. "Miss Lily'll be satisfied now, I suppose, for here's where she always likes to come and play," said Nora with a sigh of relief, as the roguish sprite paused upon a high, bold rock, and snatching off her hat turned towards the others and waved it triumphantly, calling out, "Come on! Here's a _splendid_ place, with a great, big puddle and lots of stones about." "'Pears like a temptin' ob Probidence," wheezed old Daphne, Belle's nurse, as puffing and blowing, with one eye fixed anxiously on her little charge, who fearlessly followed Lily's guidance, she awkwardly slid and rolled from ledge to ledge. "It's de uncanniest place eber _I_ see. We don't hab none sech down Souf to home. De shore am smoof and de water quiet and well-behaved most times down dere. None ob yer splutterin' and fussin' like dis, nor sech awful hard walkin';" and Daphne's injured groan and sniff but added force to her uncomplimentary comparison; but it was with a hopelessly resigned expression of countenance which much amused the other nurse-maids, that she, at last, settled herself into a shady nook, declaring that "dese are de hardest stones I _eber did_ see." [Illustration] [Illustration] V. _THE DUCKLING._ THE spot chosen by Lily for the afternoon's amusement was indeed universally pronounced to be "splendid." On the very top of a broad, flat rock lay a pool of water (fresh water this; the waves seldom washed so high even in the most furious of storms), it collected here from the rains and dew and fogs, and but rarely dried up. Just now it was unusually full, and the most unaccommodating of nurses could scarcely have refused permission to make the most of such a delightful sheet of water. All four of our young friends and two other little girls, named Alice and Julia Gordon, who had been invited to join them, were soon busily at work. Lily produced, from the depths of her pocket, some tiny dolls "made to be drowned and upset and such misfortunes," and the boats being launched, these unfortunate passengers were speedily consigned to the probable fate which awaited them. Ah, such a fate! Spite of the smiling, sunny face of that miniature sea, what "horrible accidents" and "shocking disasters" took place thereon! what storms arose, caused by the violent stirring up of its waters with whirling of sticks and splashing of stones! how those gallant vessels ran into one another, turned bottom upwards, lost masts and rudders! how they spilled their passengers, who were saved only to be sent forth on another perilous voyage! By and by it was decided to build a pier,--a breakwater where the distressed vessels might run for shelter now and then; and all proceeded to hunt up small stones and pebbles for the structure. Away went Lily, springing up here and down there, across rifts and chasms, swinging herself lightly from ridge to ridge, peering into holes and clefts, and, whenever she found a stone suitable for her purpose, passing it on to her less venturesome companions. Coming round a corner of the rock, she found Belle standing alone, and gazing thoughtfully over the blue waters of the sea. "Why, Belle!" she exclaimed, "what are you thinking of so solemnly? Why don't you pick up stones?" "I was thinking about Mamie," answered Belle. "Lily, I believe she wants to be good, but she don't quite know how to set about it." "Oh, ho! and I s'pose you want to take pattern by Maggie and Bessie, and help her, do you?" said Lily, going down on her hands and knees, and thrusting her arm into a cleft where she spied a suitable stone. "I'd like to, but I don't know how very well," said Belle; "and it was not that I was thinking about so much. I was just wishing Maggie was here to give me a proverb to make a proverb-picture out of. Lily, do you know of one about a breakwater?" "No," answered Lily, giving a violent tug to the stone which refused to be dislodged from its position,--"oh! you obstinate old thing, come out,--no, I don't, Belle. But why do you want one about a breakwater?" "'Cause I think Mamie feels very naughty to her mamma about it," answered Belle. "She keeps saying how mean it is in her not to say she can go, and calls her foolish and stupid; and she says she will coax her papa to take her. And you know she ought not to talk so about her mother, even if she is--Lily, do you think Mrs. Stone is a very wise mamma to Mamie?" "Wise!" repeated Lily. "I should think not! There! why did you not come before, when you had to come?"--this to the stone, which she had at length succeeded in bringing up; then again to Belle,--"Belle, I think she's just about the foolishest mother I ever did see. Augh! if my mamma was so foolish as that, I should be too ashamed of her for any thing;" and Lily sprung to her feet, and flourished her stone in the air as if to give emphasis to her opinion. "But I'll tell you, Belle; I have a very good idea. I think we could manage to give Mamie a lesson without offending her, and just pretending it's all play. As soon as our breakwater is finished, we'll have a game about a disobedient child,--no, ever so many children, so Mamie won't think we mean her,--ever so many disobedient children who went on it when their mothers did not want them to, and were very severely punished by terrible things which happened to them. Don't you think that would do?" "Well, yes," answered Belle, rather doubtfully, for Lily's attempts at moral teaching were apt to be more personal than agreeable, and to give offence where she did not intend it; "but you'll have to be very sure Mamie don't think we mean it for a hint to her, Lily; else she'll be mad." "Oh, yes! we'll be careful," said Lily; and, secure of the success of her plan, she ran back to the pool, followed by Belle. Meanwhile Mamie and Mabel had been busily at work raising the breakwater which was now nearly finished, and enough stones having been gathered, Lily also lent a hand to its completion; while Belle, feeling rather tired, sat quietly by, looking on. "I wish I had my magnet swans and fishes up here," said Alice Gordon; "would not this be a nice place to swim them!" "Yes," said Belle; "and wouldn't it be fun if we had some of the new little _ducklies_ here to teach them to swim!" "Duck-ly-_ings_, they are called," said Lily, jamming down a refractory stone which, as she said, would not "stay _put_" and thereby spattering the water over herself and her playmates. But no one minded such a trifle as that. Builders of breakwaters cannot always expect to keep quite dry. "I thought Tom called them _ducklies_," said little Belle. "_Ings_--lyings--duck--ly--ings," repeated Lily with emphasis. "Yes, indeed, it would be too cunning and funny to have them here, and teach them to swim. This would make just about a big enough pond for them." "Let's bring one to-morrow," said Mabel. "Mrs. Clark wouldn't let us," said Lily. "She's an awfully cross old patch." "Let's take one without asking her then," said Mabel. "We can put it back all safe, and she'll never know it." "That would be very naughty, though," said Belle. "And God would see, if Mrs. Clark didn't," said Mamie. "Mabel, you forget 'the eyes of the Lord are in every place.'" "See here," said Lily, who had just put the last stone upon the miniature pier, and then plumped herself down upon the rock beside Belle,--"see here, Mamie; it seems to me you're getting rather intimate with the Lord." "I'm not," said Mamie resentfully; for she had felt rather grand when she made her speech to Mabel, and did not like to have her weapons turned upon herself. "We ought to remember God sees us all the time." "Course we ought," returned Lily; "but then I don't b'lieve it's proper to talk about it in that familiar kind of a way--so--so--well, I don't know exactly how to tell it, but as if the Lord was not any thing so very great, you know," and Lily's voice took a graver tone. "He hears us all the time, too, and we ought to be a little careful how we speak about Him in our play." "He sees us and hears us now, just this very minute; don't He?" said Belle thoughtfully. A moment's silence fell upon the little group as to one and all came the solemn recollection of the Almighty presence here among them; a silence broken, of course, by Lily, who, turning again to Mamie, said, "It's very nice of you, Mamie, certainly, to try to remember that text of yours all the time; but then I mean we ought to think a little more soberly, and speak a little more piously about it; or it's not likely to do us much good. Now let's play." The proposed play was successfully carried out, both Lily and Belle being careful to avoid looking at Mamie during its performance lest she should guess that it was intended expressly for her benefit, take offence, and so fail to profit by it. Nevertheless, Mamie had her own doubts on the subject; and, as the play progressed, withdrew from any active share in it, sitting down and watching the others with a solemn countenance. The truth was that her conscience was not at rest; not that she planned any deliberate disobedience, but she knew that she was cherishing rebellious and undutiful feelings in her heart, because she would not make up her mind to give up, without farther murmuring and teasing, the pleasure her mother had forbidden. The oft-shipwrecked and oft-rescued rag dolls, now in a most distressed and bedraggled condition, as became their various misfortunes, were supposed to be a family of children seized with an uncontrollable desire to go upon the breakwater in spite of the commands of their parents that they should keep away from it. One after another yielded to the temptation, and all met with the most disastrous fates. Two were swept away by an uncommonly high wave sent for the purpose, and, as they were carried into the depths of the sea, raised pitiful voices to their comrades, crying, "Be warned by us! depart from disobedience, and be warned by us!" A part of the pier gave way with others, precipitating them into the briny deep; another child fell through a hole, and became wedged in between the stones, "where she had to stay all the rest of her life, and grew up there, but never got out, and had a horrid time." In short, some terrible but well-deserved catastrophe overtook each one, till the whole family were destroyed. "That's not a bit real," said Mamie, in a tone of great dissatisfaction, when the last survivor had been disposed of. "I know children _don't_ usually be drowned and squeezed up in stones just because they go on breakwaters." "No," said Belle, "not _usually_; but then they might be, you know. Accidents _sometimes_ happen, 'specially if people don't mind." "Children don't _usually_ be ate up by bears," said Lily; "but the Elisha children were; and I don't s'pose they expected the bears at all. So that shows punishments may come to us that we never thought about, besides the punishment of a very bad conscience." Lily had said "we" and "us" lest Mamie should feel that she intended a particular thrust at her; but as she spoke the last words, she could not refrain from giving a sidelong glance to see if her moral lesson were taking a proper effect, and Mamie caught it, and it increased her suspicion that she was to receive a reproof and warning under this friendly disguise. "I just believe Lily does mean that play for me," she said to herself, "and she has no right to. I wish she'd mind her own business." Then, rising and moving away with a very superb air, she said aloud, "That's a very foolish, tiresome play, and I shan't stay to see any more of it." "Oh! it's done," said Lily; "the disobedient children are all used up. We'll fish them out now, and lay them in the sun to dry. I do wish we could have some of the ducklings here; it would be such fun." Other people were now beginning to flock down to the rocks, for this was the favorite resort in the afternoons; and numerous groups were to be seen, scattered here and there, in such convenient resting-places as they might find, watching the breaking of the waves, and all the mingled beauties of sea and sky. Among them came Mr. Powers, Mr. and Mrs. Norris, Mrs. Stone and the little Gordons' mother; and Mr. Norris asked if there were not a cluster of "Sunbeams" who would like to shed the light of their rays upon "Indian Rock." Yes, indeed! Lily had painted the glories of "Indian Rock" in such glowing terms, that they were only too eager to accept the invitation; and with the help of many a lift, pull, and push from the strong arms of the gentlemen, the whole party, great and small, were soon landed on that enchanting spot. For there each one of the children had been forbidden to venture, unless in company with some older and experienced person; and their nurses had been told not to lead them there. For "Indian Rock" was a dangerous spot, unless one trod it with care, or had the guidance and support of a strong, firm hand. "Papa," said Mamie, as her father helped her up to the top of a slippery ledge, "I'm sure I do not think the breakwater could be more dangerous than this, and I don't see why you could not let me go there just as well as here. Lily's mamma lets her go there with only Nora or Tom, and I'm sure I don't see why I can't." Much to Mamie's surprise, and somewhat to her alarm, her father now spoke quite sternly to her, bidding her put all thought of the breakwater out of her head, since, dangerous or not, her mother was afraid to have her go there, and his word had been passed that she should not be allowed to do so. After this, she dared say no more; but still she silently fretted and murmured, and thought herself hardly used, thereby losing half her pleasure in the beautiful scene before her. It was two or three days before any of the children came down to play in their pool again. Other pleasures took up their time and attention; but, at last, one bright, sunny afternoon, it was proposed to go. When the hour arrived, however, Lily and Belle were invited to go for a drive and a visit to the light-house; and the juvenile party was reduced to four. Lily kindly lent her ships and boats, and a new supply of unhappy passengers had been provided; but these did not satisfy Mabel, who, since the day on which she had first seen the ducklings, had never ceased to wish that she could see them swim. "You've been here the longest; would you mind asking Mrs. Clark to lend us one of the ducklings to take down to the Rocks this afternoon?" she said to Lily, as the latter, ready dressed for the drive, stood upon the piazza, waiting for the carriage. "I should think I _would_ mind!" exclaimed Lily. "I would not do it for any thing. Why, Mabel, she's the crossest old thing that ever lived. This morning when I came up from the bath, I asked her for a ginger-cake, and she told me I was always stuffing! Stuffing! Such a horrid word to say! And besides, it's not true. I'm not eating all the time, and mamma gave me leave to ask for the cake." "Didn't she give it to you?" asked Mabel. "Oh, yes, she gave me a whole plateful; at least, she was going to; but you don't think I was going to take them after that! No, indeedy!" "But I don't want her to _give_ us a duckling, only to lend us one to swim it down in our pool," said Mabel. "Wouldn't you dare to ask her?" "I'd dare enough," answered Lily, who seldom confessed to dread of living thing, unless it were a horse; "but I know it would be of no use; and I never ask people for things when I'm sure they don't want to give them to me. Here's the carriage." This was not Mabel's doctrine. Like Mamie Stone, she had a great deal of faith in fretting or worrying for that which other people did not wish to grant, knowing from experience that she often, by this means, gained her point. Having seen Belle and Lily off, she sauntered out to the back lot where the chickens and ducks were kept, and stood looking at the ducklings with a growing desire to have one to play with. Should she go and ask Mrs. Clark? Before she had fully made up her mind to do so, the woman herself came around the corner of the house, and the next moment her loud, sharp voice struck disagreeably on Mabel's ear, and put all thoughts of asking a favor from her quite out of the little girl's mind. "Now look here! What are you about there? You let them chickens alone, and go round to your own side of the house. I don't want the boarders' children meddling round here." Such was the greeting which Mabel received; not very encouraging certainly, and she moved away with a scowl at Mrs. Clark which did not make her look much more amiable than the loud-voiced scold herself. "I wasn't touching your old chickens," she called out as soon as she thought herself at a safe distance. But, instead of going back to the house, she walked on to the end of the lot where it was divided from the next field by a row of currant bushes and a stone wall. Walking along by the bushes, without any particular purpose, and thinking it was time for her to go and see if the other children were ready for the walk to the Rocks, she heard a curious little noise among the bushes. Stooping down and peering in at the spot whence it seemed to come, she saw one of the ducklings lying on the ground, and making the faint sound which had attracted her attention. "I wonder how it came here, so far from its hen-mother and the other ducklings," she said to herself. "I could take it up now if I liked, and carry it to the Rocks, and neither the hen nor Mrs. Clark could see me." The temptation was strong. Mrs. Clark had vanished into the house; and the next moment Mabel had the duckling in her hand, hand and bird both hidden beneath the little overskirt of her dress, and she was running rapidly out of the gate which opened on a cross road by the side of the house. Then she heard Alice and Julia Gordon calling her. "Mabel! Where are you, Mabel? We are ready to go;" and Nanette's voice, "Ou êtes-vous donc, Mademoiselle?" and although she had no intention of keeping her prize a secret, it was with a half-guilty feeling that she went forward and joined them, still keeping her hand hidden beneath her overskirt. She would let the other children see what she had there when they reached the rocks, but not now. But she was not allowed to keep her secret so long; for as they were walking along the path which lay above the cliffs, Julia Gordon said,-- "What do you keep your hand under your skirt for, Mabel?" Mabel looked around before she answered. She had tried to persuade herself that she had done nothing wrong in "borrowing" the duckling for an afternoon's play, since no one had told her she was not to have it; but, nevertheless, she felt rather doubtful of what the nurses would say when they knew what she had there. The three women in charge of the little party had fallen somewhat behind; and Mamie, having taken it into her head to draw the wagon in which Lulu was seated, was also with them, and out of hearing for the moment, if she lowered her voice. "Don't tell if I tell you something," said Mabel, in answer to Julia's question, and speaking to both her and Alice. "No, what is it?" "You and Alice come close, one on each side of me," said Mabel. "I don't want any one else to know it till we are at the pool." Then, as her companions obeyed, full of eager curiosity, "It's a duckling; one of the new little ducklings that have the hen for a mother; and we'll swim it in the pool." "Oh, what fun!" said Julia. "Did Mrs. Clark lend it to you?" asked Alice. "No, I didn't ask her, she's so cross," answered Mabel; "but it wasn't any harm, for the duckling had come away from its mother, anyhow. I found it under the currant bushes, and I expect it will do it a great deal of good to teach it to swim. Mrs. Clark ought to be very much obliged to us." "Perhaps the poor little thing had run away to see if it could find any water," said Julia. "Ducks always want to swim, I believe, and this one had no mother duck to teach it." "Yes; so you see it's quite a kindness," said Mabel. "Let's see it," said Alice. "Presently, when we are at the rock where the pool is," said Mabel. "I don't want to take him out now for fear he begins to wiggle again before I get him in the water, and he knows what we are going to do with him. Won't he be glad?" "Yes," said Julia. "Does he wiggle much?" "Not now," said Mabel. "At first he wiggled dreadfully, but I held him tighter, so he couldn't; and he made a little noise, too, but I shut up his bill close, so he couldn't. He's very quiet and good now." "Aren't you going to let Mamie see him?" asked Alice. "Oh, yes, when we are ready to put him into the water; but I dare say she'll go and say something hateful about him when she sees him. Mamie's real ugly to me, and I can't bear her." [Illustration] [Illustration] VI. _POOR LITTLE WAGTAIL._ ARRIVED at the Rocks, the children speedily made their way to the pool which they considered their own special property, but, to their great disgust, found that their rights there had not been properly appreciated; for not only had some intruders been making free with their breakwater, but it was, as Mamie said, actually "unbuilt," and the stones lying scattered about in all directions. But this was soon lost sight of in the new interest of the duckling; and Mamie was speedily taken into the secret. She was pleased with this addition to the afternoon's entertainment, and therefore did not express the disapprobation which Mabel had rather looked for, saying "nothing hateful," but becoming as eager as the other children to give the poor little bird his first "lesson in swimming." In fact, I am afraid that all four intensely enjoyed this bit of mischief,--the outwitting of Mrs. Clark being considered a great triumph, and quite a feat on Mabel's part. And now they felt secure from interference. Lulu could not be brought here upon the rocks, and her nurse must keep her above on the bank; and the maids who attended Mabel and the little Gordons, having made their charges promise not to leave the broad, flat rock where they were quite safe, had preferred to join her, and keep an eye upon the children from a little distance. No one else was near, save some strangers seated upon a ledge above them; and now, closing around the pool, they were ready for "such fun." Stooping down to the tiny sheet of water, Mabel at last hastily withdrew her hand from beneath her skirt, and gently dropped the duckling into it. [Illustration: Mamie. p. 112.] But instead of seeming to enjoy his introduction to the new element, and beginning to swim fearlessly about, as some of the children knew young ducks usually do, he rolled over on his side with drooping head and wings, and lay floating helplessly on the water, the only motion he made being a feeble opening and shutting of his bill, as though gasping for air. "What a stupid little duck!" said Mamie. "He ought to swim right away. Once I saw a whole litter of ducklings go right in the water, and swim as well as the big ducks. Here, sir! get up and swim." And she lifted the duckling's head with her finger, and tried to put him in an upright position; but the instant she let him go he fell over again. "You naughty, lazy thing!" said Mabel. "Now you've _got_ to swim, sir, so you may as well do it. Here, let's poke him with this stick." "I think there's something the matter with him," said Julia. "He looks kind of flabby and sick; don't you think he does?" "Oh, yes! look at his eyes; they're growing all white," said Mamie. "Take him out of the water," said Alice. "You, Mabel; he's yours." But if the duckling were sick or ailing, Mabel had no desire to claim him. She was frightened now, and the words of the other children added to her alarm. "What have you done to him, Mabel?" asked Julia. "I didn't do any thing," she answered snappishly; "and you shan't say I did." "Was he this way when you found him?" asked Alice, lifting the duck out of the water. "I don't know," pouted Mabel. "No, he wasn't; 'cause he wiggled and squirmed so I could hardly hold him at first." "I expect you've hurt him then," said Mamie. "You ought to be ashamed to touch him." Alas, poor little Wagtail! As Alice laid him upon the rock he fluttered his wings feebly, stretched out his feet, gasped once more, and lay quite motionless. No wonder that he had, at last, lain "quiet and good" in the thoughtless little hand which had grasped him so tightly to still his "wiggling." "O Mabel! you _have_ hurt him. He's dead, I believe," said Julia in a tone of horrified distress. Thoroughly ashamed and sorry now that she believed herself to have done such fearful mischief, Mabel raised a doleful cry which speedily brought her own nurse and the maid of the little Gordons to inquire into the cause of the trouble. The story was told by Julia, for Mabel could not make herself understood; but, to the surprise of all the children, it was looked upon as a good joke by both the women, who laughed immoderately when they heard it. Nannette, knowing that she would be called to account if Mabel appeared with red eyes and swollen cheeks, hastened to soothe and comfort her little mistress, telling her she need not be troubled, since her mamma would make good the loss of the duckling to Mrs. Clark, and would not let the latter scold her. But Mabel was hard to be comforted. She felt as if she had been cruel as well as naughty, and it made her very uncomfortable to think that the poor little bird had come to its death in her hands. Though wilful and rather selfish, she was a tender-hearted child where pain or suffering was concerned, and now it was with a kind of sick horror that she shuddered and cried over her work. So great was her distress that even Mamie, forgetting the smothered ill-will between them, tried to console her, but all in vain; and she made such an ado that it attracted the attention of the party on the rock beyond them, and one of the ladies rose and came towards them. "What is the trouble? Can I be of any help here?" she asked in a kind voice. Then seeing the dead bird, she added, "Ah! I see, your duckling is dead. How did it come, my dear?" laying her hand on Mabel's head. Mabel had ceased her cries at sound of the strange voice, but she did not speak; and Mamie answered for her. "She killed it herself, ma'am. She didn't mean to, but then she had no business to touch it." At this indisputable but unpleasant truth, Mabel broke out again, having first relieved her feelings by making her "very ugliest face" at Mamie for "telling tales of her." Then turning to the lady, she said with a heavy sob, "Indeed, I didn't mean to hurt it, ma'am; indeed, I didn't." "I am sure you did not," said the lady soothingly, sitting down on the rock beside Mabel. "But where did the duckling come from? Was it yours?" No; there was an added trouble. Mabel did not speak, but hung her head; while Julia, after a moment's hesitation, answered,-- "No, ma'am, it was not hers; it was not any of ours. It was Mrs. Clark's, a very cross woman who keeps the house where we board; and I s'pose Mabel is afraid of her too. I know I would be." "There's no need of saying any thing about it to Mrs. Clark, I'm thinking," said the nurse of the little Gordons. "Put it under the bank where you found it, Miss Mabel, and she'll never know." The lady looked with grave eyes at Mabel, as if watching her to see if she would listen to such wrong advice. Neither Mabel nor the other children noticed this; but she was pleased to see the former shake her head decidedly, as she answered, sobbing,-- "No, no, I wouldn't do that. I'll have to tell. Once I hid something, and didn't tell I did it,--Belle and Lily knew about it, and Mamie too,--and it made me such a lot of trouble; and I'm never going to not tell again. But I don't care for that old Mrs. Clark. Papa won't let her scold me. But, oh, dear! I wish I hadn't squeezed the poor little duck; I wish I hadn't! I never thought he'd go and kill himself just for that. I squeezed him pretty softly too. Oh, dear! and I meant to put him back safely, too, when we had done swimming him." And looking confidingly up in the lady's sweet, sympathizing face, Mabel told the whole story of the finding of the duckling beneath the currant bush, and how she had brought him away. "I am glad, dear," said the lady, when Mabel had finished, "that you have made up your mind to confess what you have done, and not to attempt to hide it. I believe you acted without thought, and perhaps did not intend to do any thing very naughty; but you would make a little wrong a great wrong by trying to hide it." "Yes," said Mamie to herself, "and God would know it anyway, for 'the eyes of the Lord are in every place,' and He sees whatever we do; so He saw Mabel take that little duck." Mamie had been somewhat mindful of Lily's reproof since the last day they were here, and was more careful how she took the words of the Bible heedlessly upon her lips; but I am sorry to say she was rather more anxious to test the conduct of others by her watchword than she was her own, unless indeed she imagined herself particularly well-behaved and virtuous; when she would feel as if she was laying up a very good account for herself in the eyes of her Maker. She almost started; for it seemed as if the stranger lady must have read her thoughts when the latter said to Mabel,-- "And even if you had hidden this from us all, dear, you know there is one Eye from which you could not hide it; an Eye which sees even the very wish to do wrong, and you could not have been comfortable or happy knowing that, could you?" "No, ma'am," said Mabel, recalling the misery of the time she had spoken of; the time when she had taken a locket belonging to her Cousin Belle, not with the intention of keeping it, it is true; but when she knew Belle did not wish her even to touch it, and the locket had mysteriously disappeared, and so she had been brought into great trouble and disgrace for a time. "Yes, ma'am, and I'm always going to tell, always." There is no saying how far the consciousness that her father and mother would shield her from blame, and make good the loss to Mrs. Clark, went to support Mabel's resolution to confess all; but as she was by no means a deceitful or dishonest child, we will hope that she would have made this amends, even with the prospect of a severe scolding as the consequence. So perhaps the lady's words made less impression on her than they did upon Mamie, on whose conscience they smote unpleasantly, as she could not help feeling that, in her heart, there was the wish, and even the half-formed intention, to do wrong if opportunity should offer. "And now what will you do with the poor little duckling?" said the lady, taking the dead bird in her hand, and smoothing its downy back. "Shall we let one of the women toss it away in the waves?" "Oh, no, ma'am!" said Mabel; "don't you think I ought to give it back to Mrs. Clark, even if it is dead? She might want to have it stuffed and put under a glass shade like a canary of mine that died, and papa had him stuffed for me." The lady could hardly keep back a smile at the idea of the ugly little duck preserved beneath a glass shade, like some rare and valued pet; but she only said, approvingly,-- "Very well; perhaps you are right to wish to give it back to the owner." "And if Mrs. Clark don't want him any more we might have a grand funeral for him, and bury him to-morrow," said Julia Gordon. "Oh, I hope she won't want him," said Mabel, rather cheered by the prospect of funeral honors to her victim. "Would you like," said the lady, "that I should tell you a thing which happened to me when I was a little girl?" "Yes'm," said Mabel, brightening afresh at the suggestion; and in the eager faces which were turned towards her the kind stranger saw that her offer met with general approval. Our little friends, like most children, were always ready for a story. "When I was a child," she began, "I was not the best-behaved one in the world. I do not think I meant to be very naughty, but I was thoughtless and wilful, perhaps a little obstinate when I had once made up my mind to do or have a thing; and although I had a good, wise, and tender mother, I was impatient of contradiction even from her. As to my brothers and sisters, all older than I was, I would not listen to the least advice or interference from them. "I was about ten years old, and we were spending the summer, as usual, at my grandfather's country-seat up in the mountains. On the side of the hill, at a short distance from grandpapa's, were the farm-house, dairy, orchard, and kitchen-garden; and all these I thought much more amusing places than the house, lawn, and flower-garden where I properly belonged, and where my mother generally preferred to have me play. For there were more ways and places for me to get into mischief down at the farm than there were at the house; and I am afraid mother knew very well that my heedlessness and self-will led me often to do the thing I wished rather than the thing that was _right_. Still I was not forbidden to go to the farm; and, so long as my brothers or sisters were with me, she never objected. "The thing of all others which attracted me most at the farm was a half-grown black kitten. Mother could not bear cats, so we never had one at home, or at grandpapa's; but up at the farm-house, I could amuse myself by the hour with this playful little creature, which grew very fond of me. "One morning we had some young visitors; and of course we must show them all the beauties and curiosities of the place. Among them was the orchard, although the apples there were as yet hardly larger than nuts. "As we were passing through it one of my brothers spied a nest in a tree. "'Hallo, Annie!' he said, 'there's a nest. I'll bring it down for you if you want it.' "I did want it; but one of my sisters begged Will to make sure that it was empty. "'Oh, it must be empty; it's too late for birds to be in it,' said Will, who like myself was rather headstrong and heedless; and raising a whip he carried, he whisked the lash over and around the nest. "Ah! the nest was not empty, though it really was late in the season for the young ones; and, the next moment, a beautiful bird fell fluttering at our feet, its wing broken by the blow from Will's whip, while its mate flew from the nest, terrified almost out of her life. "A more crestfallen, distressed being than Will it would have been hard to find; for he was very tender-hearted, and would not hurt a living thing purposely. We were all much disturbed, and at once set about doing all we could for the poor little sufferer. My eldest brother bound up its wing as well as he was able, and we brought some hay with which Will climbed the tree, and made a bed in a forked branch near the nest. He said there were four half-fledged birds in the nest, and was more disturbed than ever at the mischief he had done. But he promised himself and us that he would care for parent-birds as well as nestlings, as long as either should need it; knowing that the poor little mother would have too much to do to feed both husband and children. "Brother Ned handed up the wounded bird, and Will put it carefully in the bed he had made for it; after which, the rest of us went on, and left him digging a supply of worms which he intended to put in a convenient place, as a store from which the mother-bird might help herself without the trouble of looking for them. He was still quite quiet and out of spirits when he joined us at the dairy some half-hour later, though he told us the mother-bird had returned, and her poor mate had eaten a caterpillar placed handy for him. "That afternoon my sister Rosa and I went up to the orchard with Will to see about his birds, and carry them food and water. "As we passed the door of the farm-house, Blackie, the kitten, came running out to see us, and I took her up in my arms to take her with me. "'Don't bring that cat,' said Will. 'She might get at the birds.' "'No, she won't. I shan't let her,' I answered. "'But she might,' said Rosa; 'she's so quick and active, she'd be up the tree before you knew it.' "'No, she shan't,' I repeated positively; 'I'll keep her in my arms all the time, and I'm going to take her.' "And though Will begged me, and was even angry about it, I persisted in taking the cat with me. "And I did keep her fast in my arms, although she struggled to be free, and even scratched me severely when she saw, as she immediately did, what Will was at. "He found the little creature somewhat better than when he had left it in the morning, and it was quite tame, fluttering but little when he climbed the tree, and almost taking the worm he offered from his hand. He supplied it with all it needed, and came down as soon as possible, as the mother-bird had again flown from the nest when he came near. "How kitty's eyes gleamed and sparkled, and how fiercely she struggled in my arms! It was all I could do to keep my hold; and I was so afraid that she would escape in spite of me, that I was sorry that I had not listened to my sister and brother and left her behind. "But at last we were ready to go; and when I put puss down at the farm-house door, I relieved my feelings and visited my own obstinacy on her by giving her two or three good cuffs. It never came into the mind of any one of us as she scampered away and hid beneath the stoop, that she might find her way back to the nest by herself, or of all the mischief she would work there. "You may be very sure that the first thing to be thought of in the morning was the helpless birds up in the orchard; and directly after breakfast Will and I went over to the farm. As we passed the house-door, kitty came frisking out to me, as usual; but mindful of the trouble I had had with her the day before, I bade her stay at home. "All in vain, however; puss was determined to follow. Whether she guessed where we were going or no, I cannot tell; but it really seemed as if she did, and, feeling guilty, wanted to be on the spot when we discovered her cruelty. Come she would, although Will threw stones at her, and I beat her with a stick, and chased her back many times; we would take only a few steps onwards, and there she was after us again. At last Will turned an empty barrel over her, put a stone on top of it, and there we left her mewing piteously. "But we might have let her come on; the mischief was done. When we reached the tree, what destruction was there! The lame bird was gone from his bed of hay, and a few bright feathers scattered about told what his fate had been; the nest hung, torn and ragged, empty of its young inhabitants; while the mother-bird was flying wildly to and fro, wheeling round and round her ruined home, and uttering piteous, mournful notes. "Will looked at me, and I at him; but for the moment, neither of us could find words for the thought that was in both our minds; but if the painful truth had needed to be made plainer, it was done so at that instant by puss, who sprang suddenly forward, and pounced on something among the long grass beneath the tree. Will was upon her like a flash, and with some difficulty succeeded in taking her prey from her. It was one of the nestlings, but quite dead and stiff. Perhaps he had been killed by a fall from the tree when the cat attacked his home, or perhaps her cruel claws had crushed the life out of him when she had gorged herself upon his father and brothers, and could eat no more. "Will, great boy though he was, could not keep back his tears, and vowed all manner of vengeance on puss for the destruction of his adopted family. As for me, I was heart-broken, for I could not but feel that it was all my fault; and while poor pussy had only followed her own natural instincts in destroying the birds, I had been obstinate and wilful, and so brought about such a sad thing; for if I had not carried the cat there, she would probably not have discovered the nest. "And I am forced to believe that Will made good his word in the most severe manner; for from that day I never saw kitty again, although I went to the farm as often as before; but I never had the courage to ask any questions, feeling quite sure that puss and birds had all come to a violent death through my obstinacy." "Is that all, ma'am?" asked Mabel, when the lady had ceased speaking. "That is all," she answered; "and, judging from your grave little faces, I should think it was enough." "Oh, we like it very much, and we are sorry it is finished," Julia hastened to say. "Yes," said Mabel with a long sigh; "and I think that story is rather a comfort." "How so?" asked the lady. "'Cause it's nice to know you could be naughty once when you are so good now." "How do you know I am good now, or that I have improved any since I was a child?" said the lady smilingly. "I should think you must be good when you are so kind to us," answered Mabel, slipping her hand confidingly into that of her new friend. "Well, perhaps I may have improved in the way of believing others could be as wise as myself, and in giving up my own will now and then," said the lady; "for that was a severe lesson to me." "But how did the pussy get out from the barrel?" asked Mamie. "Oh! I forgot that. Some one of the family had heard her mewing, and let her out, not knowing of any particular reason why she should be kept a prisoner." Then she bade the children good-by, and leaving them to their play went back to her own friends. [Illustration] [Illustration] VII. _THE "FIRST STEP."_ BUT the spirit had gone from their play for that afternoon; the pool, beside which the dead duckling still lay, had lost its attraction for them all; and after spending some little time scrambling about over the rocks and watching the waves, they concluded to go back to the hotel. Mabel gave the dead duckling into Nannette's hands to be carried home; but arrived there, she took it at once to her father, and made an honest confession of the whole affair. Mr. Walton was a good deal amused at the tragic account she gave of the duckling's death and her own despair; but he did not let her see that, and, praising her for her readiness to make what amends she could, he offered to go with her to see the formidable Mrs. Clark. Passing through the hall on the way to Mrs. Clark's quarters, they met Mr. Clark, a man as good-natured and easy-going as his wife was sharp and bustling, and inquired of him where that good woman was to be found. "Wal, she's up to her elbows in a lot of varieties she's fixin' up for tea jest now," answered Mr. Clark, raising his hat with one hand, and scratching his head with the other, as his custom was whenever he made a remark or gave an answer; "an' I donno as she cares to be disturbed. Things is rayther in a chaos round kitchen ways, Mr. Walton. Is there any thing I could do for you, sir?" "Here is a little girl," said Mr. Walton, "who feels that she has not done right, and wants to confess what she has done. Speak to Mr. Clark, my dear." But poor Mabel, whatever she might wish or be willing to do, could find no words beyond "I--I--you--I"--and here she hung her head, and with gathering tears brought forward the hand which held the dead duckling, which until now she had kept hidden. "Shall I tell Mr. Clark?" asked her father. Mabel nodded assent. "It seems she picked up this duckling and carried it down to the Rocks this afternoon," said Mr. Walton, "intending to give it a swim in some pool, and then bring it back; but she has handled it too roughly, I suppose; for when she reached there it was dying. She is very sorry now, and feels that she did wrong to take it without permission; but I will make it all right with you, Mr. Clark, and Mabel will promise not to meddle again with what is not her own." "Whew!" said Mr. Clark, staring at the duckling as if he had not heard the latter part of Mr. Walton's speech; "there's two of 'em. Won't my wife be in a takin' though? I found another on 'em lyin' sick under the currant bushes this arternoon, an' it's dead or dyin' by this time. I see it warn't no use coddlin' it up; 'twas too fur gone, so I let it be." "I found this one under the currant bushes," said Mabel, regaining her voice. "It was just lying there, so that was the way I came to take it." "Did you, though?" said Mr. Clark; "well, sure enough, it's the very same fellow I left there. Don't you fret then, child; you've only put it out of its misery a little sooner, for it wouldn't ha' come round no way. 'Tain't no odds about it, Mr. Walton; jes' let it go, and I'll fix it with my old woman so she won't blame the little girl." Very much relieved, and thankful that she had made up her mind to confess, Mabel ran away to her mother, receiving permission from Mr. Clark to keep the duckling for the proposed funeral honors. The roar of laughter with which he heard her intentions did not sound very pleasant in her ears, but she was too grateful to escape a scolding to find fault with the good-natured man. Mabel had imagined that Belle and Lily would be very much shocked when they came home and heard of the fate of the duckling; but they were not half as much so as she feared; for she did not fail to tell them that Mr. Clark had said the little bird could not possibly have lived and thriven; and besides, its burial afforded the prospect of a pleasant entertainment for the next day. "And Maggie and Bessie are coming over to spend the day to-morrow," said Belle. "Papa had a letter from Mrs. Bradford saying so. We'll wait till they come, shan't we?" "Yes," said Mabel, "we will; and maybe Maggie would make up some poetry for us about him." The promised visit of Maggie and Bessie Bradford made quite a jubilee; and the next morning, when they landed with their papa from the boat which had brought them from Newport, they were met on the dock by a host of eager little friends. They were soon told the story of the duckling, but as they had only a few hours to spend in the place, and there was much to be seen and to do, Maggie declined to spend any portion of her time in composition, save so much as would answer for the purpose of a short epitaph. Mabel had sacrificed "the sweetest sugarplum box with the loveliest lady on the cover," to the service of the duckling, and he was tenderly laid therein. The procession was a large one, comprising not only most of the children in the house, but several others from the neighboring hotels; and Wagtail was buried with military honors; that is, to the beating of a drum and tooting of two tin trumpets, after which the assembly sang "Shoo Fly" about the grave. These imposing ceremonies afforded so much consolation to Mabel that she privately informed Belle and Lily that she would like to have a duck funeral every day, only she would not like to be the one to kill it. Maggie also composed a most touching epitaph for him, of mixed poetry and prose, which ran as follows:-- "Oh, pause, and drop a virtuous tear, Whatever footsteps wander here; For here's the body of Wagtail Duck, Whom cruel Death so soon did pluck! To the memory of Wagtail Duck, Esq., who Died in the fifth day of his age, after A short life in Which he was never known to do wrong and Painful illness. Reader, go and do likewise." This gem of composition, having been greatly approved by the mourners, was carried to Tom Norris in order that he might print it upon the board which, by Lily's request, he had prepared for a headstone. He read it without a smile, gravely shaking his head, and saying,-- "Yes, that is the usual fate of ducks; they are only made to be plucked." That the inscription excited general admiration after it was printed and put in its place, might be judged from the visits which were paid to it in the course of the day by nearly all the grown people in the house. But this admiration did not appear to be of a melancholy character, as they usually returned from the grave with the broadest of smiles on their faces. This was not observed by Maggie, however, who soon forgot both epitaph and duckling in the various pleasures provided for her entertainment. Tom Norris had been presented by his grandfather, just before leaving home, with a very handsome row-boat. This boat had, of course, been brought to the sea-shore; for Tom was a great boy now, and so wise and prudent that he was to be trusted to take care of himself and those who might be with him. It is true that his mother always gave a sigh of relief when she saw him come safely home from rowing; and while he was out, she would send many an anxious glance over the surface of the sea; but she never objected or interfered with him, and Tom was careful of her feelings, and did not venture when the sea was rough, lest she should be worried or alarmed for his safety. Mamma never would suffer Lily to go in the boat when Tom went in the deep water; not that she doubted her brother's care for her, but because Lily was such a heedless little thing, so quick and impulsive in all her movements, that she feared some sudden jerk or motion might send her into the water. Lily longed for the forbidden pleasure; but she was so accustomed to a ready obedience that she never thought of fretting about it, or worrying her mother to let her go. She did not even speak of it to Mamie when the latter complained of her mother's unkindness in not allowing her to go upon the breakwater. Mamma had said that it was not to be, and Lily had no more to say, but strove to content herself with the numerous pleasures left to her. But on this afternoon, as it was an extra occasion on account of the visit of Maggie and Bessie, dear, kind Tom proposed, and obtained his mother's permission, to take his boat up a little river which came down from the back country and crossed the beach, and to give the children a row there. They were all enchanted at the prospect, and Mamie had leave to go with the rest, Tom refusing to take her unless she asked her mamma first. Tom kept his boat tied to a stake on the inner side of the ruined breakwater, which shielded it and several others from the force of the waves when the sea was high, and made a kind of little harbor where they might ride in safety. Soon after dinner Tom gathered his passengers together, the company consisting of all our old young acquaintances, Maggie and Bessie, Belle, Lily, Mabel, and Mamie. Walter and Ned Stone were to go with them, and help Tom row. Down the road they went, a merry, happy flock, till they reached the breakwater, at the lower end of which stood Mr. Powers and Mr. Bradford, awaiting them. Tom hauled up his boat where the stones had fallen so as to make quite a convenient landing-place, while the other boys ran to bring the oars which were left in the care of the storekeeper hard by. The boat rocked up and down on the gentle swell within the shelter of the pier with a regular, undulating motion, which looked very pleasant in the eyes of the children, with one exception. "Tom, my boy," said Mr. Bradford, "I think I'll step in and take an oar with you as far as the river, if you'll have me." "Certainly, sir; most happy," answered Tom; and the gentleman stepped into the boat, which was kept from floating out by the rope which Tom had noosed about one of the heavy stones of the pier. "O papa!" said Bessie, "how I do wish I could come in the boat now, and be rocked up and down that way. I do like it so." "Come, then," said her father, and, guided by Mr. Powers' hand, the little girl made her way over the rugged ruins of the pier, and was lifted by her father into the boat. "Anybody else want a little tossing about?" asked Tom. "Maggie?" fixing his laughing eyes on her face, quite sure what her answer would be. "No--I--thank--you," said Maggie, with long-drawn emphasis on each word. "Tom, it's very plain that you don't know what sea-sickness is. Oo--o--o!" "Poor Maggie! she shuddered at the very thought," said Tom. "Papa, I'd like to go; could I?" asked Belle; and her father put her beside Bessie. "Lily?" said Mr. Powers, holding out his hand towards her as he saw how wistful she looked. But Lily shook her head. "Mamma has forbidden me to go in the boat when it is on the sea, sir," she said. "I think your mamma would not object here, dear, and with Mr. Bradford in the boat," said Mr. Powers. "But she might, sir, and I think I'd better not," said obedient Lily. "She told me so very spressly not to go; and she only gave me leave to row this afternoon because Tom was going on the river." "You are a dear, good child," said Mr Powers. "Mamie, are you for the boat?" Mamie had, until this minute, been standing farther back than the other children, not actually _on_ the breakwater, but as near to the forbidden ground as she could possibly be. She had never been so near to it before; and I am afraid that if her playmates had not known of her mother's command, she would have disregarded it altogether. She had no further thought for it when she heard Mr. Powers invitation, but started forward. "Mamie," said Tom, "did not your mother forbid you to come upon the breakwater?" "I can't go in the boat if I don't," pouted Mamie, stopping short where she was. "Go back!" said Tom decidedly; "you cannot come in till you go down to the river. Stay with Lily and Maggie." Mamie began to cry, but did not go back. "Hi, there, you Mamie! come off the breakwater!" said Walter the next moment, dashing past her with a pair of oars; and Ned, following with another, said, "O you disobedient thing! if you're not headstrong. See if I don't tell mamma of you." Mamie drew back, but feeling more than ever discontented and rebellious. "It's too bad!" she said passionately, as she saw Mabel placed beside Belle and Bessie in the boat. "Everybody else can do every thing they want to, and I never can, and just for such stupid nonsense. There! I have been on the breakwater, and never had a bit of harm happen to me." "Then you should be thankful for your mercies, and that your sins were not visited upon you," said Maggie solemnly. "Yes," said Lily; "and the way you talk about your mother is just too much, Mamie." "My dear children," said Mr. Powers, "do not spoil your afternoon's pleasure by fretfulness and quarrelling. If Mamie has, for a moment, forgotten her mother's orders, we will hope that she will be more careful another time. Come, we must walk on, or the boat will be at the river before we are." But no; Mamie had not forgotten her mother's orders; she had only hoped that others had done so, and had herself wilfully disregarded them; and she was to find the truth of the old proverb, that "it is only the first step that counts." Her "watchword," as she called it, was quite forgotten or put aside now; it was no longer a check upon her; and she had made up her mind that she would disobey her mother and go again upon the breakwater at the first opportunity. The disappointment about the boat was more than her wilful little heart could or would bear; and she was indignant to think that the other children should have any pleasure of which she was deprived. She forgot that Lily had been obliged to give up the same; but that she had done so in a cheerful, docile spirit, which would not even run the chance of doing that which her mother would not approve. So now Lily was gay, light-hearted, and full of spirits, chattering away merrily with Maggie and Mr. Powers as they crossed the beach on their way to the river where they were to meet the boat; while she, Mamie, came moodily and discontentedly behind, finding the sand heavy, the sun hot, the way "so long," and contriving to pick up half a dozen troubles in the course of the walk. Things were no better after she was in the boat. It was "no fun on that stupid river;" the boat was "too crowded," although Mr. Bradford had left it now; one "pushed" her, and another "shoved" her; although if you had asked the other children, they would probably have said that it was she herself who did the pushing and shoving; and, in short, she made herself so disagreeable that Maggie afterwards privately confided to Bessie that she found Mamie "very much re-dis-improved, and like the Mamie of old days." Her brothers were very much vexed with her, and even threatened to set her upon the river-bank, and leave her there by herself till they were ready to land; a threat which was, at last, carried out after she had become quite unbearable, and destroyed the pleasure of the whole party. However, it was not much more agreeable to have her shrieking upon the river-bank than it was to have her grumbling in the boat; and she was taken in again on promise of better behavior. This promise she fulfilled by sitting sullenly in her own corner of the boat without opening her lips; but the sounds which had come from them before were not so sweet as to make her companions regret her silence. And for such a trifle Mamie was making herself and all about her uncomfortable; for the sake of this one forbidden pleasure set against so many comforts and enjoyments, she had forgotten, or wilfully put out of sight, all her good resolutions, and the remembrance of that Eye which watched every thought and feeling of her heart. And yet, perhaps it was the consciousness of this, the guilty, uneasy conscience, which helped to make her so fretful and irritable, so hard to please, and captious to all about her. She was more ready, as we have seen, to test the conduct of others by her "watchword" than she was her own, now that the first novelty of it had worn off; but she could not quite put away the reproachful echo in her own heart. [Illustration] [Illustration] VIII. _DISOBEDIENCE._ LILY lay upon her back on the grass, her hands beneath her head, her eyes looking up into the sky. She had been lying thus some time, perfectly quiet, though Belle and Mamie sat beside her, playing with Lulu. "Lily," said Belle at last, "what are you doing?" "Thinking," answered Lily. "Oh!" said Belle, surprised, perhaps, at this unusual process; for Lily generally had too many other things on hand to devote much time to thought; "you look as if you were thinking sober too." "Well, yes," said Lily, without bringing her eyes down from the sky; "it was rather pious thinking I was doing." "Would you mind telling us about it?" asked Belle, interested in the novelty. "Oh, no, not at all," answered Lily. "I was thinking about conscience, and what a dreadful bother it is; but how it improves us, and how awful we'd be without it. It's a great mercy it was given to us,--to me, at least; or I should be all the time doing bad things. I think we might call conscience a bother blessing, because, though it is best for us to have it, it is a great inconvenience." "Is it an inconvenience to you now?" asked Belle. "No, not particular," said Lily, rolling over on her side, and plucking a head of thistle-down which grew close at hand. "Here, Lulu, blow this;" and she held it up that the little one might blow off the feathery seed-vessels; "not particular just now; but it was a great inconvenience before dinner. You see, Belle,--once more, Lulu; there they go!--you see I wanted to do a thing very much, but I did not feel sure mamma would let me, and she had gone to make a call, so I could not ask her; and I made up my mind I'd just do it; and do you know, I really believe I felt quite glad mamma was not there, so she couldn't forbid me; but then my conscience,--I suppose it was my conscience,--puff away, Lulu,--began to feel badly about it, and so I put it off till mamma came, and sure enough, she did forbid it. So, you see, there's a sign that conscience is a bother and a blessing too." "Yes," said Belle approvingly. "And then," proceeded Lily, thinking she might as well continue to give her companions the benefit of her moral reflections, "and then I was wondering what conscience was. We're so queer inside of us; our thoughts and our consciences and our remorses, and all that, you know." "Yes," said Belle again. "Lily, I suppose conscience is a kind of 'Thou God seest me' feeling; don't you?" "Why, yes," answered Lily, looking admiringly at Belle. "I never thought about it that way, but I believe it is; and that was a very clever idea of yours, Belle. Mamie, what do you think about it? You seem to have thought a good deal lately about God seeing you all the time." "I don'no," muttered Mamie. The conversation was not pleasant to her, and she did not choose to take any part in it. "I s'pose heathen can't have consciences as long as they don't know about God," said Belle thoughtfully. "No, I'm quite sure they do not," said Lily confidently. "Hafed, Mr. Stanton's servant boy, used to be a heathen," said Belle. "Yes, but he's turned now, and a Christian," said Lily. "Belle, I know three turned heathen," with an air of great satisfaction in the extensiveness of her acquaintance with converted idolaters. "There's Hafed, and there's that Chinese pedler that mamma buys matches of, and there's that old black man on your papa's plantation who used to be a king in his own country. Belle, when that old black man gets to heaven, won't he make a queer, awfully ugly old angel?" "He won't be black then," said Belle; "at least, I b'lieve he won't. But he's very good if he is so ugly; papa says so." "How will he get white, I wonder?" queried Lily; "he's so awfully black; and such a mouth!" Mamie was glad that the solving of this knotty question diverted the thoughts of her two little playmates from the subject of conscience and the all-seeing Eye of God. It really seemed that people had a great deal to say about it, and were always bringing it up before her mind at a time when she would have chosen to forget it. She was almost vexed with dear little Belle because she had, at her own request, given her the text which, not long since, she had chosen as her watchword, but which she now strove to put away from her thoughts, and by which she would not rule her conduct. "Come, Lulu, we're going home now," she said, fearing that the other children might go back to the unwelcome subject of conversation. "No, no; Lulu will tay here. Lulu tay wis Belle and Lily," said the little one. "Mamie tay too." "No, I'm going," persisted Mamie; "you come, and Mamie will take you on a nice, pretty walk." Lulu obediently scrambled to her feet and put her hand in her sister's, tempted by the prospect of the promised walk. Belle and Lily did not urge their stay, partly because Mamie was not in a pleasant mood that afternoon; secondly, because they both knew that they would shortly be called to be made ready for a drive with their parents. And there came Daphne now to bring her little mistress, and to tell Lily to go to her nurse. So good-by was said to Mamie and Lulu, and the four children parted and went their different ways. Mamie was generally kind and good to Lulu, so the pet child always liked to be with her; and their mother was not afraid to trust them together within the safe shelter of the enclosures which ran about their hotel, and the next one where Belle and Lily stayed. Gates opened in each of the rows of picket fences which divided the grounds, so that one might pass in and out, and from one house to another without going upon the high road or plank-walk which bordered it. And it was only within these enclosures that Mamie had intended to take her little sister; but the plank-walk had charms for Lulu far beyond those of the grass-plots and gravel-path about the houses. Lulu liked to see the world, and thought she could do so to better advantage on the road. "We do on de plant-walt, an' see de hosseys an' bow-wows," she said coaxingly. Mamie hesitated. Mamma had never told her she must not take Lulu on the plank-walk; but she was pretty sure she would not allow her to do so if she were asked. She could not ask her, that was certain; for mamma was lying down with a bad headache, and she knew she would not be suffered to go near her. Certainly she found conscience "a bother" now, as Lily had done that morning; but she would not listen to its calls, as her young friend had done, and put temptation from her. Papa was away, gone to town; of course he was out of the question; but there was her nurse. She could ask leave from her, but with the certainty of being refused, Mamie was sure of that. The nurse was rather careless and indifferent, disposed, so long as she believed the children were safe, to take her ease and enjoy her own gossip with her fellow-servants, as she was doing now; but Mamie knew very well that she would promptly refuse permission to go outside of the gates. Mamie was herself anxious to take her pretty, cunning little sister out upon the plank-walk, and parade her up and down, and show her off to the passers-by; any other little girl would have liked to do the same; the temptation was strong, and in her present rebellious, undutiful mood, she did not even try to resist it. Lulu pleaded again. "Pease, Mamie, do out dere on de plant-walt;" and what did Mamie do? She salved her still uneasy conscience by running back to where her nurse sat sewing and talking with some other maids, and asked,-- "Maria, could Lulu and I walk about a little?" "To be sure, child; just as if you didn't always walk about as much as you pleased," answered the nurse, not dreaming that Mamie meant to take her little sister, or to go herself, beyond the safe permitted enclosure about the house, if, indeed, she gave it any thought at all. "Come, then, Lulu; Maria says we may go," said Mamie; and, taking good care to pass out of Maria's sight as she did so, she led the little one out upon the plank-walk. Once there, all uneasy thoughts were flung to the winds; and although she had intended "only to walk up and down a very little way," she was tempted farther and farther on, and away from the house. Lulu prattled and chattered away, delighted with all that she saw; and to Mamie the novelty of having her baby-sister in charge upon the public walk, and the pleasure with which she saw one and another turn to notice her, was quite enough to still the last lingering reproaches of conscience. Perhaps some of those passers-by wondered to see those two young children wandering alone by a much-travelled highroad; indeed, an old gentleman stopped, and said, "Where now, alone by yourselves, my little ones?" to which Mamie hastily made answer, "Oh, just taking a walk, sir; Maria said we might;" and, believing all was right, the gentleman passed on, only saying, "Don't go too far then; Maria had best have come with you." Mamie did not think so, and made no reply. She was opposite the breakwater now, the object of so many desires, so many rebellious and undutiful murmurings; she was alone, at least with only her little sister for company, and Lulu could not interfere with her. The long-wished-for opportunity had come. To do her justice, she had not started from home with any thought of the breakwater, or intention of going upon it, and had only turned that way in order to be out of the range of Maria's eyes; but now was her chance except for Lulu. How was she to take the child over those ruined, uneven stones? She looked about her up and down the road. There was no one near; the friendly old gentleman was quite a distance down the plank-walk; neither carriages nor foot passengers coming by now, not even a soul to be seen on the piazzas of the neighboring hotels. There was no time to be lost; she did not want any one to find her upon the breakwater, and she would stay there but a moment. "Come, Lulu," she said; and the two children had crossed the road, and were at the lower end of the pier. "Now, Lulu," she said, "you sit down here a moment on this stone. Mamie is just going up there one minute, and it is too hard for Lulu. If you are good and sit still, Mamie will give you some pretty shells when we go home." The little one wagged her head, and sat down contentedly on the stone at which Mamie pointed. "Mamie will only go a very little way," said her sister, and away she went, scrambling over the stones and rubbish till she reached the extreme end of the pier. Her heart beat fast, but it was less with the feeling of guilt, for she did not take time to listen to that, than with haste and excitement. "Only one minute," she had said; but as she grasped the wooden pile by which she stood, and peered over the edge of the breakwater, she forgot how moments were passing. No wonder Lily and the other children liked to come there. It was so curious and so beautiful to see the waves come rolling in right beneath her eyes, and break against the mass of masonry, solid and resisting still, ruined though it was; so pretty, when the wave rolled back, to watch the water running out in a hundred little jets and waterfalls from between the crevices of the stones; so wonderful to seem to look down into the very heart of those transparent green rollers with their crests of snowy foam! And with what a booming sound they came against the obstacle which barred their farther progress, and would not suffer them to finish their rightful march upon the beach beyond! Oh, it was grand, glorious! Mamie was perfectly fascinated. Every thing was forgotten but the sight and the sounds before her. Her own disobedience, her mother, her little sister, had for the time quite passed from her thoughts, as she hung over the edge and looked down upon the sea. A gentle summer sea it was that day, or it may be that the breaking of some furious wave would have startled her from her hold, and given her a thorough shower-bath, if no worse; for Mamie's position was by no means a safe one, though she did not think of that. And meanwhile what was Lulu doing? The little creature sat still for a moment or two as her sister had bidden her, singing softly to herself and looking up and down the road. But presently she tired of this; Mamie stayed too long, and there was no amusement at hand, nothing to do. She called to Mamie several times, but she did not hear; the sound of the booming waters below her drowned all other voices. Then Lulu fretted a little, then looked about her again, and there came a great, big dog trotting along the road. Now, although Lulu had begged to be allowed to go and see the "bow-wows," she preferred to view them at a safe distance, or at least under the shelter of some protecting hand. And she was not acquainted with this particular "bow-wow," and to her infant eyes he wore a ferocious and unfriendly aspect. So she must move out of the way before he came near; and, since Mamie would not come to her, she must go to Mamie. Lulu was a great climber for a child of her age, and the roughness of the path she had to cross had no terrors for her. Rising from her seat with the fear of that "bow-wow" before her eyes, the baby-feet soon carried her over jagged stones and crumbling masonry, till she thought herself at a safe distance from the dog, at whom she peeped from behind a sheltering pile as he passed by, and then turned once more to go to Mamie. Oh, if the poor, timid mother lying suffering upon her bed had but seen her children then! Mamie on the forbidden spot, leaning over the leaping waters, with only the clasp of her own small arm about the wooden pile to keep her from falling headlong into their depths; her baby-girl clambering with faltering, unsteady steps over that rough and rugged way. But now a new object took Lulu's attention, and diverted her thoughts from Mamie. Tom Norris had gone over to Newport for the day, and had lent his boat to Walter and Ned Stone; they were careless boys, especially the latter, and it was with many a charge to be sure and take good care of the boat that he had granted the favor. They had been out rowing that morning, and had come back with a quantity of spoils in the shape of shells and sea-weeds which they had gathered. They had returned just before the hour for dinner, and, meaning to go out again as soon as that meal was over, had not made the boat properly fast to the stake, but had contented themselves with carrying off the oars, and knotting a rope over one of the stones of the pier. But after dinner some new and greater attraction, _what_ is of no consequence, had taken their time and thoughts; and, forgetting all about the neglected boat, they had gone off, leaving it so carelessly fastened, and liable to slip its hold at any moment when the waves might become a little stronger; rubbing its pretty painted sides too, now and then, against the rough stones when the wash of the waves carried it too near. But still worse mischief than this was to come from the thoughtlessness of those heedless boys, joined as it was to Mamie's deliberate disobedience. Making her way as she best could to her sister, the eye of the little child was caught by the pretty boat bobbing up and down upon the waves; and farther, oh, priceless treasure! by the sight of a few gay shells which the boys in their hurry had dropped in the bottom of the boat. "Dere's Mamie's pitty sells," said the darling to herself; "me will det 'em." And the little feet slipped and slid themselves over the stones, till she stood at the very water's edge. You will remember that this was on the sheltered side of the breakwater, where the waves had little or no force, but only rippled and washed with a gentle murmur at Lulu's feet. The boat was still beyond her reach, but the dear little tot generally managed to gain what she wanted, if her own small hands or own small brains could bring it about. "Dere's de wope dat pulls it," she said to herself, and in a moment she had laid hold of the rope, and drawn the boat in so that she could step within it. How she ever did so without falling into the water was matter of wonder to all who afterwards heard of it, but a kind Hand guarded the baby steps, and she gained the boat without harm. Here she found enough to amuse her and keep her quiet for a few moments longer, till Mamie, suddenly rousing to the recollection that Lulu was waiting for her, drew back from her dangerous position and turned around. Where was her little sister? "Lulu, Lulu!" she called in terrified tones, not seeing her where she had left her as she started forward. "Here me are," answered the little voice from the other side of the breakwater; and, making her way in haste, there she found Lulu deeply interested in something at the bottom of the boat, over which she was bending. "O you naughty little thing! How did you go there, and how am I going to take you out?" said Mamie. "Here's a funny ittle lanimal wants to sate hans wiz me," said Lulu, quite unmoved by her sister's reproaches. "Tome see him, Mamie. Tome in de boat." "What will mamma say? How can I take you out?" repeated Mamie again. "Lulu not tome out; dere's de wope, Mamie, pull it, and tome see dis funny fellow," urged Lulu; and Mamie, seeing her coolness, and that she could herself easily manage to step into the boat by drawing it towards her as Lulu must have done, lost her fears, and grew anxious to see what it was that interested the child so much. Besides, she would have to get in the boat herself to take Lulu out. In another moment, it was done; the boat drawn close to the landing-place, and she had stepped within it as safely as Lulu had done. "Only for one moment, Lulu," she said. "You were very naughty to come in here, and I must take you out. Oh! oh dear! how it rocks!" as the boat, shaken by her weight, rocked back and forth. Was it Mamie herself, or innocent little Lulu, on whom the blame justly rested? There was another thing which she had forgotten, or rather which she had not considered, namely, how the boat was to be drawn in again; nor had she observed that the rope, carelessly fastened in the beginning, was slipping farther and farther from its hold upon the stone, as the boat rocked to and fro. The "funny ittle lanimal" proved to be a very small crab, which was feeling about him with his claws, in an uncomfortable manner; and in inquiring into his habits, and "poking him" about the bottom of the boat, several moments passed away. And as the movements of the children gave a little added motion, that treacherous rope slid gradually from its stay, and--the boat was loose, and at the mercy of the out-going tide! [Illustration] [Illustration] IX. _ADRIFT._ DRIFTING! drifting! slowly, but steadily, the boat floated out from the shelter of the pier. Quite absorbed by the droll movements of the tiny crab, Mamie did not notice their danger, till, passing out from the shadow which the breakwater had thrown upon it, the boat glided into the broad sunlight which flooded the waves beyond. Then, startled by the burst of sunshine which fell upon her, she raised her head, and saw the dreadful truth. Out on the waters, alone, alone! she and Lulu, two little helpless children, with no eye to watch, no hand to help! For a moment or two she sat perfectly stunned, motionless where she was, crouched at the bottom of the boat, her eyes fixed upon the now fast-receding shore, her lips seeming glued together with horror and affright, a sick, faint feeling coming over her. Out on the sea! out on the sea! alone! alone! And so the precious moments were lost. Little Lulu prattled away, all unconscious of fear or danger, and still interested in her captive, and his efforts to escape. But presently she too looked up. "Where we doin', Mamie?" she asked, turning great eyes of wonder upon her sister. Then Mamie found voice and breath, and, clasping the little one in her arms, shrieked aloud for help. But none heard, although Lulu, terrified by her sister's cries, now joined her own, seeing something was wrong, though she could not yet understand their peril. For the wind, blowing as it did from the shore, carried away the sound of their voices, and floated the piteous tones far out over the sea. [Illustration: Mamie. p. 174.] Farther, still farther, and faster now, as the blue waves, crisping and sparkling in the sunlight, toyed with the frail boat, and its precious, helpless freight, and tossed it from one to another, but ever carrying it farther from home! Was there no one to see? no one to hear? Why was it that no one looked out at that time over the dancing waters, and discovered what terrible plaything they had seized upon? Far off, so far off it seemed to poor Mamie's straining eyes, and growing each moment more distant, figures were moving upon the shore; some up and down the road; others, she could distinguish them well at first, playing croquet upon the lawns; little children, like themselves, running up and down the long piazzas of the hotels: but no one, no one, turned an eye towards their peril, or lent an ear to the frantic cries which rang from their lips. Oh, how cruel, how cruel, it seemed! The boat drifted onward till it was a long distance from the shore, almost in a straight line, keeping directly in the flood of sunshine which fell across the waters; and it may be that if any eye did turn seaward, it was dazzled by the blaze of light, and, even if it saw the boat, could notice nothing amiss. Kind hearts were there that would almost have stood still at the thought of the fearful peril about those little ones; feet which would have flown, hands which would have strained every nerve to rescue them. But ah! to poor Mamie the whole world seemed so heartless, so cruel! On, on, till she could no longer distinguish any thing more than the long line of hotels on the shore; the beach glistening on the one hand, the bare, stern rocks upon the other. What was to become of them, herself and Lulu? Would they toss gently about in this way till they died of hunger, or would great fishes come and eat them up? Or would some terrible storm arise, and the waves, now so gentle and playful, grow high and fierce, as she had seen them the other day, and swallow up their frail boat? And the night, the night! What should they do when the darkness came, and the last faint, lingering hope that some one would yet see them should be gone? The sun was sinking towards the west even now; by and by it would be quite dark. What would mamma do when she missed her little girls, and knew not where to look? Would she ever know what had become of them? Would they be found all dead and drowned? She had ceased to cry aloud now, and sat crouched, in a kind of dumb, helpless despair, at the bottom of the boat, with both arms clasped fast about Lulu, who had also hushed her screams, and sat with questioning, wistful eyes, wandering from Mamie's face over the waves, up to the sky, and back again to her sister. She did not understand: how could she? She only knew that Mamie had been frightened, and cried; and so she had cried too. It was well that they both sat quite still in the bottom of the boat, or they might have fallen into the water; but Mamie, in the midst of all her terror, had sense enough left to know that they were safer so, and she would not suffer Lulu to stir from her encircling arms. So on, still on, farther and farther out upon the lonely waters, away from home and friends, drifted the little helpless ones. What though all was now bustle and alarm in that home,--indeed, throughout all the various houses on the shore; that Maria, missing her charges, so shamefully neglected, had hunted for them in vain, first about their own hotel, then in every other one, hoping that they might have gone visiting, or been taken away by some friend; that, hearing nothing of them, she had first alarmed the other servants of the house, then the ladies, next roused the sick mother, who grew frantic and desperate as moment after moment went by, and brought no news of her darlings? Who dreamed of all the truth? The alarm was general now; the news went forth like wildfire: two little children lost! and so many dangerous places where they might have come to harm! Stony shore and sandy beach were searched in vain to their farthest extent; one party explored the little river; others started for the green, cultivated country lying back of the shore, thinking that the stray lambs might have been tempted by its beauty to wander too far; others again hurried down upon the rocks, hoping to find them, perhaps, hidden in some of their many nooks or niches; the old pier, the dock, the very bathing-houses, were all searched; but who thought of looking out to sea, where the cockle-shell of a boat floated, floated far away? It was not even missed, the little boat; for Mamie's brothers and Tom Norris were all away, and probably they would not have guessed at the truth, had they known of its loss. And so hope grew fainter and fainter as one after another returned from the fruitless search only to set forth again; and the dreadful fear grew stronger and stronger that in some way the missing children had fallen into the water, and would never be seen again; while the poor mother went from one fainting fit into another, and those about her scarcely cared to call her back to her misery. And so the sun sank low in the west, and the twilight gathered, and the night came down upon land and sea, and still no word came to those anxious, aching hearts of the little lost ones for whom they watched and waited. How was it meanwhile with those poor little waifs? With that dull, hopeless feeling that nothing could save them now seeming to benumb her, Mamie sat silent a long time,--silent, that is, but for the heavy, gasping sobs that struggled up from her poor little bosom, her eyes fixed on the distant stretch of shore, now fast receding into one gray, undistinguishable line; Lulu, awed by this strange, new grief of her sister's into stillness likewise. But the baby tired at last. She wanted home and mamma, or, at least, her nurse. The boat and the water had been all very wonderful at first, and had perhaps lent their charm to keep her quiet; but she was wearied of them now. She fretted a little; then, finding this failed to draw Mamie's attention, she spoke. "Lulu want mamma. Lulu want no more water," she said plaintively. "O darling! what shall I do? What will become of us?" answered Mamie, roused by her words from the sort of stupor into which she had fallen. "Tate Lulu home. Lulu want to do home. Lulu want mamma tate tare of her," said the little child, whose vague feeling of trouble was beginning to settle itself into a longing for her mother's care and comforting. "O Lulu, Lulu!" broke forth Mamie, "there's no one to take care of us, there's no one to see us, there's no one to hear us. We're all alone, all alone, all alone!" her voice dying away to a low murmur of despair. Was there no Eye to see? Was there no Ear to hear? Was there no Hand to save? Whose Hand guided the fragile boat over the deep waters, and held their waves in check that they might not deal too roughly with the slight thing which was the sole refuge of those little ones? Whose was the Ear which bent to hear those piteous tones? Whose the Eye which watched them on their perilous way? A few light clouds were sailing overhead on the deep blue sky; and, as the sun sank in the west, they were tinged with purple, pink, and gold, changing every instant from one hue to another. All around, on sea, earth, and sky, poured a flood of golden glory, the little curling waves breaking into a thousand diamond sparkles as they caught it on their crests. Lulu gazed wonderingly into Mamie's face as she spoke so piteously, then put up a grieved lip; but, before breaking out into a cry again, she looked about her as if questioning the truth of her words. The beauty of the sky above caught her eye; a golden-edged cloud fixed her attention for a moment, and her baby thoughts took a new turn. Lulu had heard that God lived in the sky; she had been told, too, that God loved her, and would take care of her; and the little creature startled her sister with the words,-- "Mamie, where are Dod?" And across Mamie's mind flashed her watchword. "The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good." "In every place!" Here, now, watching her and Lulu! For a moment it seemed to bring new terror to her, speaking, as it did, to her guilty conscience; but the next there came comfort in the thought. Not all alone, if His eye watched them there. "Where are Dod?" repeated Lulu. "God is in the sky, but He sees us here," she said more calmly than she had spoken before. "Den He not tate tare of Mamie and Lulu?" questioned the little child. "Yes, I think He will; I do believe He will," sobbed Mamie. "I b'lieve He'll take care of you any way, Lulu darling, 'cause this wasn't your fault, but only mine. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" "Tell him tate tare of us, tate de boat home to mamma," lisped the baby lips. "Tell Him loud up in de sty, Mamie; and tell Him we so 'faid." Innocent darling! she did not know why or of what she was afraid; only that she and Mamie were in some great trouble, that she wanted mamma, that mamma was not here, and that somehow the beauty of the sunset sky had brought to her mind the thought of God and of His care, of which she had been told. "So afraid!" Poor Mamie was indeed afraid, stricken with such awful dread as, happily, seldom finds its way into childish heart; but Lulu's words brought another verse into her mind. It almost seemed to her as if a voice came over the water, and sounded it into her ear, so suddenly and so strongly did it come to her. "What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee." Bessie Bradford had told it to her one day in the early part of the summer. Mamie had a great terror of a thunder-storm; so had Bessie; but once, when they had happened to be together when one was passing, the former had shrieked and cried at every flash and peal, while the latter, though pale and shrinking, had remained perfectly quiet. Afterwards Mamie had said to her,-- "Bessie, how can you keep from crying when you are frightened in a thunder-storm?" And Bessie had answered,-- "When I am very much frightened, I try to think of a verse mamma taught me to comfort me: 'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.'" At the moment it had not made much impression on Mamie; but she had not forgotten the words; and now, in her time of need, they came to her so clearly, as I have said, that it almost seemed as if they were spoken to her:-- "What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee." What a sense of hope and comfort, almost of relief, crept over the poor, miserable little child with the recollection! And "the eyes of the Lord are in every place." How she clung to the thought now,--the thought that she had been so ready to put from her for many a day past, which she had tried to forget because it was a reproach to her conscience, a check upon the purpose of disobedience which had led to such a terrible result! "O God!" she said with quivering lips, "I am afraid, so afraid! please let me trust in Thee; and take a great deal of care of my Lulu and me on this dreadful water; and if there could be any way for us to go home to mamma, let us; and help me not to be naughty and disobedient again; and don't let mamma be very much frightened about us. Amen." "Is mamma tomin' pitty soon now?" asked Lulu. "I asked God, darling, to let us go back to her," moaned Mamie, "and He can help people a great deal; but I don't know but this is 'most too much even for Him." Lulu understood, or noticed, only the first part of her speech, and it satisfied her, at least for the time; and, nodding her pretty head contentedly, she said,-- "Den Lulu will love Dod, an' be dood dirl." Still the boat drifted onward, farther and farther from home and safety, out from the friendly waters of the bay, and more and more towards the open sea, where, on the distant horizon, hung a misty veil, soft purplish gray beneath, brightening above into tints of pink and amber which melted away again into the clear blue of the heaven above. Not a sound was to be heard but the plashing of the water against the sides and keel of their boat; not a living thing was to be seen save their own two little selves. God's curtain of night was falling; and still they were alone out on the sea! The sun was gone now; even the glorious colors which he left painted on the clouds after he had himself sunk from sight, had faded out; the evening breeze, cool and refreshing on the land, came chilly and damp over the water; and Lulu shivered as it struck through the thin muslin covering upon her tiny shoulders. She had sat uncomplainingly after Mamie had told her she had asked God to take care of them, waiting in her own docile way to go to mamma; but now her baby patience was exhausted, as it well might be; for she was cold, hungry, and tired. She broke into a pitiful cry. "Lulu so told; Lulu want hupper; Lulu want mamma," she said appealingly to her sister, with oh! such a grieved, piteous face and voice, that Mamie's heart was quite broken; and now all thought of self was forgotten; and she prayed, poor little soul, that darling Lulu, at least, might be saved, and taken back to mamma, even if she might not. Then she tried to speak words of comfort to her baby-sister. Ah, how hard it was, and what a mockery they seemed! and, taking off her own little jacket, she wrapped it about Lulu's shoulders, and, resting the weary little head against her own bosom, petted and soothed, until the long eyelashes drooped upon the dimpled cheek, and Lulu was asleep in her arms. And then it was so lonely, oh, so lonely! far more so than when Lulu was awake, with her sweet voice prattling broken words now and then; but so great was Mamie's sense of the wrong she had done to her innocent sister, that she would not wake her, even for the comfort of her voice and look. She had no thought or wish for sleep herself; the child's senses were all strained to the utmost, listening and watching for she knew not what. How still it was, how very still! and deeper and yet deeper grew the dusky shadows, shrouding the distant white sails which all the afternoon had specked the far horizon, shutting them out from sight, and with them the last faint hope of help, which Mamie had somehow connected with them, leaving her no ray of comfort to cling to but those words:-- "What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee." And night was upon the sea where drifted the lost baby voyagers; but "the eyes of the Lord are in every place." [Illustration] X. _RESCUED_ A SHOUT, a loud halloo, broke the stillness; a hail so sharp and sudden, so near at hand, that it startled Mamie into new terror for one moment; then, as it was repeated, brought a fluttering of hope to her sinking young heart. A glimmer over the water; then, as she turned her head, and glanced half fearfully over her shoulder, a light shining brightly through the surrounding darkness, and coming nearer. Another hail, to which she still made no answer; perhaps she did not understand that she would be expected to do so; then a boat coming near,--a boat from which shone the welcome light, a torch held high above the head of the boy who carried it. Then the stranger boat was close to her own, with two people in it, an old man and a boy; and the light of the torch was falling over the little figures crouched close together; over the white face and straining eyes of the elder, over the peaceful, sleeping form of the younger. Exclamations of wonder were exchanged between the man and boy, and questions poured upon her; this Mamie knew from the tone of voice in which they were uttered, but not one word could she understand; and their language seemed so harsh and rough to her that it almost made her afraid of them. The end of a rope was thrown towards her, but she did not know that she was expected to catch it; and the directions the man and boy shouted out only confused and frightened her the more. Poor child! she did not know whether to look upon these rough creatures as friends or foes. Several times they threw the rope, but each time it fell with a dull splash into the water; and at last a boat-hook was thrown out, and grappled her own boat. All the while, she heard the man and boy talking eagerly together in their own uncouth tongue, and she wondered what they were going to do with her and her little sister. All manner of wild fancies flitted through her over-excited brain, and made her poor little frame quiver at one moment with dread, at another with hope. Who were these people, and where were they taking her? To some far-off foreign land, where every one spoke that strange, rough language, and no one would understand a word she might say when she told who she was, and begged to be taken back to her friends; or could it really be that they were taking her home? No, that could not be, for they did not know where she belonged, and she had no way of telling them, or so she believed. They had now made her boat fast to their own, and were drawing it after them; the man was rowing, the boy steering; the light from their torch falling over both figures, and casting a red glare upon the waves around. It was a curious scene, and one so new to Mamie that she watched it with a feeling of there being something unreal about it all. "It's 'most like a fairy tale, or a book story," she said to herself. "I wonder what they are going to do with us;" and she drew her arms close about Lulu, who still slept quietly on her breast. She wished that the daylight would come, and show her more plainly the faces of those who now had her in their keeping; for she believed that it must be nearly morning, so long did the time seem since the light had died out of the far west; whereas it was scarcely an hour since dark, and it was still comparatively early in the evening. Except for the measured dash of the oars, and the ripple of the waters as the two boats cut through the waves, it was almost as still now as it had been before her new companions had appeared; for man and boy had ceased talking, and rowed steadily forward without exchanging a word. Oh, if she only could know whether these were kind and good people, who would be ready to take her home, or if they were bad and cruel, and would do something dreadful to her and Lulu! She thought of every terrible thing which she had ever heard of as happening to children, and tormented herself with imagining her little sister and herself in like situations. Then she tried to turn her thoughts another way, picturing to herself the going home, back to her mamma, and how glad mamma would be to see her and Lulu, and how she would forgive all her naughtiness for very joy at seeing them. And then she thought how distressed mamma must be now, and again a heavy sob shook her breast, and two or three scalding tears ran down upon Lulu's head. Oh! if she could but be with mamma once more, she would try so hard never to vex and worry her again; and she was so sure that she would always be attentive and obedient to her wishes. But should she ever have the chance? She looked up to the sky, now thickly studded with stars,--more stars than she had ever seen before; and how bright and beautiful they were, seeming as if they looked down upon her right out of heaven,--the heaven where God was! and again there came to her the thought,-- "What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee;" and once more she asked that no further harm might befall her and Lulu, but that these people into whose hands they had fallen might be kind to them, and find some way to take them home. By and by another light shone out of the darkness, burning unsteadily, but more and more brightly as the boat moved on; and Mamie knew that they were nearing it. Then a long, low line, growing each instant more distinct; and presently she saw that the light came from a fire that was built upon--yes, it was the shore! The land once more! the land where mamma was! far off it might be, perhaps in another country even; for it seemed to the poor little voyager that she had come from such a distance; but still it was the _land_, and she felt as if she must be nearer home than upon the water. She could see two figures moving about the fire which cast its fitful light upon shore and sea, now dying down, now flashing up brightly, but serving always as a point to guide them landwards. Not very far off, and burning with a clear, steady flame, was another light which seemed high up, and looked to Mamie like that of the light-house which she could see every evening from the piazza of the hotel. Was it possible it was the same? It would seem almost like a friend if it were so. Now the man rowed slower and slower, and presently the foremost boat made a harsh, grating sound upon the beach. The boy jumped out, and then Mamie's boat was hauled up, and she and Lulu lifted out, while a woman and a girl pressed eagerly forward with wondering faces to see what strange cargo the men had brought to shore. But alas! the hope that Mamie had felt that these females might understand her was soon put to flight. They talked fast enough, pouring out question after question; but she could not comprehend one word; and when the man had put her down upon her feet on the beach, and she turned to the woman, and begged, oh, so earnestly! to be taken home to mamma, the latter shook her head, and only gazed helplessly and wonderingly into her pitiful face. Then Lulu, roused from her sleep by the change, and frightened by the strange scene and faces about her, broke into a loud, distressed cry, in which Mamie herself could not help joining, as she stretched out her arms for her little sister, whom the man had now given into the woman's care. The woman did not give her up, but spoke a few words to Mamie in a coaxing voice, and then set off with long, rapid strides, while the girl seized upon Mamie's hand and followed, leaving the man and boy to attend to the boats and their fish; for they were fishermen, as Mamie afterwards found out. A few steps brought them to a small, a very small house, a mere hut; and, pushing open the door, the woman entered with Lulu in her arms, Mamie and the girl coming as closely after as the tired, cramped limbs of the poor little child could carry her. The place was neat and clean, though poor; and to Mamie, after the dark and chill of the sea, it seemed a very haven of refuge. Summer night though it was, she was not sorry to see a fire of logs burning upon the open hearth, over which the kettle was singing, while the table was set for supper. She had not known she was hungry before; but now the brown loaf upon the table looked very inviting to her, though, at another time, she would probably have scorned it. But just now she could attend to nothing but Lulu, who had not ceased her frantic cries for mamma and "hupper" from the moment she had been awakened in lifting her from the boat. Whether the woman understood, or whether she only imagined that the poor children must be hungry, she sat down beside the fire with Lulu upon her knee, and, hastily pouring some milk into a cup, held it to the little one's lips. Lulu seized upon it, and while Mamie stood close beside her, looking on with satisfaction, took a long drink, put it from her to take breath, and ejaculated, "Dood!" then drank again; looked up into the kind, good-natured face smiling above her, and said, "Mamie some too." Meanwhile the girl had done a like good office for Mamie, bringing her also a cup of milk; but she would not touch it till she saw Lulu satisfied. Their care for one another evidently gratified the woman and the girl, who both looked on admiringly; and then, Lulu making it quite plain without the use of words that she wished her sister to share the privileges of the broad, comfortable lap where she was resting, the kindly Dutch woman lifted Mamie to her knee, and, in soothing but still unintelligible tones, tried to find out something of her story, while the girl bustled about, and soon had ready some more substantial food in the shape of great bowls of bread and milk, which she brought to the children. But it was all in vain that Mamie, encouraged by so much kindness, endeavored to make the women understand her. She tried them with all the appropriate words she could think of, speaking to them in a very loud voice, as if they could comprehend the better for that. "Sea" and "boat" and "pier" and "lost," shrieked as loud as they might be, made no impression upon the minds of her hearers. Then she tried them with such French words as she knew, believing that one foreign language was as good as another, and Frenchifying the English words she was obliged to mix with them to make her story at all clear. "Nous came-ez over l'eau dans le boat-ez," she said with emphasis, "et pauvre mamma will être très frighten-ez." These and many other such sentences she composed and delivered with great care, but _French_ proved of no greater use than English; and Mamie began to feel very despairing and desperately homesick again. Lulu, too, was incessantly pleading, "Tome home, Mamie; Mamie tate Lulu to mamma;" and fretted piteously. By and by the man and boy came in, and then there was more talk in Dutch between the family; and at last the boy turned to Mamie, and, pointing with his finger, said,-- "Netasquet coom?" One word, at least, was familiar; Mamie understood him to ask her if they had come from the right direction, and she nodded her head assentingly. The boy nodded back as if to say, "That is all right;" and, believing she had now found a satisfactory method of communication, she kept on nodding her head, and repeating the word "Netasquet" in answer to all farther questions that were poured upon her. Presently the man put on his hat again, and, taking Mamie in his arms with many encouraging nods and jerks of his thumb over his shoulder, carried her out of the house, closely followed by the woman, still carrying Lulu, who, wide awake, and in utter amazement at all the new and wonderful things which were befalling her at this hour, when she was accustomed to be fast asleep in her little bed, gazed solemnly about her with grave, intent eyes, but, strange to say, was perfectly quiet, and neither cried nor fretted. Perhaps the little one guessed that these kind, good-natured people were their friends, and meant them no harm; though she found it necessary to inform the good woman, over and over again, that she was "mamma's baby," and therefore must "do home," and could not be expected to stay with her. Out under the starry night again; and now their bearers walked rapidly on towards that steady, bright light Mamie had noticed from the boat, while she looked wistfully through the darkness for some sign or landmark which might tell her that they were on their way home. For she could not help hoping that this was the purpose of these good people, and yet her poor little heart was full of uncertainty and dread. They went steadily onwards, the man and woman now and then exchanging a few words, but for the most part in silence, coming nearer and nearer to the light; and now Mamie saw that it was really in a light-house, which gradually loomed tall and white out of the dark night. But even as she saw this she drew a heavy sigh; the light-house she saw each night was very far away from home, over the water too, and she shrank from going upon the sea again to-night. Oh! she never, never would be disobedient, or fret at mamma's orders again. How severely she had been punished! Up a flight of steps and through a small door opening into a neat, comfortable room, where a woman was busy mixing bread. She turned around as the new-comers entered, and, as if struck dumb with surprise, stood looking at them with her arms still in the dough she was kneading. To her the man spoke as if inquiring for some one by name; and she answered him by an upward jerk of her head, as if she, too, could only converse with him by signs. "Oh!" said Mamie piteously, "can you talk a language? These people can't, and no one seems to know what I say, so I can ask them to take me home." "Well, do tell now," said the woman, stripping the dough from her fingers, and gazing with interest and curiosity from Mamie to Lulu; "and where did you come from, and where did Muller and his wife pick _you_ up? Talk! yes, I can talk, I reckon, if you don't try me on the Dutch. My old man, he makes out Muller's gibberish, but I ain't no hand at it." Thankful beyond words to hear the familiar tongue, or "a language," as she called it again, Mamie burst into tears of relief as she poured out her story. "He picked us up on the sea in a boat that we went into," she sobbed. "Lulu wasn't naughty, 'cause she did not know any better; but I was just awful, 'cause mamma forbid me to go on the breakwater, and I did; and I thought we'd never get back, 'cause these kind people don't know how to talk. Couldn't you show us the way home?" "To be sure," answered the woman soothingly, while Muller and his wife stood silent, satisfied to let Mamie make her tale clear by herself; "at least, we'll see you get there. You'll be coming from the pier, I reckon?" "Yes," moaned Mamie. "Then I'm thinkin' there may be some folks from down your way upstairs now. They are just gone up to see the light, and will be down in a jiffy, and we'll see if they can take you home. If they haven't a mind to,--shame on 'em if they don't!--my man'll just harness up, and take you home. It might be better to put you to bed for the night, for 'tisn't no time for a baby like that to be out; but I reckon your mother must be nigh about crazed if she don't know nothin' about you; so we'll get you down to the pier to-night. Don't you take on no more, you poor lamb; but just wait till John brings the folks down. Here, sit ye down, Mrs. Muller, and you, too, Muller;" shrieking out these last words at the top of her voice, and giving each chair a slap with her hand, as she plumped it energetically down before the good Dutchman and his wife. Certainly Mamie could not doubt that the light-house keeper's wife could "talk a language" as she poured forth question after question, and made her own remarks on the answers Mamie gave, while the child sat trembling with impatience to see who "the folks" upstairs might be, and to know if they would really take her home. The woman would have taken Lulu from Mrs. Muller; but the poor baby, who began to think that she was handed from one to another stranger rather freely to-night, clung to her first friend, and could not be parted from her, which much pleased that good woman, who soothed her with gentlest tones and caresses. The little thing sadly needed petting, for she was quite worn out, and whimpered pitifully again for "mamma," and to be allowed to "do to heep in ittle bed," not understanding why she should be so long deprived of these privileges. Presently voices were heard coming down the long flight of stairs,--voices to which Mamie listened eagerly; more and more eagerly as they came nearer and nearer; for they seemed to her familiar and well known. Could it be?--yes, it really was--there they came around the turn of the staircase--Mr. and Mrs. Norris with Lily, Mr. Powers and Belle, Mrs. Walton and Mabel. "O papa!" she heard Lily saying, "just a few moments longer." "Not a moment, my daughter. Why! do you know what time it is? after ten now, and the long drive home still to be taken. A nice hour, truly, for such young damsels to be running over light-houses and"-- He was interrupted by a shriek of joy from Mamie, who, springing forward, threw herself wildly upon Mrs. Norris, clinging fast to her skirts, crying and laughing at the same time, raising to the lady's astonished gaze a pitiful, tear-stained, pale little face; while broken words of gladness and pleading came from her lips. How they all crowded about her and Lulu, who, seeing the familiar face of Mrs. Norris, also stretched out her arms to her with a glad cry, and was speedily nestling upon her neck! and how astonished every one was! and how they all questioned and pitied!--no one had the heart to blame now, may easily be imagined. The gentlemen, who were all good German scholars, and could speak with Muller, soon heard from him how and where he had found the little castaways,--how, coming home from deep-sea fishing, his boat had, in the darkness, nearly run down that in which Mamie and her sister were drifting; how he had made it fast to his own, and brought it in, taking the children first to his own house, and then bringing them up here, because, although he had rightly guessed from what quarter they had come, he had no horse or other means of taking them speedily home, and so had come to see if his good friend, the light-house keeper, would not take further steps to restore them to their friends. There was no need for this now; here were some of their friends on the spot, and they were ready enough to take all further charge of them, and carry them home as fast as possible. With sympathizing thoughts for the agonized mother, searching vainly for her babies, Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Walton hurried the party away; and presently they were all in the great wagon which had brought Mamie's friends to the light-house, and driving home as fast as the darkness of the evening would allow. Lulu nestled in Mrs. Norris' arms, and, covered with her shawl, was soon fast asleep; while Mamie sat with one hand clasped in Lily's, the other in that of Belle, who, sitting one on each side of her, could not do enough to show their pity and sympathy. Even Mabel, who sat behind her, quite forgot the chronic feud between them, and was constantly leaning forward to put her arm about Mamie's neck, and kiss her cold cheek, or to ask tenderly, "How do you feel now, Mamie?" And the rejoicing there was over them when at last they reached home, and the little wanderers were restored to their frantic mother! How fast the glad news spread from house to house, bringing joy and relief even to the hearts of those who had never known or seen them, can be imagined only by those who knew what the suspense and anxiety had been. [Illustration] [Illustration] XI. _REPENTANCE._ THERE might have been some danger that Mamie would feel herself too much of a heroine, and forget that all this had been brought about by her own sad disobedience and naughtiness, but for the trouble which followed. Strange to say, neither of the children suffered much from the exposure and excitement of the evening; and, beyond a little paleness and languor, seemed as well as usual the next day. But it was far different with their mother. Not very strong at any time, the agony and suspense about her little ones had proved too much for her, and she was very ill; so ill that Mr. Stone was telegraphed for, and for some hours it was believed she could not live. She was quite wild, too; and, though she called and pleaded incessantly for her children, she did not know them when they were brought to her, but thrust them away from her in a way that frightened little Lulu, and quite broke poor repentant Mamie's heart. Oh! was her tender, indulgent mother going to leave her? Would she never know her, never speak to her again, never tell her she forgave all her disobedient, naughty ways, all her disrespect and pettishness? She sat all day, just outside of her mamma's room, listening to every sound from within, crying bitterly, but silently, and utterly refusing to be comforted or coaxed away. But at night there was a little change for the better; Mrs. Stone fell into a quiet sleep, and the doctor said he had hope for her now. So Mamie, utterly worn out, suffered herself to be led away by some of the pitying ladies, and to be put to bed, where she forgot her troubles until the morning. She had dreaded facing her father when he should come and hear all the sad story; but she was awakened by his kiss; and, though he looked very sober when she poured forth her confession, and offered to submit patiently to any punishment he might think proper, he told her he thought she had brought punishment enough upon herself, and that he hoped this would be a lasting lesson to her. Mamie thought that it would indeed; she should never forget that terrible night upon the sea, alone with Lulu, who was rather a silent reproach than a comfort to her. She could not believe, poor child! that the night had not been half gone when she was brought home, or that it was hardly an hour after dark when the fisherman had found her, and brought her to land. She was curious to know, as perhaps you may be, how her young playmates and their parents happened to be at the light-house "in the middle of the night;" and this was soon satisfactorily explained to her. It was in this way. The whole party had driven that afternoon to the house of a friend whose beautiful place was situated some distance from the shore; and they had there taken tea, and spent the earlier part of the evening, so that they had known nothing of the alarm about the lost children. Their way home lay near the old "Point Light;" for this was not the light-house which Mamie saw each evening from the piazza of the hotel, but another, in quite a different direction, though much nearer home; and Lily and the other children, who were wild to see the light-house at night while its revolving lamp was burning, had persuaded their parents to indulge them, late as it was, with a visit there. They had been up to the very top, seen all that was to be seen, had the screeching fog-whistle blown many times for their benefit, and had come down to be astonished by the sight which met them below. All this, and much more, Belle and Lily poured into Mamie's ears on the morning of the second day, when her mother had been pronounced a little better, and she could be coaxed out of doors. But mamma was still very ill, and must be kept perfectly quiet; and Mamie, feeling that this was all her fault, and filled with self-reproach, which was perhaps the greater for her father's kindness, had no spirits for play, and sat quite subdued and mournful in the midst of her playmates, who were all ready to devote themselves to her, and to talk to her if she did not choose to play. "Mamma says," said Lily, when she had concluded her account of the way in which they came to be at the light-house,--"Mamma says that it was quite a providential _dispensary_ that we should have gone to the light-house." "What does that mean?" asked Belle. "I asked her," answered Lily; "and she said it meant that it really seemed as if God intended us to go there on purpose to find Mamie and Lulu; because she had really thought it was too late for us to be out, and was not very willing to be persuaded." "Because God knew what trouble we were in, and wanted to help us out of it, I suppose," said Mamie thoughtfully, with the words of her neglected watchword in her mind. "Yes," said Belle. "If He did not see us always, and take care of us, what would become of us? Mamie, it makes me feel like crying, even now when you're all safe, to think about your being out all alone on the sea in the dark." "Yes," assented Lily, "it did me, too, at first; but I'm getting used to it now. But I hope there's one good thing come out of it. Mamma doesn't approve at all of children sitting up late; but now, I suppose, she will see that it can have very delightful consequences." "Does she think that light-house man would not have brought us home if you had not come to his light-house?" said Mamie. "Well, no; but I suppose you wouldn't have been home quite so soon," said Lily. "Maybe he wouldn't have brought you at all till the morning." "I never knew the nights were so dreadfully long," said Mamie. "People say the nights and the days are just about as long as each other, and now I know they're not. The nights are a great deal the longest,--oh, so long!" And Mamie gave a shuddering sigh at the recollection of the long, weary time she had passed upon the waters. "Mamma said the time seemed longer to you than it really was," said Lily, "because you were alone and frightened; and the days are really the longest now, 'cause it's summer. In the winter the nights are the longest. It must be so, you know, 'cause our jography says so, and our 'Elements of 'Stronomy' too." "Then they never were up all night, and don't know," said Mamie emphatically, quite resenting the idea that any one could be better informed in the matter than she who had had such an experience. "Who were not up all night?" asked Mabel. "She means the jogra-fers and the 'stron-amers," said Lily; "not the books of course, but the people who wrote them; but they must have been grown up; so I dare say they stayed up all night if they chose." "I should think that _I_ ought to know about it," said Mamie; "and when I'm grown up, I shall write a jography that says all the others don't know; 'cause once I stayed up and up and up, and there was a piece of the night left yet to go to sleep in." Mamie was not to be convinced, and the others, with a feeling that she was to be indulged, and not contradicted under the present circumstances, left her to her belief. "What did you think about, Mamie?" asked Belle. "Did you think you were going to be drowned?" "Yes," said Mamie, her eyes filling with tears; "and, Belle, I thought a good deal about that watchword you gave me, and how, if I'd remembered it all the time, that wouldn't have happened to me; but it did make me feel a little better,--no, not better, there wasn't any better about it,--but not quite so very afraid to think God could see me, and take care of me, even out on the sea and in the dark. I did not see, either, how He was going to help me; and yet the way did come quite easy after all. And now--and now"--Mamie hesitated, and looked doubtfully from one to another of her companions. "Well," said Lily encouragingly. "I think," said Mamie, "that now I will have to remember always that God sees me all the time; and that He would think I am very ungrateful, and don't deserve to be taken care of, if I don't try to be good and never disobey mamma." "Yes, I think so too," said Lily; "and that's the very best kind of a verse to help you to 'resist the hm--hm--and he will flee from you.'" "The who?" asked Belle, amazed; and Mamie and Mabel also looked inquiringly at this mysterious utterance from Lily. "The hm--hm," repeated Lily, no ways abashed, and persisting in the ambiguous form of expression; "you know that verse, don't you?" "I know the verse, 'Resist the _devil_, and he will flee from you,'" said Belle. "Yes, that's it," said Lily; "but if everybody knows the verse, which 'most all the world does,--and ought to be ashamed of themselves, if they don't,--why, then it's just as well to say hm--hm, and not that other ugly word." "But the Bible says it," said Mabel. "Yes," answered Lily, in a tone of indulgence for the Scriptures; "the Bible can say what it pleases, because it _is_ the Bible; but mortals ought to be more careful." "You learned that from Maggie and Bessie, I suppose," said Belle. "They never say that word if they can help it." "Yes, partly," said Lily with an air of becoming modesty, but yet as one who feels that she has ground of her own to stand upon, "partly from them, but partly from my own self. You see, children, I do it to keep myself from temptation." "Temptation of what?" asked Belle. "Temptation to say things I ought not," answered Lily. "Mamma told me I was falling into the habit of talking rather strongly, of saying 'awful' and 'horrid,' and such words to things that were not at all awful or horrid, or saying I was 'most dead, when I was not 'most dead at all; and she said she wanted me to watch myself, and try not to use such strong expressions; and I thought hm--hm was rather a strong expression, so I would not say it right out when there was no need. What's that now?" as a smothered laugh was heard from behind the closed blinds of the parlor. "I just believe some one is there listening to us. Go and see, Mamie; it's your house." Mamie did as she was bid; but she found no one near the window; and Lily was satisfied that she had been mistaken, as Mamie reported only two or three young ladies in the parlor, who did not seem to be thinking of them. "You know," she continued, when Mamie had returned, "that when we feel like doing a thing, it is best to keep ourselves quite out of the way of temptation,--I learned that pretty well when I was always putting off,--and I _do_ like to talk that kind of a way; so I'm going to keep myself as much as I can without using wrong words at all. I only began this morning; but you see I've improved already." Mamie drew a long, weary sigh. "Yes, Lily," she said with a doleful shake of her head, "yes, I know now how one ought not to put one's self in the way of temptation, if they don't want to do a wrong thing. But--but--I'm afraid I meant all the time to go on the breakwater if I found a chance. And I b'lieve, oh, dear! I b'lieve all these days I have been real mad at mamma 'cause she would not let me go; and now, if she don't get well, I can never tell her how sorry I am, or try to make up for it." "But she's a little better to-day," said Belle consolingly. "I heard everybody say so." "Yes, a little," said Mamie, who was again crying bitterly; "but papa says she is very ill yet; and even if she does get well, I shall always have to remember how bad I was to her. I think I never knew before how dreadful it is to be bad to your mother; and, when I was out in that boat, I b'lieve I thought of 'most every naughty thing I ever did to her." "Then if she gets well now, it will make you very careful how you behave badly or saucily to her again," said Lily; "so that will be a good thing." "Oh, yes! I should think it might," sighed Mamie. "Mamie, we are very sorry for you," said Belle, taking her hand and holding it tenderly. "So am I," said Mabel: "and, Mamie, I believe I know a little how you feel by the duckling." "Oh, you can't!" said Mamie almost indignantly; "a duckling is nothing to your own mamma. But, Mabel, I was horrid and stuck-up to you about that duckling, and made an awful fuss 'cause you took it without leave; and then I did a great deal worse thing myself, and never remembered or didn't care that God saw me all the time. It's very good in you to be so kind to me now, and never say any thing hateful." Mamie had on her confession cap now, and was fain to make a clean breast of all her misdemeanors, past and present, feeling, poor child! as if it were somewhat of a relief to do so. "I'm never going to make faces at you again," said Mabel, moved by this new meekness. "And I shan't plague you, and try to make you mad on purpose," said Mamie. "Let's make up for all our lives." And offering her lips to Mabel, a kiss of peace was exchanged between these two little girls, who had never been very good friends, but who had always taken a naughty pleasure in aggravating one another, and in each one making the most of the other's faults. "Here comes papa. He's been down to the post-office, and brought the mail," said Lily. "Papa, is there a letter for me? Maggie promised to write to me; but perhaps she has not done it yet." "Well, I rather think she has favored Mamie this time," said Mr. Norris, dropping into Mamie's lap a letter addressed in Maggie Bradford's large, round handwriting. Brightening instantly at this unexpected consolation, Mamie caught up the letter, and eagerly opened it. "Maggie never wrote to me before," she said; "and her letters are so nice." "Yes," said Belle; "but I wonder if there is none for me. Maggie writes to me once a week, and Bessie writes once a week, and this is the day for Maggie's letter. Mr. Norris, didn't any letter come for me?" Mr. Norris answered in the most satisfactory manner by rapidly turning over the letters in his hand, and selecting one which he teasingly held a moment above her reach; then dropped it into the little eager, outstretched hands. "I'll read mine aloud," said Mamie, "'cause Maggie's letters are so very interesting. "MY DEAR MAMIE,--It is the turn for me to write to Belle to-day, but I thought she would not mind if I wrote to you instead, for we heard this afternoon of your going off in the boat, and nearly being lost, and saved by a fisherman, which was the greatest of mercies, and of your mamma being so ill. And so because we should comfort the afflicted, I thought you might like a letter, and Bessie will write to Belle. We are very sorry for you, dear; specially for your feeling so badly about your mamma, which was only to be expected if you had the feelings of human nature; and remorse is hard for mankind to bear, indeed, not to be endured. But I never heard of such a dreadful adventure as you had and dear little Lulu, too, except once when the railroad ran off with Bessie and Belle and me, and no one to take care of us, but a gentleman we did not know, who was very kind, and I believe sent to us by the hand of the Lord, and restored us to the bosom of our family. "But we are very glad you were saved and not taken away by drowning from your orphaned parents, or made a melancholy accident in the newspapers of, which would try the souls of your friends to read. Bessie and I cried a good deal when we heard about you, and I thought you would like to know about it, because it's always pleasant to know that your friends feel badly about you. We hope that your mamma will soon recover, and I am your very respected and attached friend MAGGIE STANTON BRADFORD. "P.S. I would not wish to say any thing unkind about a present my friends gave me, but a cruel young gentleman of my acquaintance presented me a dead bird he shot, and I would not have it, but cried. But I hope my conduct made a sensible impression upon him, for the next time some one asked him to go shooting he said no, which makes me think he may in time come to have a feeling heart which cannot bear to take life. "Give my love to Lily and tell her I will write to her to-morrow if unexpected circumstances do not prevent. "M. S. B." This fine letter met with all the approval which Maggie's compositions generally called forth; and then Bessie's to Belle was read aloud for the benefit of all who might choose to hear. "MY DEAR BELLE,--Maggie writes to Mamie so I write this leter to you but it is not my day but Maggie's. I wish you would come to our hose and see us cors we miss you. i can play 2 tunes Captain Jinks and Lord in the morning thou shalt hear on the piano and i like to play on the piano but Maggie does it better, our new old cook has a gra kitty and it goes to sleep in her pokit and the cook is black and Fred has a white rabit and it stiks up its nose at us and we have 2 new horses and mamma a pony for her faton so we are quite a menagery and we want you and Lily to see them all. So ask your papa to bring you to spend that day with us and give my dear love to Lily and Lulu, and a little skrap of love to Mabel and Mamie but I am sorry for Mamie and Maggie and I cried about her. No I think you may give a good deal of my love to Mamie, but not too much. from affekshin BESSIE RUSH BRADFORD." Happily Belle had spelled over this letter to herself before reading it aloud, which Bessie had probably not intended; and the wise little woman had the good sense and good feeling to omit such parts of it as might seem at all slighting to Mabel and Mamie, of whom Bessie, as you will have perceived, was not over fond. It was many days before Mamie recovered her usual spirits and liveliness, not indeed until her mother was well again; and it was almost touching to see how tenderly she hung about her when she was once more permitted to go to her; watching for the least opportunity to wait on her, or do her some small service; sitting for hours beside her bed, content only to hold her hand or kiss her pale cheek; so subdued, so gentle, so submissive and good, that it was hard to believe she was the Mamie of old. Nor did the good impression her severe lesson made upon her wear off when mamma had recovered; and Mrs. Stone felt that all she had suffered was well repaid by the new docility and obedience shown by her little daughter. She was less selfish and wilful with her playmates too, more gentle and amiable than they had ever known her. The memory of that lonely night upon the dark sea,--for it was impossible to persuade Mamie that she did not pass the greater part of the night upon the water,--and the thought of the care which had watched over her there, were not easily shaken off; and perhaps it was as well that for many succeeding weeks she was within sight and sound of the objects which kept it constantly before her mind. Certain it is that the change in her was very great and plainly to be seen, and, as Belle said to the astonished Maggie and Bessie when they remarked upon it, "more as if she tried to _live_ her watchword than to _talk so much_ about it." [Illustration] * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation errors were corrected. Page 10, word "a" added to text (that seldom has a) Page 35, "eat" changed to "ate" (she ate her cake) Page 156, word "on" added to the text (you on a nice) 
14379	----	ELSIE AT NANTUCKET A Sequel to _Elsie's New Relations_ by MARTHA FINLEY 1884 PREFACE. Three years ago I spent some six weeks on Nantucket Island, making the town of the same name my headquarters, but visiting other points of interest, to which I take the characters of my story; so that in describing the pleasures of a sojourn there during our heated term, I write from experience; though, in addition to my own notes, I have made use of Northrup's "'Sconset Cottage Life" to refresh my memory and assist me in giving a correct idea of the life led by summer visitors who take up their abode for the season in one of those odd little dwellings which form the "original 'Sconset." Should my account of the delights of Nantucket as a summer resort lead any of my readers to try it for themselves, I trust they will not meet with disappointment or find my picture overdrawn. M.F. CHAPTER I. "How happy they, Who from the toil and tumult of their lives Steal to look down where naught but ocean strives." --_Byron._ "Well, captain, for how long have you Uncle Sam's permission to stay on shore this time?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, as the family at Ion sat about the breakfast-table on the morning after Captain Raymond's arrival. "Just one month certain, sir, with the possibility that the leave of absence may be extended," was the reply, in a cheery tone; "and as I want to make the very most of it, I propose that our plans for a summer outing be at once discussed, decided upon, and carried out." "I second the motion," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Are all the grown people agreed? The consent of the younger ones may safely be taken for granted," he added, with a smiling glance from one to another. "I am agreed and ready for suggestions," replied his wife. "And I," said his daughter. "Vi is, of course, since the proposition comes from her husband," Edward remarked, with a sportive look at her; then glancing at his own little wife: "and as I approve, Zoe will be equally ready with her consent." "Have you any suggestion to offer, captain?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "I have, sir; and it is that we make the island of Nantucket our summer resort for this year, dividing the time, if you like, between Nantucket Town and the quaint little fishing village Siasconset, or 'Sconset, as they call it for short. There is an odd little box of a cottage there belonging to a friend of mine, a Captain Coffin, which I have partially engaged until the first of September. It wouldn't hold nearly all of us, but we may be able to rent another for the season, or we can pitch a tent or two, and those who prefer it can take rooms, with or without board, at the hotels or boarding-houses. What do you all say?" glancing from his mother-in-law to his wife. "It sounds very pleasant, captain," Elsie said; "but please tell us more about it; I'm afraid I must acknowledge shameful ignorance of that portion of my native land." "A very small corner of the same, yet a decidedly interesting one," returned the captain; then went on to give a slight sketch of its geography and history. "It is about fifteen miles long, and averages four in width. Nantucket Town is a beautiful, quaint old place; has some fine wide streets and handsome residences, a great many narrow lanes running in all directions, and many very odd-looking old houses, some of them inhabited, but not a few empty; for of the ten thousand former residents only about three thousand now remain." "How does that happen, Levis?" asked Violet, as he paused for a moment. "It used to be a great seat of the whale-fishery," he answered; "indeed, that was the occupation of the vast majority of the men of the island; but, as I presume you know, the whale-fishery has, for a number of years, been declining, partly owing to the scarcity of whales, partly to the discovery of coal-oil, which has been largely substituted for whale-oil as an illuminant (as has gas also, by the way), and to substitutes being found or invented for whale-bone also. "So the Nantucketers lost their principal employment, and wandered off to different parts of the country or the world in search of another; and the wharves that once presented a scene full of life and bustle are now lonely and deserted. Property there was wonderfully depreciated for a time, but is rising in value now with the influx of summer visitors. It is becoming quite a popular resort--not sea-side exactly, for there you are right out in the sea." "Let us go there," said Mrs. Dinsmore; "I think it would be a pleasant variety to get fairly out into the sea for once, instead of merely alongside of it." "Oh, yes, do let us go!" "I'm in favor of it!" "And I!" "And I!" cried one and another, while Mr. Dinsmore replied, laughingly, to his wife, "Provided you don't find the waves actually rolling over you, I suppose, my dear. Well, the captain's description is very appetizing so far, but let us hear what more he has to say on the subject." "Haven't I said enough, sir?" returned the captain, with a good-humored smile. "You will doubtless want to find some things out for yourselves when you get there." "Are there any mountains, papa?" asked little Grace. "I'd like to see some." "So you shall, daughter," he said; "but we will have to go elsewhere than to Nantucket to find them." "No hills either?" she asked. "Yes, several ranges of not very high hills; Saul's Hills are the highest; then there are bluffs south of 'Sconset known as Sunset Heights; indeed, the village itself stands on a bluff high above the sandy beach, where the great waves come rolling in. And there is 'Tom Never's Head.' Also Nantucket Town is on high ground sloping gradually up from the harbor; and just out of the town, to the north-west, are the Cliffs, where you go to find surf-bathing; in the town itself you must be satisfied with still-bathing. An excellent place, by the way, to teach the children how to swim." "Then you can teach me, Edward," said Zoe; "I'd like to learn." "I shall be delighted," he returned, gallantly. "Papa," asked Max, "are there any woods and streams where one may hunt and fish?" "Hardly anything to be called woods," the captain answered; "trees of any size are few on the island. Except the shade trees in the town, I think some ragged, stunted pines are all you will find; but there are streams and ponds to fish in, to say nothing of the great ocean. There is some hunting, too, for there are plover on the island." "Well, shall we go and see for ourselves, as the captain advises?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, addressing the company in general. Every voice answered in the affirmative, though Elsie, looking doubtfully at Violet, remarked that she feared she was hardly strong enough for so long a journey. "Ah, that brings me to my second proposition, mother," said Captain Raymond; "that--seeing what a very large company we shall make, especially if we can persuade our friends from Fairview, the Oaks, and the Laurels to accompany us--we charter a yacht and go by sea." "Oh, captain, what a nice idea!" cried Zoe, clapping her hands. "I love the sea--love to be either beside it or on it." "I think it would be ever so nice!" Rosie exclaimed. "Oh, grandpa and mamma, do say yes!" "I shall not oppose it, my dear," Elsie said; "indeed, I think it may perhaps be our best plan. How does it strike you, father?" "Favorably," he replied, "if we can get the yacht. Do you know of one that might be hired, captain?" "I do, sir; a very fine one. I have done with it as with the cottage--partially engaged it--feeling pretty sure you would all fall in with my views." "Captain," cried Zoe, "you're just a splendid man! I know of only one that's more so," with a laughing look at her husband. The captain bowed his acknowledgments. "As high praise as I could possibly ask, my dear sister. I trust that one may always stand first in your esteem." "He always will," said Zoe; "but," with another glance, arch and smiling, into Edward's eyes, "don't tell him, lest he should grow conceited and vain." "Don't tell him, because it would be no news," laughed Edward, gazing with fondness and admiration at the blooming face of the loved flatterer. The talk went on about the yacht, and before they left the table the captain was empowered to engage her for their use. Also the 'Sconset cottage he had spoken of, and one or two more, if they were to be had. "You will command the vessel, of course, captain?" several voices said, inquiringly, all speaking at once. "If chosen commander by a unanimous vote," he said. "Of course, of course; we'll be only too glad to secure your services," said Mr. Dinsmore, everybody else adding a word of glad assent. "How soon do we sail, captain?" asked Zoe. "Must we wait for an answer from Nantucket?" "No; I shall send word by this morning's mail, to Captain Coffin, that we will take his cottage and two others, if he can engage them for us. But there is no time to wait for a reply." "Can't we telegraph?" asked Violet. "No; because there is no telegraph from the mainland to the island. "Now, ladies all, please make your preparations as rapidly as possible. We ought to be off by the first of next week. I can telegraph for the yacht, and she will be ready for us, lying at anchor in our own harbor. "But, little wife," turning to Violet, with a tenderly affectionate air, "you are not to exert yourself in the least with shopping, sewing, or packing. I positively forbid it," he added, with playful authority. "That is right, captain," Elsie said, with a pleased smile. "She is not strong enough yet for any such exertion, nor has she any need to make it." "Ah, mamma," said Violet, "are you not forgetting the lessons you used to give us, your children, on the sin of indolence and self-indulgence?" "No, daughter; nor those on the duty of doing all in our power for the preservation of health as one of God's good gifts, and to be used in His service." They were all gathered upon the veranda now in the cool shade of the trees and vines, for the weather was extremely warm. "I wish we were ready to sail to-day," said Zoe. "How delicious the sea-breeze would be!" A nice-looking, pleasant-faced colored woman stepped from the doorway with a little bundle in her arms, which she carried to Violet. The captain, standing beside his wife, bent over her and the babe with a face full of love and delight. "Isn't she a darling?" whispered Violet, gazing down upon the tiny creature with all a young mother's unspeakable love and pride in her first-born, then up into her husband's face. "That she is!" he responded; "I never saw a fairer, sweeter babe. I should fear to risk her little life and health in a journey to Nantucket by land; but going by sea will, I think, be more likely to do her good than harm." "It's all her, her, when you talk about that baby," laughed Rosie; "why don't you call her by her name?" "So we will, Aunt Rosie, if you will kindly inform us what it is," returned the captain, good-humoredly. "I, sir!" exclaimed Rosie; "we have all been told again and again that you were to decide upon the name on your arrival; and you've been here--how many hours?--and it seems the poor little dear is nameless yet." "Apparently not greatly afflicted by it either," said the captain, adopting Rosie's sportive tone. "My love, what do you intend to call your daughter?" "Whatever her father appoints as her name," returned Vi, laughingly. "No, no," he said; "you are to name her yourself; you have undoubtedly the best right." "Thank you; then, if you like, she shall be mamma's namesake; her first granddaughter should be, I think, as the first grandson was papa's." "I highly approve your choice," he said, with a glance of affectionate admiration directed toward his mother-in-law; "and may a strong resemblance in both looks and character descend to her with the name." "We will all say amen to that, captain," said Edward. "Yes, indeed," added Zoe, heartily. "Thank you both," Elsie said, with a gratified look; "I appreciate the compliment; but if I had the naming of my little granddaughter, she should be another Violet; there is already an Elsie in the family besides myself, you know, and it makes a little confusion to have too many of the same name." "Then, mamma, we can make a variety by calling this one Else for short," returned Violet, gayly, holding up the babe to receive a caress from its grandmother, who had drawn near, evidently with the purpose of bestowing it. "What a pretty pet it is!" Elsie said, taking it in her arms and gazing delightedly into the tiny face. "Don't you think so, captain?" "Of course I do, mother," he said, with a happy laugh. Then, examining its features critically: "I really fancy I see a slight resemblance to you now, which I trust is destined to increase with increasing years. But excuse me, ladies; I must go and write that all-important letter at once, or it will be too late for the mail." He hurried away to the library, and entering it hastily, but without much noise, for he wore slippers, found Lulu there, leaning moodily out of a window. She had stolen away from the veranda a moment before, saying to herself, in jealous displeasure, "Such a fuss over that little bit of a thing! I do believe papa is going to care more for it than for any of us, his own children, that he had long before he ever saw Mamma Vi; and it's just too bad." Knowing Lulu as he did, her father instantly conjectured what was passing in her mind. It grieved and angered him, yet strong affection was mingled with his displeasure, and he silently asked help of God to deal wisely with this child of his love. He remembered that Lulu was more easily ruled through her affections than in any other way, and as she turned toward him, with a flushed and shamefaced countenance, he went to her, took her in his arms, held her close to his heart, and kissed her tenderly several times. "My dear, dear little daughter," he said. "How often, when far away on the sea, I have longed to do this--to hold my dear Lulu in my arms and feel hers about my neck and her sweet kisses on my lips." Her arms were instantly thrown round his neck, while she returned his kisses with interest. "Papa," she said, "I do love you so, _so_ dearly; but I 'most wonder you don't quit loving such a hateful girl as I am." "Perhaps I might not love an ill-tempered, jealous child belonging to somebody else," he said, as if half in jest, half in earnest; "but you are my own," drawing her closer and repeating his caresses, "my very own; and so I have to love you in spite of everything. But, my little girl," and his tone grew very grave and sad, "if you do not fight determinately against these wrong feelings you will never know rest or happiness in this world or the next. "But we won't talk any more about it now; I have no time, as I ought to be writing my letter. Run away and make yourself happy, collecting together such toys and books as you would like to carry with you to Nantucket. Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi will decide what you and the rest will need in the way of clothing." "I will, papa; and oh, but I think you are good to me!" she said, giving him a final hug and kiss; "a great deal better than I deserve; but I will try to be good." "Do, my child," he said; "and not in your own strength; God will help you if you ask Him." For the moment thoroughly ashamed of her jealousy of the baby, she ran back to the veranda, where the others still were, and bending over it as it lay its mother's arms, kissed it several times. Violet's face flushed with pleasure. "My dear Lulu, I hope you and little Else are going to be very fond of each other," she said. "I hope so, Mamma Vi," Lulu answered, pleasantly; then, in a sudden fit of penitence, added, "but I'm afraid she'll never learn any good from the example of her oldest sister." "My dear child, resolve that she shall," said Grandma Elsie, standing by; "you cannot avoid having a good deal of influence over her as she grows older, and do not forget that you will have to give an account for the use you make of it." "I suppose that's so," Lulu answered, with a little impatient shrug of her shoulders; "but I wish it wasn't." Then, turning abruptly away, "Max and Gracie," she called to her brother and sister, "papa says we may go and gather up any books and toys we want to take with us." The three ran off together in high glee. The ladies stayed a little longer, deep in consultation about necessary arrangements which must fall to their share: then dispersed to their several apartments, with the exception of Violet, who, forbidden to exert herself, remained where she was till joined by her husband, when he had finished and despatched his letter. It was great happiness to them to be together after their long separation. Mr. Dinsmore and Edward had walked out into the avenue, and were seated under a tree in earnest conversation. "Talking tiresome business, I suppose," remarked Zoe, in a half-petulant tone, glancing toward them as she spoke, and apparently addressing Violet, as she was the only other person on the veranda at the moment. "Yes, no doubt; but we must have patience with them, dear, because it is very necessary," Violet answered, with a smile. "Probably they are discussing the question how the plantation is to be attended to in their absence. You know it won't take care of itself, and the men must have a head to direct their labors." "Oh yes, of course; and for that reason Ned is kept ever so busy while we are here, and I do think it will be delightful to get away to the seashore with him, where there will be nothing to do but enjoy ourselves." Zoe skipped away with the last word, ran up to her room, and began turning over the contents of bureau drawers and taking garments from wardrobes and closets, with the view of selecting such as she might deem it desirable to carry with her on the contemplated trip. She was humming softly a snatch of lively song, feeling very gay and light-hearted, when, coming across a gray travelling-dress a little worse for the wear, her song suddenly ceased, while tears gathered in her eyes, then began to fall drop by drop as she stood gazing down, upon this relic of former days. "Just one year ago," she murmured. "Papa, papa! I never thought I could live a whole year without you; and be happy, too! Ah, that seems ungrateful, when you were so, so good to me! But no; I am sure you would rather have me happy; and it would be ungrateful to my dear husband if I were not." She put the dress aside, wiped away her tears, and took down another. It was a dark woollen dress. She had travelled home in it the previous fall, and had worn it once since on a very memorable occasion; her cheek crimsoned at the recollection as she glanced from it to her husband, who entered the room at that instant; then her eyes fell. "What is it, love?" he asked, coming quickly toward her. "Nothing, only--you remember the last time you saw me in this dress? Oh, Ned, what a fool I was! and how good you were to me!" He had her in his arms by this time, and she was hiding her blushing face on his breast. "Never mind, my pet," he said, soothing her with caresses; "it is a secret between ourselves, and always shall be, unless you choose to tell it." "I? No indeed!" she said, drawing a long breath; "I think I should almost die of mortification if any one else should find it out; but I'm glad you know it, because if you didn't my conscience wouldn't give me a bit of peace till I confessed to you." "Ah! and would that be very difficult?" "Yes; I don't know how I could ever find courage to make the attempt." "Are you really so much afraid of me?" he asked, in a slightly aggrieved tone. "Yes; for I love you so dearly that your displeasure is perfectly unendurable," she replied, lifting her head to gaze fondly into his eyes. "Ah, is that it, my darling?" he said, in a glow of delight. "I deem myself a happy man in possessing such a treasure as you and your dear love. I can hardly reconcile myself to the thought of a separation for even a few weeks." "Separation!" she cried, with a start, and in a tone of mingled pain and incredulity. "What can you mean? But I won't be separated from you; I'm your wife, and I claim the right to cling to you always, _always_!" "And I would have you do so, if it could be without a sacrifice of your comfort and enjoyment, but--" "Comfort and enjoyment!" she interrupted; "it is here in your arms or by your side that I find both; nowhere else. But why do you talk so? is anything wrong?" "Nothing, except that it seems impossible for me to leave the plantation for weeks to come, unless I can get a better substitute than I know of at present." "Oh, Ned, I am so sorry!" she cried, tears of disappointment springing to her eyes. "Don't feel too badly about it, little wife," he said, in a cheery tone; "it is just possible the right man may turn up before the yacht sails; and in that case I can go with the rest of you; otherwise I shall hope to join you before your stay at Nantucket is quite over." "Not my stay; for I won't go one step of the way without you, unless you order me!" she added, sportively, and with a vivid blush; "and I'm not sure that I'll do it even in that case." "Oh, yes you will," he said, laughingly. "You know you promised to be always good and obedient on condition that I would love you and keep you; and I'm doing both to the very best of my ability." "But you won't be if you send me away from you. No, no; I have a right to stay with you, and I shall claim it always," she returned, clinging to him as if she feared an immediate separation. "Foolish child!" he said, with a happy laugh, holding her close; "think what you would lose: the sea voyage in the pleasantest of company--" "No; the pleasantest company would be left behind if you were," she interrupted. "Well, very delightful company," he resumed; "then I don't know how many weeks of the oppressive heat here you would have to endure, instead of enjoying the cool, refreshing breezes sweeping over Nantucket. Surely, you cannot give it all up without a sigh?" "I can't give up the thought of enjoying it all with you without sighing, and crying, too, maybe," she answered, smiling through tears; "but I'd sigh and cry ten times as much if I had to go and leave you behind. No, Mr. Travilla, you needn't indulge the hope of getting rid of me for even a week. I'm determined to stay where you stay, and go only where you go." "Dreadful fate!" he exclaimed. "Well, little wife, I shall do my best to avert the threatened disappointment of your hopes of a speedy departure out of this heated atmosphere and a delightful sea voyage to that famous island. Now, I must leave you and begin at once my search for a substitute as manager of the plantation." "Oh, I do hope you will succeed!" she said. "Shall I go on with my packing?" "Just as you please, my dear; perhaps it would be best; as otherwise you may be hurried with it if we are able to go with the others." "Then I shall; and I'm determined not to look for disappointment," she said, in a lively, cheery tone, as he left the room, At the conclusion of his conference with Edward, Mr. Dinsmore sought his daughter in her own apartments. He found her busied much as Zoe was, looking over clothing and selecting what ought to be packed in the trunks a man-servant was bringing in. She had thrown aside the widow's weeds in which she was wont to array herself when about to leave the seclusion of her own rooms, and donned a simple white morning dress that was very becoming, her father thought. "Excuse my wrapper, papa," she said, turning toward him a bright, sweet face, as he entered; "I found my black dress oppressive this warm morning." "Yes," he said; "it is a most unwholesome dress, I think; and for that reason and several others I should be extremely glad if you would give it up entirely." "Would you, my dear father?" she returned, tears springing to her eyes. "I should indeed, if it would not involve too great a sacrifice of feeling on your part. I have always thought white the most suitable and becoming dress for you in the summer season, and so did your husband." "Yes, papa, I remember that he did; but--I--I should be very loath to give the least occasion for any one to say or think he was forgotten by her he loved so dearly, or that she had ceased to mourn his loss." "Loss, daughter dear?" he said, taking her in his arms to wipe away the tears that were freely coursing down her cheeks, and caress her with exceeding tenderness. "No, papa, not lost, but only gone before," she answered, a lovely smile suddenly irradiating her features; "nor does he seem far away. I often feel that he is very near me still, though I can neither see nor speak to him nor hear his loved voice," she went on, in a dreamy tone, a far-away look in the soft brown eyes as she stood, with her head on her father's shoulder, his arm encircling her waist. Both were silent for some moments; then Elsie, lifting her eyes to her father's face, asked, "Were you serious in what you said about my laying aside mourning, papa?" "Never more so," he answered. "It is a gloomy, unwholesome dress, and I have grown very weary of seeing you wear it. It would be very gratifying to me to see you exchange it for more cheerful attire." "But black is considered the most suitable dress for old and elderly ladies, papa; and I am a grandmother, you know." "What of that?" he said, a trifle impatiently; "you do not look old, and are, in fact, just in the prime of life. And it is not like you to be concerned about what people may think or say. Usually your only inquiry is, 'Is it right?' 'Is it what I ought to do?'" "I fear that is a deserved reproof, papa," she said, with unaffected humility; "and I shall be governed by your wishes in this matter, for they have been law to me almost all my life (a law I have loved to obey, dear father), and I know that if my husband were here he would approve of my decision." She could not entirely suppress a sigh as she spoke, nor keep the tears from filling her eyes. Her father saw and appreciated the sacrifice she would make for him. "Thank you, my darling," he said. "It seems selfish in me to ask it of you, but though partly for my own gratification, it is really still more for your sake; I think the change will be for your health and happiness." "And I have the highest opinion of my father's wisdom," she said, "and should never, never think of selfishness as connected with him." Mrs. Dinsmore came in at this moment. "Ah, my dear," she said, "I was in search of you. What is to be done about Bob and Betty Johnson? You know they will be coming home in a day or two for their summer vacation." "They can stay at Roselands with their cousins Calhoun and Arthur Conly; or at the Oaks, if Horace and his family do not join us in the trip to Nantucket." "Cannot Bob and Betty go with us, papa?" Elsie asked. "I have no doubt it would be a very great treat to them." "Our party promises to be very large," he replied; "but if you two ladies are agreed to invite them I shall raise no objection." "Shall we not, mamma?" Elsie asked, and Rose gave a hearty assent. "Now, how much dressmaking has to be done before the family can be ready for the trip?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "Very little," the ladies told him, Elsie adding, "At least if you are willing to let me wear black dresses when it is too cool for white, papa. Mamma, he has asked me to lay aside my mourning." "I knew he intended to," Rose said, "and I think you are a dear good daughter to do it." "It is nothing new; she has always been the best of daughters," Mr. Dinsmore remarked, with a tenderly affectionate look at Elsie. "And, my dear child, I certainly shall not ask you to stay a day longer than necessary in this hot place, merely to have new dresses made when you have enough even of black ones. We must set sail as soon as possible. Now, I must have a little business chat with you. Don't go, Rose; it is nothing that either of us would care to have you hear." CHAPTER II. "Where the broad ocean leans against the land." --_Goldsmith_. Elsie felt somewhat apprehensive that this early laying aside of her mourning for their father might not meet the approval of her older son and daughters; but it gave them pleasure; one and all were delighted to see her resume the dress of the happy days when he was with them. Zoe, too, was very much pleased. "Mamma," she said, "you do look so young and lovely in white; and it was so nice in you to begin wearing it again on the anniversary of our wedding-day. Just think, it's a whole year to-day since Edward and I were married. How fast time flies!" "Yes," Elsie said; "it seems a very little while since I was as young and light-hearted as you are now, and now I am a grandmother." "But still happy; are you not, mamma? you always seem so to me." "Yes, my child; I have a very peaceful, happy life. I miss my husband, but I know the separation is only for a short time, and that he is supremely blessed. And with my beloved father and dear children about me, heart and hands are full--delightfully full--leaving no room for sadness and repining." This little talk was on the veranda, as the two stood there for a moment apart from the others. Zoe was looking quite bride-like in a white India mull, much trimmed with rich lace, her fair neck and arms adorned with a set of beautiful pearls, just presented her by Edward in commemoration of the day. She called Elsie's attention to them. "See, mamma, what my husband has given me in memory of the day. Are they not magnificent?" "It is a very fine set," Elsie answered, with a smile, glancing admiringly at the jewels and from them to the blooming face of the wearer. "A most suitable gift for his little wife." "He's so good to me, mamma," Zoe said, with warmth. "I love him better every day we live together, and couldn't think of leaving him behind alone, when you all go off to Nantucket. I do hope he'll be able to find somebody to take his place; but if he isn't I shall stay here with him." "That is quite right, dear child; I am very glad you love him so dearly," Elsie said, with a very pleased look; "but I hope your affection will not be put to so severe a test; we have heard of a very suitable person, though it is still uncertain whether his services can be secured. We shall probably know to-morrow." "Perhaps sooner than that," Mr. Dinsmore said, approaching them just in time to hear his daughter's last sentence; "Edward has gone to have an interview with him, and hopes for a definite reply to his proposition. Ah, here he comes now!" as Edward was seen to turn in at the great gates and come up the avenue at a gentle trot. It was too warm for a gallop. As he drew near he took off his hat and waved it in triumph round his head. "Success, good friends!" he cried, reining in his steed at the veranda steps. Then, as he threw the reins to a servant and sprang to the ground, "Zoe, my darling, you can go on with your packing; we may confidently expect to be able to sail with the rest." "Oh delightful!" she exclaimed, dancing about as gleefully as if she had been a maiden of eight or ten instead of a woman just closing the first year of her married life. Everybody sympathized in her joy; everybody was glad that she and Edward were to be of their party. All the older ones were very busy for the next few days, no one finding time for rest and quiet chat except the captain and Violet, who keenly enjoyed a monopoly of each other's society during not a few hours of every day; Mrs. Dinsmore and Elsie having undertaken to attend to all that would naturally have fallen to Violet's share in making ready for the summer's jaunt had she been in robust health. Bob and Betty Johnson, to whom the Oaks had been home for many years, and who had just graduated from school, came home in the midst of the bustle of preparation, and were highly delighted by an invitation to join the Nantucket party. No untoward event occurred to cause disappointment or delay; all were ready in due season, and the yacht set sail at the appointed time, with a full list of passengers, carrying plenty of luggage, and with fair winds and sunny skies. They were favored with exceptionally fine weather all the way, and seas so smooth that scarce a touch of sea-sickness was felt by any, from the oldest to the youngest. They entered Nantucket harbor one lovely summer morning, with a delicious breeze blowing from the sea, the waves rippling and dancing in the sunlight, and the pretty town seated like a queen on the surrounding heights that slope gently up from the water. They were all gathered on deck, eager for a first glimpse of the place. Most of them spoke admiringly of it, but Zoe said, "It's pretty enough, but too much of a town for me. I'm glad we are not to stay in it. 'Sconset is a smaller place, isn't it, captain?" "Much smaller," he answered; "quite small enough to suit even so great a lover of solitude as yourself, Mrs. Travilla." "Oh, you needn't laugh at me," she retorted; "one needn't be a great lover of solitude to care for no more society than is afforded by this crowd. But I want to be close by the bounding sea, and this town is shut off from that by its harbor." "Where is the harbor, papa?" asked little Grace. "All around us, my child; we are in it." "Are we?" she asked, "I think it looks just like the sea; what's the matter with it, Aunt Zoe?" "Nothing, only it's too quiet; the great waves don't come rolling in and breaking along the shore. I heard your father say so; it's here they have the still bathing." "Oh, yes, and papa is going to teach us to swim!" exclaimed Lulu; "I'm so glad, for I like to learn how to do everything." "That's right," her father said, with an approving smile; "learn all you can, for 'knowledge is power.'" They landed, the gentlemen presently secured a sufficient number of hacks to comfortably accommodate the entire party, and after a cursory view of the town, in a drive through several of its more important streets, they started on the road to 'Sconset. They found it, though a lonely, by no means an unpleasant, drive--a road marked out only by rows of parallel ruts across wild moorlands, where the ground was level or slightly rolling, with now and then some gentle elevation, or a far-off glimpse of harbor or sea, or a lonely farmhouse. The wastes were treeless, save for the presence of a few stunted jack-pines; but these gave out a sweet scent, mingling pleasantly with the smell of the salt-sea air; and there were wild roses and other flowering shrubs, thistles and tiger-lilies and other wild flowers, beautiful enough to tempt our travellers to alight occasionally to gather them. 'Sconset was reached at length, three adjacent cottages found ready and waiting for their occupancy, and they took possession. The cottages stood on a high bluff overlooking miles of sea, between which and the foot of the cliff stretched a low sandy beach a hundred yards or more in width, and gained by flights of wooden stairs. The cottages faced inland, and had each a little back yard, grassy, and showing a few flowers, that reached to within a few yards of the edge of the bluff. The houses were tiny, built low and strong, that they might resist the fierce winds of winter in that exposed position, and shingled all over to keep out the spray from the waves, which would penetrate any other covering. Dinner was engaged for our entire party at one of the hotels, of which there were two; but as it yet wanted more than an hour of the time set for the meal, all who were not too tired sallied forth to explore the hamlet and its environs. They found it to consist of about two hundred cottages, similar to those they had engaged for the season, each in a little enclosure. They were built along three narrow streets or lanes running parallel with the edge of the bluff, and stood in groups of twos or threes, separated by narrow cross-lanes, giving every one free access to the town pump, the only source of fresh-water supply in the place. The children were particularly interested in the cottage of Captain Baxter, with its famous ship's figure-head in the yard. Back of the original 'Sconset, on the slight ascent toward Nantucket Town, stood a few more pretentious cottages, built as summer residences by the rich men of the island, retired sea captains, and merchants; this was the one broad street, and here were the two hotels, the Atlantic House and the Ocean View House. Then on the bluff south of the old village, called Sunset Heights, there were some half dozen cottages; a few on the bluff north of it, also. The town explored and dinner eaten, of course the next thing was to repair to the beach to watch the rush and tumble of the restless waves, fast chasing each other in, and the dash of the spray as they broke along the shore. There was little else to see, for the bathing hour was long past; but that was quite enough. Soon, however, nearly every one of the party began to feel unaccountably sleepy. Some returned to the cottages for the indulgence of their desire for slumber, and others, spreading cloaks and shawls upon the sand, enjoyed a delicious rest, warmed by the sun and fanned by the sea breeze. For a day or two they did little but sleep and eat, and sleep and eat again, enjoying it immensely, too, and growing fat and strong. After that they woke to new life, made inquiries in regard to all the sights and amusements the island afforded, and began availing themselves of their opportunities, as if it were the business of life. When it was for a long drive to some notable point, all went together, chartering several vehicles for their conveyance; at other times they not unfrequently broke up into smaller parties, some preferring one sort of sport, some another. "How many of us are going to bathe to-day?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, the second morning after their arrival. "I for one, if you will bear me company and look out for my safety," said his wife. "Most assuredly I will," he answered. "And you too, Elsie?" turning to his daughter. "Yes, sir," she said, "if you think you can be burdened with the care of two." "No, mother," spoke up Edward, quickly; "you and Zoe will be my charge, of course." "Ridiculous, Ned! of course, Harold and I will take care of mamma," exclaimed Herbert. "You will have enough to do to look out for your wife's safety." (The yacht had touched at Cape May and taken the two college students aboard there.) "I shall be well taken care of," their mother said, laughingly, with an affectionate glance from one to another of her three tall sons; "but I should like one of you to take charge of Rosie, another of Walter; and, in fact, I don't think I need anything for myself but a strong hold of the rope to insure my safety." "You shall have more!" exclaimed father and sons in a breath; "the surf is heavy here, and we cannot risk your precious life." Mr. Dinsmore added, "None of you ladies ought to stay in very long, and we will take you in turn." "Papa, may I go in?" asked Lulu, eagerly. "Yes; I'll take you in," the captain answered; "but the waves are so boisterous that I doubt if you will care to repeat the experiment. Max, I see, is waiting his chance to ask the same question," he added, with a fatherly smile directed to the boy; "you may go in too, of course, my son, if you will promise to hold on to the rope. I cannot think that otherwise you would be safe in that boiling surf." "But I can swim, papa," said Max; "and won't you let me go with you out beyond the surf, where the water is more quiet?" "Why yes, you shall," the captain replied, with a look of pleasure; "I did not know that you had learned to swim." "I don't want to go in," said timid little Grace, as if half fearful it might be required of her. "Mamma is not going, and can't I stay with her, papa?" "Certainly, daughter," was the kind reply. "I suppose you feel afraid of those dashing waves, and I should never think of forcing you in among them against your will." Betty Johnson now announced her intention to join the bathers. "It's the first chance I've ever had," she remarked, "and I shan't throw it away. I'll hold on to the rope, and if I'm in any danger I suppose Bob, or some of the rest of you, will come to my assistance?" "Of course we will!" all the gentlemen said, her brother adding, "And if there's a good chance, I'll take you over to Nantucket Town, where there's still-bathing, and teach you to swim." "Just what I should like," she said. "I have a great desire to add that to the already large number of my accomplishments." Miss Betty was a very lively, in fact, quite wild, young lady, whose great desire was for fun and frolic; to have, as she expressed it, "a jolly good time" wherever she went. The captain drew out his watch. "About time to don the bathing-suits," he said; "I understand that eleven o'clock is the hour, and it wants but fifteen minutes of it." Grandma Elsie had kindly seen to it that each little girl--that is, Captain Raymond's two and her own Rosie--was provided with a pretty, neatly-fitting, and becoming bathing dress. Violet helped Lulu to put her's on, and, surveying her with a smile of gratified motherly pride, told her she looked very well in it, and that she hoped she would enjoy her bath. "Thank you," said Lulu; "but why don't you go in too, Mamma Vi?" "Only because I don't feel strong enough to stand up against those heavy waves," Violet answered. "But I am going down to the beach to watch you all, and see that you don't drown," she added, sportively. "Oh Lu, aren't you afraid to go in?" asked little Grace, half shuddering at the very thought. "Why no, Gracie; I've bathed in the sea before; I went in a good many times last summer; don't you remember?" "Yes; but the waves there weren't half so big and strong." "No; but I'll have a rope and papa, too, to hold to; so why need I be afraid?" laughed Lulu. "Mamma is, I think," said Grace, looking doubtfully at her. "Oh no, dear," said Violet; "I should not be at all afraid to go in if I were as strong as usual; but being weak, I know that buffeting with those great waves would do me more harm than good." Their cottages being so near the beach, our party all assumed their bathing suits before descending to it. They went down, this first time, all in one company, forming quite a procession; Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore heading it, and Violet and Grace, as mere spectators, bringing up the rear. They, in common with others who had nothing to do but look on, found it an amusing scene; there was a great variety of costume, some neat, well-fitting, and modest; some quite immodestly scant; some bright and new; some faded and old. There was, however, but little freshness and beauty in any of them when they came out of the water. Violet and Grace found a seat under an awning. Max came running up to them. "Papa is going in with Lulu first," he said; "then he will bring her out and take me with him for a swim beyond the breakers. I'll just wait here with you till my turn comes." "See, see, they're in the water!" cried Grace; "and oh, what a big, big wave that is coming! There, it would have knocked Lulu down if papa hadn't had fast hold of her." "Yes; it knocked a good many others down," laughed Max; "just hear how they are screeching and screaming." "But laughing, too," said Violet, "as if they find it fine sport." "Who is that man sitting on that bench nearest the water, and looking just ready to run and help if anybody needs it?" asked Grace. "Oh, that's Captain Gorham," said Max. "and to run and help if he's needed is exactly what he's there for. And I presume he always does it; for they say no bather was ever drowned here." Ten or fifteen minutes later a little dripping figure left the water, and came running toward them. "Why, it's Lulu," Gracie said, as it drew near, calling out to Max that papa was ready for him. Max was off like a shot in the direction of the water, and Lulu shouted to her sister, "Oh Gracie, it's such fun! I wish you had gone, too." Violet hastened to throw a waterproof cloak about Lulu's shoulders, and bade her hurry to the house, rub hard with a coarse towel, and put on dry clothing. "I will go with you," she added, "if you wish." "Oh no, thank you, Mamma Vi," Lulu answered, in a lively, happy tone. "I can do it all quite well myself, and it must be fun for you to sit here and watch the bathers." "Well, dear, rub till you are in a glow," Violet said, as the little girl sped on her way. "Oh mamma, see, see!" cried Grace, more than half frightened at the sight; "papa has gone away, way out, and Maxie with him. Oh, aren't you afraid they will drown?" "No, Gracie dear; I think we may safely trust your father's prudence and skill as a swimmer," Violet answered. "Ah, there come Grandma Rose and my mother; but Zoe and Betty seem to be enjoying it too much to leave yet." "Mamma, let's stay here till our people all come out; papa and Maxie, any way" Grace said, persuasively. "Yes; we will if you wish," said Violet. "I was just thinking I must go in to see how baby is doing; but here comes Dinah, bringing her to me." There was no accident that day, and everybody was enthusiastic in praise of the bathing. Zoe and Betty would have liked to stay in the water much longer than their escorts deemed prudent, but yielded to their better judgment. The next morning there was a division of their forces: the Dinsmores, Mrs. Elsie Travilla, Rosie, and Walter, and the Raymonds taking an early start for Nantucket Town, the others remaining behind to enjoy a repetition of the surf bath at 'Sconset. The Nantucket party drove directly to the bathing house of the town, and the little girls took their first lesson in swimming. They all thought it "very nice," even Grace soon forgetting her timidity in the quiet water and with her father to take care of her. After that they went about the town visiting places of note--the Athenaeum, the oldest house, dating back more than a hundred years, no longer habitable, but kept as a relic of olden times, so important that a visit to it is a part of the regular curriculum of the summer sojourner in Nantucket; then to the news-room, where they wrote their names in the "Visitors' Book;" then to the stores to view, among other things, the antique furniture and old crockery on exhibition there and for sale. Many of these stores, situate in wide, handsome streets, were quite city-like in size and in their display of goods. Dinner at one of the hotels was next in order; after that a delightful sail on the harbor, then around Brant Point and over the bar out into the sea. Here the boat new before the wind, dancing and rocking on the waves to the intense delight of the older children; but Gracie was afraid till her father took her in his arms and held her fast, assuring her they were in no danger. As she had unbounded confidence in "papa's" word, and believed he knew all about the sea, this quieted her fears and made the rest of the sail as thoroughly enjoyable to her as it was to the others. The drive back to 'Sconset, with the full moon shining on moor and sea, was scarcely less delightful. They reached their cottage home full of enthusiasm over the day's experiences, ready to do ample justice to a substantial supper, and then for a long delicious night's sleep. CHAPTER III. "And I have loved thee, Ocean!" Captain Raymond, always an early riser, was out on the bluffs before the sun rose, and in five minutes Max was by his side. "Ah, my boy, I though you were sound asleep, and would be for an hour yet," the captain remarked when they had exchanged an affectionate good-morning. "No, sir, I made up my mind last night that I'd be out in time to see the sun rise right out of the sea," Max said; "and there he is, just peeping above the waves. There, now he's fairly up I and see, papa, what a golden glory he sheds upon the waters; they are almost too bright to look at. Isn't it a fine sight?" "Yes, well worth the sacrifice of an extra morning nap--at least once in a while." "You must have seen it a great many times, papa." "Yes, a great many; but it never loses its attraction for me." "Oh, look, look, papa!" cried Max; "there's a fisherman going out; he has his dory down on the beach, and is just watching for the right wave to launch it. I never can see the difference in the waves--why one is better than half a dozen others that he lets pass. Can you, sir?" "No," acknowledged the captain; "but let us watch now and try to make out his secret." They did watch closely for ten minutes or more, while wave after wave came rushing in and broke along the beach, the fisherman's eyes all the while intent upon them as he stood motionless beside his boat; then suddenly seeming to see the right one--though to the captain and Max it did not look different from many of its neglected predecessors--he gave his dory a vigorous push that sent it out upon the top of that very wave, leaped into the stern, seized his oars, and with a powerful stroke sent the boat out beyond the breakers. "Bravo!" cried Max, clapping his hands and laughing with delight; "see, papa, how nicely he rides now on the long swells! How I should like to be able to manage a boat like that. May I learn if I have the chance?" "Yes," said his father; "I should like to have you a proficient in all manly accomplishments, only don't be foolhardy and run useless risks. I want my son to be brave, but not rash; ready to meet danger with coolness and courage when duty calls, and to have the proper training to enable him to do so intelligently, but not to rush recklessly into it to no good end." "Yes, papa," Max answered; "I mean to try to be just such a man as my father is; but do you mean that I may take lessons in managing a boat on the sea, if I can find somebody to teach me?" "I do; I shall inquire about among the fishermen and see who is capable and willing for the task. Come, let us go down to the beach; we shall have abundance of time for a stroll before breakfast." At that moment Lulu joined them with a gay good-morning to each; she was in a happy mood. "Oh, what a lovely morning! what a delightful place this is!" she cried. "Papa, can't we take a walk?" "Yes, Max and I were about starting for one, and shall be pleased to have your company." "I'd like to go to Tom Never's Head, papa," said Max. "Oh, so should I!" cried Lulu. "I believe they call the distance from here about two miles," remarked the captain reflectively; "but such a walk before breakfast in this bracing air I presume will not damage children as strong and healthy as these two of mine," regarding them with a fond, fatherly smile. "So come along, we will try it." He took Lulu's hand, and the three wended their way southward along Sunset Heights, greatly enjoying the sight of the ocean, its waves glittering and dancing in the brilliant sunlight, their booming sound as they broke along the beach and the exhilarating breeze blowing fresh and pure from them. "This is a very dangerous coast," the captain remarked, "especially in winter, when it is visited by fierce gales; a great many vessels have been wrecked on Nantucket coast." "Yes, papa," said Max; "I heard a story the other day of a ship that was wrecked the night before Christmas, eight or ten years ago, on this shore. Nobody knew that a ship was near until the next morning, when pieces of wreck, floating barrels, and dead bodies were cast up on the beach. "They found that one man had got to land alive; they knew it because he was quite a distance from the beach, though entirely dead when they found him. You see there was just one farmhouse in sight from the scene of the disaster, and they had alight that night because somebody was sick; and they supposed the man saw the light and tried to reach it, but was too much exhausted by fatigue and the dreadful cold, for it seemed his clothes had all been torn off him by the waves; he was stark naked when found, and lying on the ground, which showed that he had struggled hard to get up after falling down upon it. "I think they said the ship was called the Isaac Newton, was loaded with barrels of coal-oil, and bound for Holland." "What a terrible death!" Lulu said with a shudder, and clinging more tightly to her father's hand; "every one drowned and may be half frozen for hours before they died. Oh, papa, I wish you didn't belong to the navy, but lived all the time on land! I am so afraid your ship will be wrecked some time," she ended with a sob. "It is not only upon the water that people die by what we call accident, daughter," the captain answered; "many horrible deaths occur on land--many to which drowning would in my opinion be far preferable. "But you must remember that we are under God's care and protection everywhere, on land and on sea; and that if we are His children no real evil can befall us. I am very glad you love me, my child, but I would not have you make yourself unhappy with useless fears on my account. Trust the Lord for me and all whom you love." They pressed onward and presently came upon a lovely lakelet near the beach, as clear as crystal and with bushes with dark green foliage growing on all sides but that toward the sea. They stopped for a moment to gaze upon it with surprise and admiration, then pushed on again till the top of the high bluff known as Tom Never's Head was reached. They stood upon its brink and looked off westward and northward over the heaving, tumbling ocean, as far as the eye could reach to the line where sea and sky seemed to meet, taking in long draughts of the pure, invigorating air, and listening to the roar of the breakers below. "What is that down there?" asked Lulu. "Part of a wreck, evidently," answered her father; "it must have been there a long while, it is so deeply imbedded in the sand." "I wish I knew its story," said Lulu; "I hope everybody wasn't drowned when it was lost." "It must have happened years ago, before that life-saving station was built," remarked Max. "Life-saving station," repeated Lulu, turning to look in the direction of his glance; "what's that?" "Do you not know what that means?" asked her father. "It is high time you did. Those small houses are built here and there all along our coast by the general government, for the purpose of accommodating each a band of surf-men, who are employed by the government to keep a lookout for vessels in distress, and give them all the aid in their power. "They are provided with lifeboats, buoys, and other necessary things to enable them to do so successfully. If it were not too near breakfast time I should take you over there to see their apparatus; but we must defer it to some other day, which will be quite as well, for then we may bring a larger party with us. Now for home," he added, again taking Lulu's hand; "if your appetites are as keen as mine you will be glad to get there and to the table." "Two good hours to bathing-time," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, consulting his watch as they rose from the breakfast table. "I propose that we utilize them in a visit to Sankaty lighthouse." All were well satisfied to do so, and presently they set off, some driving, others walking, for the distance is not great, and even feeble folk often find themselves able to take quite long tramps in the bracing sea air. Max and Lulu preferred to walk when they learned that their father intended doing so; then Grace, though extremely fond of driving, begged leave to join their party, and the captain finally granted her request, thinking within himself that he could carry her if her strength gave out. The little face grew radiant with delight. "Oh, you are a nice, good papa!" she cried, giving him a hug and kiss, for he was seated with her upon his knee. "I am glad you think so," he said, laughingly, as he returned her caress. "Well, as soon as I have helped your mamma into the carriage we will start." They set out presently, Grace holding fast to one of his hands while Lulu had the other, and tripping gayly along by his side till, passing out of the village, they struck into the narrow path leading to Sankaty; then the little maid moved along more soberly, looking far away over the rolling billows and watching the progress of some vessels in the offing. They could hear the dash of the waves on the beach below, but could not see it for the over-hanging cliffs, the path running some yards distant from their brink. "I want to see where the waves come up," said Lulu; "there's Max looking down over the edge; can't we go and look too, papa?" "Yes, with me along to take care of you," he said, turning from the path and leading them seaward; "but don't venture alone, the ground might crumble under your feet and you would have a terrible fall, going down many feet right into the sea." They had reached the brink. Grace, clinging tightly to her father's hand, took one timid peep, then drew back in terror. "Oh, papa, how far down it is!" she exclaimed. "Oh, let's get away, for fear the ground will break and let us fall." "Pooh! Gracie, don't be such a coward," said Lulu. "I shouldn't be afraid even if papa hadn't hold of our hands." "I should be afraid for you, Lulu, so venturesome as you are," said the captain, drawing her a little farther back. "Max, my son, be careful." "Yes, sir, I will. Papa, do you know how high this bluff is?" "They say the bank is eighty-five feet high where the lighthouse stands, and I presume it is about the same here. Now, children, we will walk on." Grace's strength held out wonderfully; she insisted she was not at all tired, even when the end of their walk was reached. The other division of the party had arrived some minutes before, and several were already making the ascent to the top of the lighthouse tower; the rest were scattered, waiting their turn in the neat parlor of the keeper's snug little home, or wandering over the grassy expanse between it and the sea. "There are Grandma Elsie and mamma in the house," cried Grace, catching sight of them through a window. "Yes," said her father, "we will go in there and wait our turn with them," leading the way as he spoke. "Do you want to go up into the tower, Gracie?" "Oh no, no, papa!" she cried, "what would be the use? and I am afraid I might fall." "What, with your big strong father to hold you fast?" he asked laughingly, sitting down and drawing her to a seat upon his knee; for they had entered the parlor. "It might tire you to hold me so hard; I'm getting so big now," she answered naïvely, looking up into his face with a loving smile and stealing an arm about his neck. "Ah, no danger of that," he laughed. "Why, I believe I could hold even your mamma or Lulu, and that against their will, without being greatly exhausted by the exertion. "My dear," turning to Violet, "shall I have the pleasure of helping you up to the top of the tower?" "Thank you, I think I shall not try it to-day," she answered; "they tell me the steps are very steep and hard to climb." "Ah, so I suppose, and I think you are wise not to attempt it." "But I may, mayn't I, papa?" Lulu said. "You know I always like to go everywhere." "I fear it will be a hard climb for a girl of your size," he answered doubtfully. "Oh, but I want to go, and I don't care if it is a hard climb," she said coaxingly, coming close to his side and laying her hand on his shoulder. "Please, papa, do say I may." "Yes, since you are so desirous," he said, in an indulgent tone. Max came hurrying in. "We can go up now, papa," he said; "the others have come down." Edward and Zoe were just behind the boy. "Oh, you ought all to go up," cried the latter; "the view's just splendid." "Mother," said Edward, "the view is very fine, but there are sixty steps, each a foot high; a pretty hard climb for a lady, I should think. Will you go up? may I have the pleasure of helping you?" "Yes," she answered; "I am quite strong and well, and think the view will probably pay for the exertion." They took the lead, the captain following with Lulu, and Max bringing up the rear. Having reached the top and viewed the great light (one of the finest on the coast) from the interior, Elsie stepped outside, and holding fast to Edward's hand made the entire circuit, enjoying the extended view on all sides. Stepping in again, she drew a long breath of relief. "I should not like to try that in a strong wind," she said, "or at all if I were easily made dizzy; no, nor in any case without a strong arm to cling to for safety; for there is plenty of space to fall through between the iron railing and the masonry." "I should tremble to see you try it alone, mother," Edward said. "It is a trifle dangerous," acknowledged the keeper. "Yet safe enough for a sailor," laughed the captain, stepping out. "Oh, papa, let me go too, please do!" pleaded Lulu. "Why should you care to?" asked her father. "To see the prospect, papa; oh, do let me! there can't be any danger with you to hold me tight." For answer he leaned down and helped her up the step, then led her slowly round, giving her time to take in all the beauties of the scene, taking care of Max too, who was slowly following. "I presume you are a little careful whom you allow to make that round?" the captain observed inquiringly to the keeper when again they stood inside. "Yes, and we have never had an accident; but I don't know but there was a narrow escape from it the other day. "Of course crowds of people come here almost every day while summer visitors are on the island, and we can't always judge what kind they are; but we know it is not an uncommon thing for people standing on the brink of a precipice or any height to feel an uncontrollable inclination to throw themselves down it, and therefore we are on the watch. "Well, the other day I let a strange woman out there, but presently when I saw her looking down over the edge and heard her mutter to herself, 'Shall I know him when I see him? shall I know him when I see him?' I pulled her inside in a hurry." "You thought she was deranged and about to commit suicide by precipitating herself to the ground?" Edward said inquiringly. "Exactly, sir," returned the keeper. All of their number who wished to do so having visited the top of the tower, our party prepared to leave. "Are you going to walk back, papa? Mayn't I go with you?" pleaded Grace. "No, daughter, we must not try your strength too far," he said, lifting her into the carriage where Grandma Elsie and Violet were already seated. "I am going on a mile further to Sachacha Pond, ladies," he remarked; "will you drive there, or directly home?" "There, if there is time to go and return before the bathing hour," they answered. "Quite. I think," he replied, and the carriage moved on, he with Max and Lulu, and several of the young gentlemen of the company following on foot. Sachacha Pond they found to be a pretty sheet of water only slightly salt, a mile long and three quarters of a mile wide, separated from the ocean by a long narrow strip of sandy beach. No stream enters it, but it is the reservoir of the rainfall from the low-lying hills sloping down to its shores. Quidnet--a hamlet of perhaps a half dozen houses--stands on its banks. It is to this pond people go to fish for perch; calling it fresh-water fishing; here too they "bob" for eels. Our party had not come to fish this time, yet had an errand aside from a desire to see the spot--namely, to make arrangements for going sharking the next day. Driving and walking on to Quidnet they soon found an old, experienced mariner who possessed a suitable boat and was well pleased to undertake the job of carrying their party out to the sharking grounds on the shoals. He would need a crew of two men, easily to be found among his neighbors, he said; he would also provide the necessary tackle. The bait would be perch, which they would catch here in the pond before setting out for the trip by sea to their destination--about a mile away. Mr. Dinsmore, his three grandsons, and Bob Johnson were all to be of the party. Max was longing to go too, but hardly thought he would be allowed; he was hesitating whether to make the request when his father, catching his eager, wistful look, suddenly asked, "Would you like to go, Max?" "Oh, yes, papa, yes, indeed!" was the eager response, and the boy's heart bounded with delight at the answer, in a kindly indulgent tone, "Very well, you may." Lulu, hearing it, cried out, "Oh, couldn't I go too, papa?" "You? a little girl?" her father said, turning an astonished look upon her; "absurd! no, of course you can't." "I think I might," persisted Lulu; "I've heard that ladies go sometimes, and I shouldn't be a bit afraid or get in anybody's way." "You can't go, so let me hear no more about it," the captain answered decidedly as they turned toward home, the arrangements for the morrow's expedition being completed. "Wouldn't Lulu like to ride?" Violet asked, speaking from the carriage window; "she has already done a good deal of walking to-day." The carriage stopped, and the captain picked Lulu up and put her in it without waiting for her to reply, for he saw that she was sulking over his refusal of her request. She continued silent during the short drive to the cottage, and scarcely spoke while hurriedly dressing for the surf-bath. The contemplated sharking expedition was the chief topic of conversation at the dinner-table, and it was quite evident that those who were going looked forward to a good deal of sport. The frown on Lulu's face grew darker as she listened. Why should not she have a share in the fun as well as Max? she was sure she was quite as brave, and not any more likely to be seasick; and papa ought to be as willing to give enjoyment to his daughter as to his son. She presently slipped away to the beach and sat down alone to brood over it, nursing her ill-humor and missing much enjoyment which she might have had because this--a very doubtful one at the best--was denied her. Looking round after a while, and seeing her father sitting alone on a bench at some little distance, she went to him and asked, "Why can't I go with you to-morrow, papa? I don't see why I can't as well as Max." "Max is a boy and you are a girl, which makes a vast difference whether you see it or not," the captain answered. "But I told you to let me hear no more about it. I am astonished at your assurance in approaching me again on the subject." Lulu was silent for a moment, then said complainingly, "And I suppose I'll not be allowed to take my bath either?" "I don't forbid you," the captain said kindly, putting his arm about her and drawing her in between his knees; "provided you promise to keep fast hold of the rope all the time you are in. With that, and Captain Gorham keeping close watch, you will not be in much danger, I think; but I should be much easier in mind--it would give me great satisfaction--if my little girl would voluntarily relinquish the bath for this one day that I shall not be here to take care of her, for possibly she might be swept away, and it would be a terrible thing to me to lose her." "I 'most wonder you don't say a good thing, papa, I'm so often naughty and troublesome," she said, suddenly becoming humble and penitent. "No, it would not be true; your naughtiness often pains me deeply, but I must continue to love my own child in spite of it all," he responded, bending down and imprinting a kiss upon her lips. "And I love you, papa; indeed, indeed I do," she said, with her arm round his neck, her cheek pressed close to his; "and I won't go in to-morrow; I'm glad to promise not to if it will make you feel easier and enjoy your day more." "Thank you, my dear child," he said. "I have not the least doubt of your affection." Edward had spread a rug on the sand just high enough on the beach to be out of reach of the incoming waves, and Zoe, with a book in her hand, was half reclining upon it, resting on her elbow and gazing far out over the waters. "Well, Mrs. Travilla, for once I find you alone. What has become of your other half?" said a lively voice at her side. "Oh, is it you, Betty?" Zoe exclaimed, quickly turning her head and glancing up at the speaker. "No one else, I assure you," returned the lively girl, dropping down on the sand and folding her hands in her lap. "Where did you say Ned is?" "I didn't say; but he has gone to help mamma down with her shawls and so forth." "He's the best of sons as well as of husbands," remarked Betty; "but I'm glad he's away for a moment just now, as I want a private word with you. Don't you think it is just a trifle mean and selfish for all our gentlemen to be going off on a pleasure excursion without so much as asking if one of us would like to accompany them?" "I hadn't thought anything about it," replied Zoe. "Well, think now, if you please; wouldn't you go if you had an invitation? Don't you want to go?" "Yes, if it's the proper thing; I'd like to go everywhere with my husband. I'll ask him about it. Here he comes, mamma with him." She waited till the two were comfortably settled by her side, then said, with her most insinuating smile, "I'd like to go sharking, Ned; won't you take me along to-morrow?" "Why, what an idea, little wife!" he exclaimed in surprise. "I really hate to say no to any request of yours, but I do not think it would be entirely safe for you. We are not going on the comparatively quiet waters of the harbor, but out into the ocean itself, and that in a whaleboat, and we may have very rough sailing; besides, it is not at all impossible that a man-eating shark might get into the boat alive, and, as I heard an old fisherman say yesterday, 'make ugly work.'" "Then I don't want to go," Zoe said, "and I'd rather you wouldn't; just suppose you should get a bite?" "Oh, no danger!" laughed Edward; "a man is better able to take care of himself than a woman is of herself." "Pooh!" exclaimed Betty; "I don't believe any such thing, and I want to go; I want to be able to say I've done and seen everything other summer visitors do and see on this island." "Only a foolish reason, is it not, Betty?" mildly remonstrated her Cousin Elsie. "But you will have to ask my father's consent, as he is your guardian." "No use whatever," remarked Bob, who had joined them a moment before; "I know uncle well enough to be able to tell you that beforehand. Aren't you equally sure of the result of such an application, Ned?" "Yes." "Besides," pursued Bob, teasingly, "there wouldn't be room in the boat for a fine lady like my sister Betty, with her flounces and furbelows; also you'd likely get awfully sick with the rolling and pitching of the boat, and leaning over the side for the purpose of depositing your breakfast in the sea, tumble in among the sharks and give them one." "Oh, you horrid fellow!" she exclaimed, half angrily; "I shouldn't do anything of the kind; I should wear no furbelows, be no more likely to an attack of sea-sickness than yourself, and could get out of the way of a shark quite as nimbly as any one else." "Well, go and ask uncle," he laughed. Betty made no move to go; she knew as well as he how Mr. Dinsmore would treat such a request. The weather the next morning was all that could be desired for sharking, and the gentlemen set off in due time, all in fine spirits. They were absent all day, returning early in the evening quite elated with their success. Max had a wonderful tale to tell Lulu and Grace of "papa's" skill, the number of sand-sharks and the tremendous "blue dog" or man-eater he had taken. The captain was not half so proud of his success as was his admiring son. "I thought all the sharks were man-eaters," said Lulu. "No, the sand-sharks are not." "Did everybody catch a man-eater?" "No; nobody but papa took a full-grown one. Grandpa Dinsmore and Uncle Edward each caught a baby one, and all of them took big fellows of the other kind. I suppose they are the most common, and it's a good thing, because of course they are not nearly so dangerous." "How many did you catch, Maxie?" asked Grace. "I? Oh, I helped catch the perch for bait; but I didn't try for sharks, for of course a boy wouldn't be strong enough to haul such big fellows in. I tell you the men had a hard tug, especially with the blue-dog. "The sand-sharks they killed when they'd got 'em close up to the gunwale by pounding them on the nose with a club--a good many hard whacks it took, too; but the blue-dog had to be stabbed with a lance; and I should think it took considerable courage and skill to do it, with such a big, strong, wicked-looking fellow. You just ought to have seen how he rolled over and over in the water and lashed it into a foam with his tail, how angry his eyes looked, and how he showed his sharp white teeth. I thought once he'd be right in among us the next minute, but he didn't; they got the lance down his throat just in time to put a stop to that." "Oh, I'm so glad he didn't!" Grace said, drawing a long breath. "Do they eat sharks, Maxie?" "No, indeed; who'd want to eat a fish that maybe had grown fat on human flesh?" "What do they kill them for, then?" "Oh, to rid the seas of them, I suppose, and because there is a valuable oil in their livers. We saw our fellows towed ashore and cut open and their livers taken out." CHAPTER IV. "There is none other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved."--_Acts_ 4: 12. It was down on the beach Max had been telling his story; the evening was beautiful, warm enough to make the breeze from the sea extremely enjoyable, and the whole family party were gathered there, some sitting upon the benches or camp-chairs, others on rugs and shawls spread upon the sand. Max seemed to have finished what he had to say about the day's exploits, and Gracie rose and went to her father's side. He drew her to his knee with a slight caress. "What has my little girl been doing all day?" "Playing in the sand most of the time, papa. I'm so glad those horrid sharks didn't get a chance to bite you or anybody to-day. Such big, dreadful-looking creatures Maxie says they were." "Not half so large as some I have seen in other parts of the world." "Oh, papa, will you tell us about them? Shall I call Max and Lulu to hear it?" "Yes; if they wish to come, they may." There was scarcely anything the children liked better than to hear the captain tell of his experiences at sea, and in another moment his own three. Rosie, Walter, and several of the older people were gathered around him, expecting quite a treat. "Quite an audience," he remarked, "and I'm afraid I shall disappoint you all, for I have no yarn to spin, only a few items of information to give in regard to other varieties of sharks than are to be found on this coast. "The white shark, found in the Mediterranean and the seas of many of the warmer parts of the world, is the largest and the most feared of any of the monsters of the deep. One has been caught which was thirty-seven feet long. It has a hard skin, is grayish-brown above and whitish on the under side. It has a large head and a big wide mouth armed with a terrible apparatus of teeth--six rows in the upper jaw, and four in the lower." "Did you ever see one, papa?" asked Grace, shuddering. "Yes, many a one. They will often follow a ship to feed on any animal matter that may be thrown or fall overboard, and have not unfrequently followed mine, to the no small disturbance of the sailors, who have a superstitious belief that it augurs a death on board during the voyage." "Do you believe it, captain?" queried little Walter. "No, my boy, certainly not; how should a fish know what is about to happen? Do you think God would give them a knowledge of the future which He conceals from men? No, it is a very foolish idea which only an ignorant, superstitious person could for a moment entertain. Sharks follow the ships simply because of what is occasionally thrown into the water. They are voracious creatures, and sometimes swallow articles which even their stomachs cannot digest. A lady's work-box was found in one, and the papers of a slave-ship in another." "Why, how could he get them?" asked Walter. "They had been thrown overboard," said the captain. "Do those big sharks bite people?" pursued the child. "Yes, indeed; they will not only bite off an arm or leg when an opportunity offers, but have been known to swallow a man whole." "A worse fate than that of the prophet Jonah," remarked Betty. "Do the sailors ever attempt to catch them, captain?" "Sometimes; using a piece of meat as bait, putting it on a very large hook attached to a chain; for a shark's teeth find no difficulty in going through a rope. But when they have hooked him and hauled him on board they have need to be very careful to keep out of reach of both his teeth and his tail; they usually rid themselves of danger from the latter by a sailor springing forward and cutting it above the fin with a hatchet. "In the South Sea Islands they have a curious way of catching sharks by setting a log of wood afloat with a rope attached, a noose at the end of it; the sharks gather round the log, apparently out of curiosity, and one or another is apt soon to get his head into the noose, and is finally wearied out by the log." "I think that's a good plan," said Grace, "because it doesn't put anybody in danger of being bitten." No one spoke again for a moment, then the silence was broken by the sweet voice of Mrs. Elsie Travilla: "To-morrow is Sunday; does any one know whether any service will be held here?" "Yes," replied Mr. Dinsmore; "there will be preaching in the parlors of one of the hotels, and I move that we attend in a body." The motion was seconded and carried, and when the time came nearly every one went. The service occupied an hour; after that almost everybody sought the beach; but though some went into the surf--doubtless looking upon it as a hygienic measure, therefore lawful even on the Lord's day--there was not the usual boisterous fun and frolic. Harold, by some manoeuvring, got his mother to himself for a time, making a comfortable seat for her in the sand, and shading her from the sun with an umbrella. "Mamma," he said, "I want a good talk with you; there are some questions, quite suitable for Sunday, that I want to ask. And see," holding them up to view, "I have brought my Bible and a small concordance with me, for I know you always refer to the Law and to the Testimony in deciding matters of faith and practice." "Yes," she said, "God's Word is the only infallible rule of faith and practice. All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness!" "Yes, mamma, I have the reference here; Second Timothy, third chapter, and sixteenth verse. And should not the next verse, 'That the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works,' stir us up to much careful study of the Bible?" "Certainly, my dear boy; and, oh what cause for gratitude that we have an infallible instructor and guide! But what did you want to ask me?" "A question that was put to me by one of our fellows at college, and which I was not prepared to answer. The substance of it was this: 'If one who has lived for years in the service of God should be suddenly cut off while committing some sin, would he not be saved, because of his former good works?'" "Is any son or daughter of Adam saved by good works?" she asked, with a look and tone of surprise. "No, mother, certainly not; how strange that I did not think of answering him with that query. But he maintained that God was too just to overlook--make no account of--years of holy living because of perhaps a momentary fall into sin." "We have nothing to hope from God's justice," she replied, "for it wholly condemns us. 'There is none righteous, no, not one.... Therefore by the deeds of the law there shall no flesh be justified in His sight.' "But your friend's question is very plainly answered by the prophet Ezekiel," opening her Bible as she spoke. "Here it is, in the eighteenth chapter, twenty-fourth verse. "'But when the righteous turneth away from his righteousness and committeth iniquity, and doeth according to all the abominations that the wicked man doeth, shall he live? All his righteousness that he hath done shall not be mentioned: in his trespass that he hath trespassed, and in his sin that he hath sinned, in them shall he die.'" "Nothing could be plainer," Harold said. "I shall refer my friend to that passage for his answer, and also remind him that no one can be saved by works. "Now, mamma, there is something else. I have become acquainted with a young Jew who interests me greatly. He is gentlemanly, refined, educated, very intelligent and devout, studying the Hebrew Scriptures constantly, and looking for a Saviour yet to come. "I have felt so sorry for him that I could not refrain from talking to him of Jesus of Nazareth, and trying to convince him that He was and is the true Messiah." Elsie looked deeply interested. "And what was the result of your efforts?" she asked. "I have not succeeded in convincing him yet, mamma, but I think I have raised doubts in his mind. I have called his attention to the prophecies in his own Hebrew Scriptures in regard to both the character of the Messiah and the time of His appearing, and shown him how exactly they were all fulfilled in our Saviour. I think he cannot help seeing that it is so, yet tries hard to shut his eyes to the truth. "He tells me he believes Jesus was a good man and a great prophet, but not the Messiah; only a human creature. To that I answer, 'He claimed to be God, saying, "I and My Father are One;" "Verily, verily, I say unto you, before Abraham was I am;" and allowed himself to be worshipped as God; therefore either He was God or He was a wretched impostor, not even a good man.' "But, mamma, I have been asked by another, a professed Christian, 'Why do you trouble yourself about the belief of a devout Jew? he is not seeking salvation by works, but by faith; then is he not safe, even though he looks for a Saviour yet to come?' How should you answer that question, mamma?" "With the eleventh and twelfth verses of the fourth chapter of Acts: 'This is the stone which was set at naught of you builders, which is become the head of the corner. Neither is there salvation in any other; for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.' "That name is the name of Jesus of Nazareth, the crucified One. He is the only Saviour. We speak--the Bible speaks of being saved by faith, but faith is only the hand with which we lay hold on Christ. "'A Saviour yet to come?' There is none; and will faith in a myth save the soul? No; nor in any other than Him who is the Door, the Way, the Truth, the Life. "'He is mighty to save,' and He alone; He Himself said, 'No man cometh unto the Father, but by Me.' "And is it not for the very sin of rejecting their true Messiah, killing Him and imprecating His blood upon them and on their children, that they have been scattered among the nations and have become a hissing and a byword to all people?" "True, mamma, and yet are they not still God's own chosen people? Are there not promises of their future restoration?" "Yes, many, in both the Old Testament and the New. Zechariah tells us, 'They shall look upon Me whom they have pierced, and they shall mourn for Him as one mourneth for his only son, and shall be in bitterness for him, as one that is in bitterness for his first-born;' and Paul speaks of a time when the veil that is upon their hearts shall be taken away, and it shall turn to the Lord. "Let me read you the first five verses of the sixty-second chapter of Isaiah--they are so beautiful. "'For Zion's sake will I not hold My peace, and for Jerusalem's sake I will not rest, until the righteousness thereof go forth as brightness, and the salvation thereof as a lamp that burneth. "'And the Gentiles shall see thy righteousness, and all kings thy glory; and thou shalt be called by a new name which the mouth of the Lord shall name. "'Thou shalt also be a crown of glory in the hand of the Lord, and a royal diadem in the hand of thy God. "'Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken; neither shall thy land any more be termed Desolate: but thou shalt be called Hephzibah, and thy land Beulah: for the Lord delighted in thee, and thy land shall be married. "'For as a young man marrieth a virgin, so shall thy sons marry thee: and as the bridegroom rejoiceth over the bride, so shall thy God rejoice over thee.'" Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore sat together not many paces distant, each with a book; but hers was half closed while she gazed out over the sea. "I am charmed with the quiet of this place," she remarked presently; "never a scream of a locomotive to break it, no pavements to echo to the footsteps of the passer-by, no sound of factory or mill, or rumble of wheels, scarcely anything to be heard, even on week-days, but the thunder of the surf and occasionally a human voice." "Except the blast of Captain Baxter's tin horn announcing his arrival with the mail, or warning you that he will be off for Nantucket in precisely five minutes, so that if you have letters or errands for him you must make all haste to hand them over," Mr. Dinsmore said, with a smile. "Ah, yes," she assented; "but with all that, is it not the quietest place you ever were in?" "I think it is; there is a delightful Sabbath stillness to-day. I cannot say that I should desire to pass my life here, but a sojourn of some weeks is a very pleasant and restful variety." "I find it so," said his wife, "and feel a strong inclination to be down here, close by the waves, almost all the time. If agreeable to the rest of our party, let us pass the evening here in singing hymns." "A very good suggestion," he responded, and Elsie and the others being of the same opinion, it was duly carried out. CHAPTER V. "Sudden they see from midst of all the main The surging waters like a mountain rise, And the great sea, puff'd up with proud disdain To swell above the measure of his guise, As threatening to devour all that his power despise." --_Spenser_. What with bathing, driving, and wandering about on foot over the lovely moors, time flew fast to our 'Sconseters. It was their purpose to visit every point of interest on the island, and to try all its typical amusements. They made frequent visits to Nantucket Town, particularly that the children might take their swimming lessons in the quiet water of its harbor; also repeated such drives and rambles as they found exceptionably enjoyable. Max wanted to try camping out for a few weeks in company with Harold and Herbert Travilla and Bob Johnson, but preferred to wait until his father should leave them, not feeling willing to miss the rare pleasure of his society. And the other lads, quite fond of the captain themselves, did not object to waiting. In the mean time they went blue-fishing (trying it by both accepted modes--the "heave and haul" from a rowboat or at anchor, and trolling from a yacht under full sail), hunting, eel-bobbing, and perch-fishing. The ladies sometimes went with them on their fishing excursions; Zoe and Betty oftener than any of the others. Lulu went, too, whenever she was permitted, which was usually when her father made one of the party. "We haven't been on a 'squantum' yet," remarked Betty, one evening, addressing the company in general; "suppose we try that to-morrow." "Suppose you first tell us what a 'squantum' is," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "Oh, Aunt Rose, don't you know that that is the Nantucket name for a picnic?" "I acknowledge my ignorance," laughed the older lady; "I did not know it till this moment." "Well, auntie, it's one of those typical things that every conscientious summer visitor here feels called upon to do as a regular part of the Nantucket curriculum. How many of us are agreed to go?" glancing about from one to another. Not a dissenting voice was raised, and Betty proceeded to unfold her plans. Vehicles sufficient for the transportation of the whole party were to be provided, baskets of provisions also; they would take an early start, drive to some pleasant spot near the beach or one of the ponds, and make a day of it--sailing, or rather rowing about the pond, fishing in it, cooking and eating what they caught (fish were said to be so delicious just out of the water and cooked over the coals in the open air), and lounging on the grass, drinking in at the same time the sweet, pure air and the beauties of nature as seen upon Nantucket moors and hills, and in glimpses of the surrounding sea. "Really, Betty, you grow quite eloquent," laughed her brother; "Nantucket has inspired you." "I think it sounds ever so nice," said little Grace. "Won't you go and take us, papa?" "Yes, if Mamma Vi will go along," he answered, with an affectionate look at his young wife; "we can't go without her, can we, Gracie?" "Oh, no, indeed! but you will go, mamma, won't you?" "If your papa chooses to take me," Violet said, in a sprightly tone. "I think it would be very pleasant, but I cannot either go or stay unless he does; for I am quite resolved to spend every one of the few days he will be here, close at his side." "And as all the rest of us desire the pleasure of his company," said her mother, "his decision must guide ours." "There, now, captain," cried Betty, "you see it all rests with you; so please say yes, and let us begin our preparations." "Yes, Miss Betty; I certainly cannot be so gallant as to refuse such a request from such a quarter, especially when I see that all interested in the decision hope I will not." That settled the matter. Preparations were at once set on foot: the young men started in search of the necessary conveyances, the ladies ordered the provisions, inquiries were made in regard to different localities, and a spot on the banks of Sachacha Pond, where stood a small deserted old house, was selected as their objective point. They started directly after breakfast, and had a delightful drive over the moors and fenceless fields, around the hills and tiny emerald lakes bordered with beautiful wild shrubbery, bright with golden rod, wild roses, and field lilies. Here and there among the heather grew creeping mealberry vines, with bright red fruit-like beads, and huckleberry bushes that tempted our pleasure-seekers to alight again and again to gather and eat of their fruit. Everybody was in most amiable mood, and the male members of the party indulgently assisted the ladies, and lifted the children in and out that they might gather floral treasures for themselves, or alighted to gather for them again and again. At length they reached their destination, left their conveyances, spread an awning above the green grass that grew luxuriantly about the old house, deposited their baskets of provisions and extra wraps underneath it, put the horses into a barn near at hand, and strolled down to the pond. A whaleboat, large enough to hold the entire company, was presently hired; all embarked; it moved slowly out into the lake; all who cared to fish were supplied with tackle and bait, and the sport began. Elsie, Violet, and Grace declined to take part in it, but Zoe, Betty, and Lulu were very eager and excited, sending forth shouts of triumph or of merriment as they drew one victim after another from the water; for the fish seemed eager to take the bait, and were caught in such numbers that soon the word was given that quite enough were now on hand, and the boat was headed for the shore. A fire was made in the sand, and while some broiled the fish and made coffee, others spread a snowy cloth upon the grass, and placed on it bread and butter, cold biscuits, sandwiches, pickles, cakes, jellies, canned fruits, and other delicacies. It was a feast fit for a king, and all the more enjoyable that the sea air and pleasant exercise had sharpened the appetites of the fortunate partakers. Then, the meal disposed of, how deliciously restful it was to lounge upon the grass, chatting, singing, or silently musing with the sweet, bracing air all about them, the pretty sheet of still water almost at their feet, while away beyond it and the dividing strip of sand the ocean waves tossed and rolled, showing here and there a white, slowly moving sail. So thoroughly did they enjoy it all that they lingered till the sun, nearing the western horizon, reminded them that the day was waning. The drive home was not the least enjoyable part of the day. They took it in leisurely fashion, by a different route from the one they had taken in the morning, and with frequent haltings to gather berries, mosses, lichens, grasses, and strange beautiful flowers; or to gaze with delighted eyes upon the bare brown hills purpling in the light of the setting sun, and the rapidly darkening vales; Sankaty lighthouse, with the sea rolling beyond, on the one hand, and on the other the quieter waters of the harbor, with the white houses and spires of Nantucket Town half encircling it. They had enjoyed their "squantum," marred by no mishap, no untoward event, so much that it was unanimously agreed to repeat the experiment, merely substituting some other spot for the one visited that day. But their next excursion was to Wanwinet, situate on a narrow neck of land that, jutting out into the sea, forms the head of the harbor; Nantucket Town standing at the opposite end, some half dozen miles away. Summer visitors to the latter place usually go to Wanwinet by boat, up the harbor, taking their choice between a sailboat and a tiny steamer which plies regularly back and forth during the season; but our 'Sconset party drove across the moors, sometimes losing their way among the hills, dales, and ponds, but rather enjoying that as a prolongation of the pleasure of the drive, and spite of the detention reached their destination in good season to partake of the dinner of all obtainable luxuries of the sea, served up in every possible form, which is usually considered the roam object of a trip to Wanwinet. They found the dinner--served in a large open pavilion, whence they might gaze out over the dancing, glittering waves of the harbor, and watch the white sails come and go, while eating--quite as good as they had been led to expect. After dinner they wandered along the beach, picking up shells and any curious things they could find--now on the Atlantic side, now on the shore of the harbor. Then a boat was chartered for a sail of a couple of hours, and then followed the drive home to 'Sconset by a different course from that of the morning, and varied by the gradually fading light of the setting sun and succeeding twilight casting weird shadows here and there among the hills and vales. The captain predicted a storm for the following day, and though the others could see no sign of its approach, it was upon them before they rose the next morning, raining heavily, while the wind blew a gale. There was no getting out for sitting on the beach, bathing, or rambling about, and they were at close quarters in the cottages. They whiled away the time with books, games, and conversation. They were speaking of the residents of the island--their correct speech, intelligence, uprightness, and honesty. "I wonder if there was ever a crime committed here?" Elsie said, half inquiringly. "And if there is a jail on the island?" "Yes, mother," Edward answered; "there is a jail, but so little use for it that they think it hardly worth while to keep it in decent repair. I heard that a man was once put in for petty theft, and that after being there a few days he sent word to the authorities that if they didn't repair it so that the sheep couldn't break in on him, he wouldn't stay." There was a general laugh; then Edward resumed: "There has been one murder on the island, as I have been informed. A mulatto woman was the criminal, a white woman the victim, the motive revenge; the colored woman was in debt to the white one, who kept a little store, and, enraged at repeated duns, went to her house and beat her over the head with some heavy weapon--I think I was told a whale's tooth. "The victim lingered for some little time, but eventually died of her wounds, and the other was tried for murder. "It is said the sheriff was extremely uneasy lest she should be found guilty of murder in the first degree, and he should have the unpleasant job of hanging her; but the verdict was manslaughter, the sentence imprisonment for life. "So she was consigned to jail, but very soon allowed to go out occasionally to do a day's work." "Oh, Uncle Edward, is she alive now?" Gracie asked, with a look of alarm. "Yes, I am told she is disabled by disease, and lives in the poorhouse. But you need not be frightened, little girlie; she is not at all likely to come to 'Sconset, and if she does we will take good care that she is not allowed to harm you." "And I don't suppose she'd want to either, unless we had done something to make her angry," said Lulu. "But we are going to Nantucket Town to stay a while when we leave 'Sconset," remarked Grace uneasily. "But that woman will not come near you, daughter; you need, not have the least fear of it," the captain said, drawing his little girl to his knee with a tender caress. "Ah," said Mr. Dinsmore, "I heard the other day of a curiosity at Nantucket which we must try to see while there. I think the story connected with it will particularly interest you ladies and the little girls." "Oh, grandpa, tell it!" cried Rosie; "please do; a story is just what we want this dull day." The others joined in the request, and Mr. Dinsmore kindly complied, all gathering closely about him, anxious to catch every word. "The story is this: Nearly a hundred years ago there lived in Nantucket a sea-captain named Coffin, who had a little daughter of whom he was very fond." Gracie glanced up smilingly into her father's face and nestled closer to him. "Just as I am of mine," said his answering look and smile as he drew her closer still. But Mr. Dinsmore's story was going on. "It was Captain Coffin's custom to bring home some very desirable gift to his little girl whenever he returned from a voyage. At one time, when about to sail for the other side of the Atlantic, he said to her that he was determined on this voyage to find and bring home to her something that no other little girl ever had or ever could have." "Oh, grandpa, what could that be?" exclaimed little Walter. "Wait a moment and you shall hear," was the reply. "What the captain brought on coming back was a wax baby, a very life-like representation of an infant six months old. He said it was a wax cast of the Dauphin of France, that poor unfortunate son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette; that he had found it in a convent, and paid for it a sum of money so enormous that he would never tell any one, not even his wife, how large it was." "But it isn't in existence now, at this late day, surely?" Mrs. Dinsmore remarked inquiringly, as her husband paused in his narrative. "It is claimed that it is by those who have such a thing in possession, and I presume they tell the truth. It has always been preserved with extreme care as a great curiosity. "The little girl to whom it was given by her father lived to grow up, but has been dead many years. Shortly before her death she gave it to a friend, and it has been in that family for over forty years." "And is it on exhibition, papa?" asked Elsie. "Only to such as are fortunate enough to get an introduction to the lady owner through some friend of hers; so I understand; but photographs have been taken and are for sale in the stores." "Oh, I hope we will get to see it!" exclaimed Lulu eagerly. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm bound to manage it somehow," said Betty. "How much I should like to know what was really the true story of that poor unfortunate child," said Elsie, reflectively, and sighing as she spoke. "It--like the story of the Man in the Iron Mask--is a mystery that will never be satisfactorily cleared up until the Judgment Day," remarked her father. "Oh, do tell us about it," the children cried in eager chorus. "All of you older ones have certainly some knowledge of the French Revolution, in which Louis XVI. and his beautiful queen lost their lives?" Mr. Dinsmore said, glancing about upon his grandchildren; "and have not forgotten that two children survived them--one sometimes called Louis XVII., as his father's lawful successor to the throne, and a daughter older than the boy. "These children remained in the hands of their cruel foes for some time after the beheading of their royal parents. The girl was finally restored to her mother's relatives, the royal family of Austria; but the boy, who was most inhumanly treated by his jailer, was supposed to have died in consequence of that brutal abuse, having first been reduced by it to a state of extreme bodily and mental weakness. "That story (of the death of the poor little dauphin, I mean, not of the cruel treatment to which he was subjected) has, however, been contradicted by another; and I suppose it will never be made certain in this world which was the true account. "The dauphin was born in 1785, his parents were beheaded in 1793; so that he must have been about eight years old at the time of their death. "In 1795 a French man and woman, directly from France, appeared in Albany, New York, having in charge a girl and boy; the latter about nine years old, and feeble in body and mind. "The woman had also a number of articles of dress which she said had belonged to Marie Antoinette, who had given them to her on the scaffold. "That same year two Frenchmen came to Ticonderoga, visited the Indians in that vicinity, and placed with them such a boy as the one seen at Albany--of the same age, condition of mind and body, etc. "He was adopted by an Iroquois chief named Williams, and given the name of Eleazer Williams. "He gradually recovered his health, and at length the shock of a sudden fall into the lake so far restored his memory that he recollected some scenes in his early life in the palaces of France. One thing he recalled was being with a richly dressed lady whom he addressed as 'mamma.' "Some time later--I cannot now recall the exact date--a Frenchman died in New Orleans (Beranger was his name), who confessed on his death-bed that he had brought the dauphin to this country and placed him with the Indians of Northern New York. He stated that he had taken an oath of secrecy, for the protection of the lad, but could not die without confessing the truth." "I'm inclined to think the story of the dauphin's death in France was not true," remarked Betty. "Didn't Beranger's confession arouse inquiry, grandpa?" asked Zoe. "And did Eleazer Williams hear of it?" "I think I may say yes to both your queries," Mr. Dinsmore answered. "Eleazer's story was published in the newspapers some years ago, and I remember he was spoken of as a very good Christian man, a missionary among the Indians; it was brought out in book form also under the title 'The Lost Prince: A Life of Eleazer Williams.' "Eleazer himself stated that in 1848 he had an interview, on board a steamer from Buffalo, with the Prince de Joinville, who then told him he was the son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, and tried to induce him to sign away his right to the throne of France, and that he refused to do so. "In his published statement he said he thought the Prince would not deny having made that communication. But the Prince did deny that, though he acknowledged that the interview had taken place." "Did Eleazer ever try to get the throne, grandpa?" asked Max. "No, he never urged his claim; and I dare say was happier as an obscure Indian missionary than he would have been as King of France. He died at the age of seventy." "Poor Marie Antoinette!" sighed Elsie; "I never could read her story without tears, and the very thought of her sorrows and sufferings makes my heart ache." "I don't think I ever read it," said Zoe, "though I have a general idea what it was." "We have Abbott's life of her at Ion," said Elsie. "I'll get it for you when we go home." Harold stepped to the window. "It is raining very little now, if at all," he said, "and the sea must be in a fine rage; let us go and have a look at it" "Oh, yes, let's go!" cried Betty, springing to her feet; "but I'm afraid we've missed the finest of it, for the wind isn't blowing half so hard as it was an hour ago." "Don't be discouraged," said Captain Raymond, sportively; "the waves are often higher than ever after the wind has subsided." "Oh, papa, may I go too?" Grace said, in a pleading tone. "Yes; if you put on your waterproof cloak and overshoes it will not hurt you to be out for a short time," answered the indulgent father. "Lulu, don't go without yours." All were eager for the sight; there was a moment of hasty preparation, and they trooped out and stood upon the edge of the high bank at the back of their cottages gazing upon the sea in its, to most of them, new and terrible aspect; from shore to horizon it was one mass of seething, boiling waters; far out in the distance the huge waves reared their great foam-crested fronts and rushed furiously toward the shore, rapidly chasing each other in till with a tremendous crash and roar they broke upon the beach, sending up showers of spray, and depositing great flakes of foam which the wind sent scudding over the sand; and each, as it retreated, was instantly followed by another and another in unbroken, endless succession. Half a mile or more south of 'Sconset there is a shoal (locally called "the rips") where wind and tide occasionally, coming in opposition, cause a fierce battle of the waves, a sight well worth a good deal of exertion to behold. "Wind and tide are having it out on the rips," the captain presently remarked. "Let us go down to the beach and get the best view we can of the conflict." "Papa, may we go too?" asked Lulu, as the older people hastily made a move toward the stairway that led to the beach; "oh, do please let us!" Grace did not speak, but her eyes lifted to his, pleaded as earnestly as Lulu's tongue. He hesitated for an instant, then stooped, took Grace in his arms, and saying to Lulu, "Yes, come along; it is too grand a sight for me to let you miss it," hurried after the others. Violet had not come out with the rest, her attention being taken up with her babe just at that time, and he would give her the sight afterward on taking the children in. On they went over the wet sands--Mr. Dinsmore and his wife, Edward and his, Betty holding on to Harold's arm, Rose and Walter helped along by Herbert and Bob. To Max Raymond's great content and a little to the discomfiture of her sons, who so delighted in waiting upon and in every way caring for her, Elsie had chosen him for her companion and escort, and with Lulu they hastened after the others and just ahead of the captain and Grace, who brought up the rear. The thunder of the surf prevented any attempt at conversation, but now and then there was a little scream, ending with a shout of laughter from one or another of the feminine part of the procession, as they were overtaken by the edge of a wave and their shoes filled with the foam, their skirts wetted by it. Not a very serious matter, as all had learned ere this, as salt water does not cause one to take cold. Arrived at the spot from where the very best view of the conflict could be had, they stood long gazing upon it, awestruck and fascinated by the terrific grandeur of the scene. I can best describe it in the words of a fellow-author far more gifted in that line than I. "Yonder comes shoreward a great wave, towering above all its brethren. Onward it comes, swift as a race-horse, graceful as a great ship, bearing right down upon us. It strikes 'The Rips,' and is there itself struck by a wave approaching from another direction. The two converge in their advance, and are dashed together--embrace each other like two angry giants, each striving to mount upon the shoulder of the other and crush its antagonist with its ponderous bulk. Swift as thought they mount higher and higher, in fierce, mad struggle, until their force is expended; their tops quiver, tremble, and burst into one great mass of white, gleaming foam; and the whole body of the united wave, with a mighty bound, hurls itself upon the shore and is broken into a flood of seething waters--crushed to death in its own fury. "All over the shoal the waves leap up in pinnacles, in volcanic points, sharp as stalagmites, and in this form run hither and yon in all possible directions, colliding with and crashing against others of equal fury and greatness--a very carnival of wild and drunken waves; the waters hurled upward in huge masses of white. Sometimes they unite more gently, and together sweep grandly and gracefully along parallel with the shore; and the cavernous hollows stretch out from the shore so that you look into the trough of the sea and realize what a terrible depth it is. The roar, meanwhile, is horrible. You are stunned by it as by the roar of a great waterfall. You see a wave of unusual magnitude rolling in from far beyond the wild revelry of waters on 'The Rips.' It leaps into the arena as if fresh and eager for the fray, clutches another Bacchanal like itself, and the two towering floods rush swiftly toward the shore. Instinctively you run backward to escape what seems an impending destruction. Very likely a sheet of foam is dashed all around you, shoe-deep, but you are safe--only the foam hisses away in impotent rage. The sea has its bounds; 'hitherto shalt thou come, but no farther.'"[A] [Footnote A: A. Judd Northrup, in "Sconset Cottage Life."] CHAPTER VI. She is peevish, sullen, froward, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty; Neither regarding that she is my child, Nor fearing me as If I were her father. --_Shakespeare_. A day or two of bright, breezy weather had succeeded the storm, and another "squantum" had been arranged for; it was to be a more pretentious affair than the former one, other summer visitors uniting with our party; and a different spot had been selected for it. By Violet's direction the maid had laid out, the night before, the dresses the two little girls were to wear to the picnic, and they appeared at the breakfast-table already attired in them; for the start was to be made shortly after the conclusion of the meal. The material of the dresses was fine, they were neatly fitting and prettily trimmed, but rather dark in color and with high necks and long sleeves; altogether suitable for the occasion, and far from unbecoming; indeed, as the captain glanced at the two neat little figures, seated one on each side of him, he felt the risings of fatherly pride in their attractiveness of appearance. And even exacting, discontented Lulu was well enough pleased with her mamma's choice for her till, upon leaving the table and running out for a moment into the street to see if the carriages were in sight, she came upon a girl about her own age, who was to be of the company, very gayly apparelled in thin white tarletan and pink ribbons, "Good-morning, Sadie," said Lulu. "What a nice day for the 'squantum,' isn't it?" "Yes; and it's most time to start, and you're not dressed yet, are you?" glancing a trifle scornfully from her own gay plumage to Lulu's plainer attire. The latter flushed hotly but made no reply. "I don't see anything of the carriages yet," was all she said; then darting into the cottage occupied by their family, she rushed to her trunk, and throwing it open, hastily took from it a white muslin, coral ribbons and sash, and with headlong speed tore off her plain colored dress and arrayed herself in them. She would not have had time but for an unexpected delay in the arrival of the carriage which was to convey her parents, brother and sister and herself to the "squantum" ground. As it was, she came rushing out at almost the last moment, just as the captain was handing his wife into the vehicle. Max met her before she had reached the outer door. "Lu, Mamma Vi says you will need a wrap before we get back; probably even going, and you're to bring one along." "I sha'n't need any such thing! and I'm not going to be bothered with it!" cried Lulu, in a tone of angry impatience, hurrying on toward the entrance as she spoke. "Whew! what have you been doing to yourself?" exclaimed Max, suddenly noting the change of attire, while Grace, standing in the doorway, turned toward them with a simultaneous exclamation, "Why, Lulu--" then broke off, lost in astonishment at her sister's audacity. "Hush, both of you! can't you keep quiet?" snapped Lulu, turning from one to the other; then as her father's tall form darkened the doorway, and a glance up into his face showed her that it was very grave and stern, she shrank back abashed, frightened by the sudden conviction that he had overheard her impertinent reply to her mamma's message, and perhaps noticed the change in her dress. He regarded her for a moment in silence, while she hung her head in shame and affright; then he spoke in tones of grave displeasure, "You will stay at home to-day, Lulu; we have no room for disrespectful, disobedient children--" "Papa," she interrupted, half pleadingly, half angrily, "I haven't been disobedient or disrespectful to you." "It is quite the same," he said; "I require you to be obedient and respectful to your mamma; and impertinence to her is something I will by no means allow or fail to punish whenever I know of it. Sorry as I am to deprive you of an anticipated pleasure, I repeat that you must stay at home; and go immediately to your room and resume the dress she directed you to wear to-day." So saying he took Grace's hand and led her to the carriage, Max following after one regretful look at Lulu's sorely disappointed face. Grace, clinging about her father's neck as he lifted her up, pleaded for her sister. "Oh, papa, do please let her go; she hasn't been naughty for a long while, and I'm sure she's sorry and will be good." "Hush, hush, darling!" he said, wiping the tears from her eyes, then placing her by Violet's side. "What is wrong?" inquired the latter with concern; "is Gracie not feeling well?" "Never mind, my love," the captain answered, assuming a cheerful tone; "there is nothing wrong except that Lulu has displeased me, and I have told her she cannot go with us to-day." "Oh, I am sorry!" Violet said, looking really pained; "we shall all miss her. I should be glad, Levis, if you could forgive her, for--" "No, do not ask it," he said hastily; adding, with a smile of ardent affection into the azure eyes gazing so pleadingly into his; "I can scarcely bear to say no to you, dearest, but I have passed sentence upon the offender and cannot revoke it." The carriage drove off; the others had already gone, and Lulu was left alone in the house, the one maid-servant left behind having already wandered off to the beach. "There!" cried Lulu, stamping her foot with passion, then dropping into a chair, "I say it's just too bad! She isn't old enough to be my mother, and I won't have her for one; I sha'n't mind her! Papa had no business to marry her. He hardly cares for anybody else now, and he ought to love me better than he does her; for she isn't a bit of relation to him, while I'm his own child. "And I sha'n't wear dowdy, old-womanish dresses to please her, along with other girls of my size that are dressed up in their best. I'd rather stay at home than be mortified that way, and I just wish I had told him so." She was in so rebellious a mood that instead of at once changing her dress in obedience to her father's command, she presently rose from her chair, walked out at the front door and paraded through the village streets in her finery, saying to herself, "I'll let people see that I have some decent clothes to wear." Returning after a little, she was much surprised to find Betty Johnson stretched full length on a lounge with a paper-covered novel in her hand, which she seemed to be devouring with great avidity. "Why, Betty!" she exclaimed, "are you here? I thought you went with the rest to the 'squantum.'" "Just what I thought in regard to your highness," returned Betty, glancing up from her book with a laugh. "I stayed at home to enjoy my book and the bath. What kept you?" "Papa," answered Lulu with a frown; "he wouldn't let me go." "Because you put on that dress, I presume," laughed Betty. "Well, it's not very suitable, that's a fact. But I had no idea that the captain was such a connoisseur in matters of that sort." "He isn't! he doesn't know or care if it wasn't for Mamma Vi," burst out Lulu vehemently. "And she's no business to dictate about my dress either. I'm old enough to judge and decide for myself." "Really, it is a great pity that one so wise should be compelled to submit to dictation," observed Betty with exasperating irony. Lulu, returning a furious look, which her tormentor feigned not to see, then marching into the adjoining room, gave tardy obedience to her father's orders anent the dress. "Are you going in this morning?" asked Betty, when Lulu had returned to the little parlor. "I don't know; papa didn't say whether I might or not." "Then I should take the benefit of the doubt and follow my own inclination in the matter. It's ten now; the bathing hour is eleven; I shall be done my book by that time, and we'll go in together if you like." "I'll see about it," Lulu said, walking away. She went down to the beach and easily whiled away an hour watching the waves and the people, and digging in the sand. When she saw the others going to the bath-houses she hastened back to her temporary home. As she entered Betty was tossing aside her book. "So here you are!" she said, yawning and stretching herself. "Are you going in?" "Yes; if papa is angry I'll tell him he should have forbidden me if he didn't want me to do it." They donned their bathing-suits and went in with the crowd; but though no mishap befell them and they came out safely again, Lulu found that for some reason her bath was not half so enjoyable as usual. She and Betty dined at the hotel where the family had frequently taken their meals, then they strolled down to the beach and seated themselves on a bench under an awning. After a while Betty proposed taking a walk. "Where to?" asked Lulu. "To Sankaty Lighthouse." "Well, I'm agreed; it's a nice walk; you can look out over the sea all the way," said Lulu, getting up. But a sudden thought seemed to strike her; she paused and hesitated. "Well, what's the matter?" queried Betty. "Nothing; only papa told me I was to stay at home to-day." "Oh, nonsense! what a little goose!" exclaimed Betty; "of course that only meant you were not to go to the 'squantum'; so come along." Lulu was by no means sure that that was really all her father meant, but she wanted the walk, so suffered herself to be persuaded, and they went. Betty had been a wild, ungovernable girl at school, glorying in contempt for rules and daring "larks." She had not improved in that respect, and so far from being properly ashamed of her wild pranks and sometimes really disgraceful frolics, liked to describe them, and was charmed to find in Lulu a deeply interested listener. It was thus they amused themselves as they strolled slowly along the bluff toward Sankaty. When they reached there a number of carriages were standing about near the entrance, several visitors were in the tower, and others were waiting their turn. "Let us go up too," Betty said to her little companion; "the view must be finer to-day than it was when we were here before, for the atmosphere is clearer." "I'm afraid papa wouldn't like me to," objected Lulu; "he seemed to think the other time that I needed him to take care of me," she added with a laugh, as if it were quite absurd that one so old and wise as herself should be supposed to need such protection. "Pooh!" said Betty, "don't be a baby; I can take care of myself and you too. Come, I'm going up and round outside too; and I dare you to do the same." Poor proud Lulu was one of the silly people who are not brave enough to refuse to do a wrong or unwise thing if anybody dares them to do it. "I'm not a bit afraid, Miss Johnson; you need not think that," she said, bridling; "and I can take care of myself. I'll go." "Come on then; we'll follow close behind that gentleman, and the keeper won't suppose we are alone," returned Betty, leading the way. Lulu found the steep stairs very hard to climb without the help of her father's hand, and reached the top quite out of breath. Betty too was panting. But they presently recovered themselves. Betty stepped outside just behind the gentleman who had preceded them up the stairs, and Lulu climbed quickly after her, frightened enough at the perilous undertaking, yet determined to prove that she was equal to it. But she had advanced only a few steps when a sudden rush of wind caught her skirts and nearly took her off her feet. Both she and Betty uttered a cry of affright, and at the same instant Lulu felt herself seized from behind and dragged forcibly back and within the window from which she had just emerged. It was the face of a stranger that met her gaze as she looked up with frightened eyes. "Child," he said, "that was a narrow escape; don't try it again. Where are your parents or guardians, that you were permitted to step out there with no one to take care of you?" Lulu blushed and hung her head in silence. Betty, who had followed her in as fast as she could, generously took all the blame upon herself. "Don't scold her, sir," she said; "it was all my doing. I brought her here without the knowledge of her parents, and dared her to go out there." "You did?" he exclaimed, turning a severe look upon the young girl (he was a middle-aged man of stern aspect). "Suppose I had not been near enough to catch her, and she had been precipitated to the ground from that great height--how would you have felt?" "I could never have forgiven myself or had another happy moment while I lived," Betty said, in half tremulous tones, "I can never thank you enough, sir, for saving her," she added, warmly. "No, nor I," said the keeper. "I should always have felt that I was to blame for letting her go out; but you were close behind, sir, and the other gentleman before, and I took you to be all one party, and of course thought you would take care of the little girl." "She has had quite a severe shock," the gentleman remarked, again looking at Lulu, who was very pale and trembling like a leaf. "You had better wait and let me help you down the stairs. I shall be ready in a very few moments." Betty thanked him and said they would wait. While they did so she tried to jest and laugh with Lulu; but the little girl was in no mood for such things; she felt sick and dizzy at the thought of the danger she had escaped but a moment ago. She made no reply to Betty's remarks, and indeed seemed scarcely to hear them. She was quite silent, too, while being helped down the stairs by the kind stranger, but thanked him prettily as they separated. "You are heartily welcome," he said; "but if you will take my advice you will never go needlessly into such danger again." With that he shook hands with her, bowed to Betty, and moved away. "Will you go in and rest awhile, Lu?" asked Betty. "No, thank you; I'm not tired; and I'd rather be close by the sea. Tell me another of your stories, won't you? to help me forget how near I came to falling." Betty good-naturedly complied, but found Lulu a less interested listener than before. The "squantum" party were late in returning, and when they arrived Betty and Lulu were in bed; but the door between the room where Lulu lay and the parlor, or sitting-room, as it was indifferently called, was ajar, and she could hear all that was said there. "Where is Lulu?" her father asked of the maid-servant who had been left behind. "Gone to bed, sir," was the answer. Then the captain stepped to the chamber door, pushed it wider open, and came to the bedside. Lulu pretended to be asleep, keeping her eyes tight shut, but all the time feeling that he was standing there and looking down at her. He sighed slightly, turned away, and went from the room; then she buried her face in the pillows and cried softly but quite bitterly. "He might have kissed me," she said to herself; "he would if he loved me as much as he used to before he got married." Then his sigh seemed to echo in her heart, and she grew remorseful over the thought that her misconduct had grieved as well as displeased him. And how much more grieved and displeased he would be if he knew how she had disregarded his wishes and commands during his absence that day! And soon he would be ordered away again, perhaps to the other side of the world; in danger from the treacherous deep and maybe from savages, too, in some of those far-away places where his vessel would touch; and so the separation might be for years or forever in this world; and if she continued to be the bad girl she could not help acknowledging to herself she now was, how dared she hope to be with her Christian father in another life? She had no doubt that he was a Christian; it was evident from his daily walk and conversation; and she was equally certain that she herself was not. And what a kind, affectionate father he had always been to her; she grew more and more remorseful as she thought of it; and if he had been beside her at that moment would certainly have confessed all the wrong-doing of the day and asked forgiveness. But he was probably in bed now; all was darkness and silence in the house; so she lay still, and presently forgot all vexing thought in sound, refreshing sleep. When she awoke again the morning sun was shining brightly, and her mood had changed. The wrong-doings of the previous day were the merest trifles, and it would really be quite ridiculous to go and confess them to her father; she supposed, indeed was quite sure, that ha would be better pleased with her if she made some acknowledgment of sorrow for the fault for which he had punished her; but the very thought of doing so was so galling to her pride that she was stubbornly determined not to do anything of the kind. She was thinking it all over while dressing, and trying hard to believe herself a very ill-used, instead of naughty, child. It was a burning shame that she had been scolded and left behind for such a trifling fault; but she would let "papa" and everybody else see that she didn't care; she wouldn't ask one word about what kind of a time they had had (she hoped it hadn't been so very nice); and she would show papa, too, that she could do very well without caresses and endearments from him. Glancing from the window, she saw him out on the bluff back of the cottage; but though her toilet was now finished, she did not, as usual, run out to put her hand in his, and with a glad good-morning hold up her face for a kiss. She went quietly to the dooryard looking upon the village street, and peeped into the window of the room where Grace was dressing with a little help from Agnes, their mamma's maid. "Oh, Lu, good-morning," cried the little girl. "I was so sorry you weren't with us yesterday at the 'squantum;' we had ever such a nice time; only I missed you very much." "Your sympathy was wasted, Grace," returned Lulu, with a grand air. "I had a very pleasant time at home." "Dar now, you's done finished, Miss Gracie," said Agnes, turning to leave the room; then she laughed to herself as she went, "Miss Lu she needn't think she don't 'ceive nobody wid dem grand airs ob hers; 'spect we all knows she been glad nuff to go ef de cap'n didn't tole her she got for to stay behin'." Grace ran out and joined her sister at the door. "Oh, Lu, you would have enjoyed it if you had been with us," she said, embracing her. "But we are going to have a drive this morning. We're to start as soon as breakfast is over, and only come back in time for the bath; and papa says you can go too if you want to, and are a good girl; and you--" "I don't want to," said Lulu, with a cold, offended air. "I like to be by myself on the beach; I enjoyed it very much yesterday, and shall enjoy it to-day; I don't need anybody's company." Her conscience gave her a twinge as she spoke, reminding her that she had passed but little of her day alone on the beach. Grace gazed at her with wide-open eyes, lost in astonishment at her strange mood; but hearing their father's step within the house, turned about and ran to meet him and claim her morning kiss. "Where is your sister?" he asked when he had given it. "The little one is asleep, papa," she answered gayly; "the other one is at the door there." He smiled. "Tell her to come in," he said; "we are going to have prayers." Lulu obeyed the summons, but took a seat near the door, without so much as glancing toward her father. When the short service was over Grace seated herself upon his knee, and Max stood close beside him, both laughing and talking right merrily; but Lulu sat where she was, gazing in moody silence into the street. At length, in a pause in the talk, the captain said, in a kindly tone, "One of my little girls seems to have forgotten to bid me good-morning." "Good-morning, papa," muttered Lulu, sullenly, her face still averted. "Good-morning, Lucilla," he said; and she knew by his tone and use of her full name that he was by no means pleased with her behavior. At that moment they were summoned to breakfast. Lulu took her place with the others and ate in silence, scarce lifting her eyes from her plate, while everybody else was full of cheerful chat. A carriage was at the door when they left the table. "Make haste, children," the captain said, "so that we may have time for a long drive before the bathing hour." Max and Grace moved promptly to obey, but Lulu stood still. "I spoke to you, Lulu, as well as to the others," her father said, in his usual kindly tone; "you may go with us, if you wish." "I don't care to, papa," she answered, turning away. "Very well, I shall not compel you; you may do just as you please about it," he returned. "Stay at home if you prefer it. You may go down to the beach if you choose, but nowhere else." "Yes, sir," she muttered, and walked out of the room, wondering in a half-frightened way if he knew or suspected where she had been the day before. In fact, he did neither; he believed Lulu a more obedient child than she was, and had no idea that she had not done exactly as he bade her. This time she was so far obedient that she went nowhere except to the beach, but while wandering about there she was nursing unkind and rebellious thoughts and feelings; trying hard to convince herself that her father loved her less than he did his other children, and was more inclined to be severe with her than with them. In her heart of hearts she believed no such thing, but pretending to herself that she did, she continued her unlovely behavior all that day and the next, sulking alone most of the time; doing whatever she was bidden, but with a sullen air, seldom speaking unless she was spoken to, never hanging lovingly about her father, as had been her wont, but rather seeming to avoid being near him whenever she could. It pained him deeply to see her indulging so evil a temper, but he thought best to appear not to notice it. He did not offer her the caresses she evidently tried to avoid, and seldom addressed her; but when he did speak to her it was in his accustomed kind, fatherly tones, and it was her own fault if she did not share in every pleasure provided for the others. In the afternoon of the second day they were all gathered upon the beach as usual, when a young girl, who seemed to be a new-comer in 'Sconset, drew near and accosted Betty as an old acquaintance. "Why, Anna Eastman, who would have expected to see you here?" cried Betty, in accents of pleased surprise, springing up to embrace the stranger. Then she introduced her to Elsie, Violet, and Captain Raymond, who happened to be sitting near, as an old school friend. "And you didn't know I was on the island?" remarked Miss Eastman laughingly to Betty, when the introductions were over. "I hadn't the least idea of it. When did you arrive?" "Several days since--last Monday; and this is Friday. By the way, I saw you on Tuesday, though you did not see me." "How and where?" asked Betty in surprise, not remembering at the moment how she had spent that day. "At Sankaty Lighthouse; I was in a carriage out on the green in front of the lighthouse, and saw you and that little girl yonder (nodding in Lulu's direction) come out on the top of the tower; then a puff of wind took the child's skirts, and I fairly screamed with fright, expecting to see her fall and be crushed to death; but somebody jerked her back within the window just in time to save her. Weren't you terribly frightened, dear?" she asked, addressing Lulu. "Of course I was," Lulu answered in an ungracious tone; then rose and sauntered away along the beach. "What did she tell it for, hateful thing!" she muttered to herself; "now papa knows it, and what will he say and do to me?" She had not ventured to look at him; if she had she would have seen his face grow suddenly pale, then assume an expression of mingled sternness and pain. He presently rose and followed her, though she did not know it till he had reached her side and she felt him take her hand in his. He sat down, making her sit by his side. "Is this true that I hear of you, Lulu?" he asked. "Yes, papa," she answered in a low, unwilling tone, hanging her head as she spoke, for she dared not look him in the face. "I did not think one of my children would be so disobedient," he said, in pained accents. "Papa, you never said I shouldn't go to Sankaty Lighthouse," she muttered. "I never gave you leave to go, and I have told you positively, more than once, that you must not go to any distance from the house without express permission. Also I am sure you could not help understanding, from what was said when I took you to the lighthouse, that I would be very far from willing that you should go up into the tower, and especially outside, unless I were with you to take care of you. Besides, what were my orders to you just as I was leaving the house that morning?" "You told me to change my dress immediately and to stay at home." "Did you obey the first order?" Lulu was silent for a moment; then as her father was evidently waiting for an answer, she muttered, "I changed my dress after a while." "That was not obeying; I told you to do it immediately," he said in a tone of severity, "What did you do in the mean time?" "I don't want to tell you," she muttered. "You must; and you are not to say you don't want to do what I bid you. What were you doing?" "Walking round the town." "Breaking two of your father's commands at once. What next? give me a full account of the manner in which you spent the day." "I came in soon and changed my dress; then went to the beach till the bathing hour; then Betty and I went in together; then we had our dinner at the hotel and came back to the beach for a little while; then we went to Sankaty." "Filling up the whole day with repeated acts of disobedience," he said. "Papa, you didn't say I mustn't go in to bathe, or that I shouldn't take a walk." "I told you to stay at home, and you disobeyed that order again and again. And you have been behaving very badly ever since, showing a most unamiable temper. I have overlooked it, hoping to see a change for the better in your conduct without my resorting to punishment; but I think the time has now come when I must try that with you." He paused for some moments. Wondering at his silence, she at length ventured a timid look up into his face. It was so full of pain and distress that her heart smote her, and she was seized with a sudden fury at herself as the guilty cause of his suffering. "Lulu," he said, with a sigh that was almost a groan, "what am I to do with you?" "Whip me, papa," she burst out; "I deserve it. You've never tried that yet, and maybe it would make me a better girl, I almost wish you would, papa," she went on in her vehement way; "I could beat myself for being so bad and hurting you so." He made no answer to that, but presently said in moved tones, "What if I had come back that night to find the dear little daughter I had left a few hours before in full health and strength, lying a crushed and mangled corpse? killed without a moment's time to repent of her disobedience to her father's known wishes and commands? Could I have hoped to have you restored to me even in another world, my child?" "No, papa," she said, half under her breath; "I know I wasn't fit to go to heaven, and that I'm not fit now; but would you have been really very sorry to lose such a bad, troublesome child?" "Knowing that, as you yourself acknowledge, you were not fit for heaven, it would have been the heaviest blow I have ever had," he said. "My daughter, you are fully capable of understanding the way of salvation, therefore are an accountable being, and, so long as you neglect it, in danger of eternal death. I shall never be easy about you till I have good reason to believe that you have given your heart to the Lord Jesus, and devoted yourself entirely to His blessed service." He ceased speaking, gave her a few moments for silent reflection, then setting her on her feet, rose, took her hand, and led her back toward the village. "Are you going to punish me, papa?" she asked presently, in a half-frightened tone. "I shall take that matter into consideration," was all he said, and she knew from his grave accents that she was in some danger of receiving what she felt to be her deserts. CHAPTER VII. "The rod and reproof give wisdom: but a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame."--_Prov_. 29: 15. Lulu hated suspense; it seemed to her worse than the worst certainty; so when they had gone a few steps farther she said, hesitating and blushing very deeply, "Papa, if you are going to punish me as--as I--said I 'most wished you would, please don't let Mamma Vi or anybody know it, and--" "Certainly not; it shall be a secret between our two selves," he said as she broke off without finishing her sentence; "if we can manage it," he added a little doubtfully. "They all go down to the beach every evening, you know, papa," she suggested in a timid, half-hesitating way, and trembling as she spoke. "Yes, that would give us a chance; but I have not said positively that I intend to punish you in that way." "No, sir; but--oh, do please say certainly that you will or you won't." The look he gave her as she raised her eyes half fearfully to his face was very kind and affectionate, though grave and judicial. "I am not angry with you," he said, "in the sense of being in a passion or out of patience--not in the least; but I feel it to be my duty to do all I possibly can to help you to be a better child, and noticing, as I have said, for the last two or three days what a wilful, wicked temper you were indulging, I have been considering very seriously whether I ought not to try the very remedy you have yourself suggested, and I am afraid I ought indeed. Do you still think, as you told me a while ago, that this sort of punishment might be a help to you in trying to be good?" Lulu hesitated a moment, then said impetuously, and as if determined to own the truth though it were to pass sentence upon herself, "Yes, papa, honestly I do; though I don't want you to do it one bit. But," she added, "I sha'n't love you any less if you whip me ever so hard, because I shall know you don't like to do it, and wouldn't except for the reason you've given." "No, indeed, I should not," he said; "but you are to stay behind to-night when the others go to the beach." "Yes, papa, I will," she answered submissively, but with a perceptible tremble in her voice. Grace and Max were coming to meet them, so there was no opportunity to talk any more on the subject, and she walked on in silence by her father's side, trying hard to act and look as if nothing was amiss with her, clinging fast to the hand in which he had taken hers, while Grace took possession of the other. "You ought to have three hands, papa," laughed Max a little ruefully. "Four," corrected Grace; "for some day little Elsie will be wanting one." "I shall have to manage it by taking you in turn," the captain said, looking down upon them with a fatherly smile. Violet and some of the other members of their party were still seated where they had left them on the benches under the awning just out of reach of the waves, and thither the captain and his children bent their steps. Sitting down by his wife's side, he drew Grace to his knee and Lulu close to his other side, keeping an arm round each while chatting pleasantly with his family and friends. Lulu was very silent, constantly asking herself, and with no little uneasiness, what he really intended to do with her when, according to his direction, she should stay behind with him after tea while the others returned to the beach. One thing she was determined on--that she would if possible obey the order without attracting any one's notice. Everybody must have seen how badly she had been behaving, but the thought of that was not half so galling to her pride as the danger of suspicion being aroused that punishment had been meted out to her on account of it. Max watched her curiously, and took an opportunity, on their return to the house, to say privately to her, "I'm glad you've turned over a new leaf, Lu, and begun to behave decently to papa; I've wondered over and over again in the last few days that he didn't take you in hand in a way to convince you that he wasn't to be trifled with. It's my opinion that if you'd been a boy you'd have got a trouncing long before this." "Indeed!" she cried, with an angry toss of her head; "I'm glad I'm not a boy if I couldn't be one without using such vulgar words." "Oh, that isn't such a very bad word," returned Max, laughing; "but I can tell you, from sad experience, that the _thing_ is bad enough sometimes; I'd be quaking in my shoes if I thought papa had any reason to consider me deserving of one." "I don't see what you mean by talking so to me," exclaimed Lulu, passionately; "but I think you are a Pharisee--making yourself out so much better than I am!" The call to supper interrupted them just there, and perhaps saved them from a down-right quarrel. Lulu had no appetite for the meal, and it seemed to her that the others would never have done eating; then that they lingered unusually long about the house before starting for their accustomed evening rendezvous--the beach; for she was on thorns all the time. At last some one made a move, and catching a look from her father which she alone saw or understood, she slipped unobserved into her bedroom and waited there with a fast beating heart. She heard him say to Violet, "Don't wait for me, my love; I have a little matter to attend to here, and will follow you in the course of half an hour." "Anything I can help you with?" Violet asked. "Oh, no, thank you," he said, "I need no assistance." "A business letter to write, I presume," she returned laughingly. "Well, don't make it too long, for I grudge every moment of your time." With that she followed the others, and all was quiet except for the captain's measured tread, for he was slowly pacing the room to and fro. Impatient, impetuous Lulu did not know how to endure the suspense; she seemed to herself like a criminal awaiting execution. Softly she opened the door and stepped out in front of her father, stopping him in his walk. "Papa," she said, with pale, trembling lips, looking beseechingly up into his face, "whatever you are going to do to me, won't you please do it at once and let me have it over?" He took her hand and, sitting down, drew her to his side, putting his arm around her. "My little daughter," he said very gravely, but not unkindly, "my responsibility in regard to your training weighs very heavily on my mind; it is plain to me that you will make either a very good and useful woman, or one who will be a curse to herself and others; for you are too energetic and impulsive, too full of strong feeling to be lukewarm and indifferent in anything. "You are forming your character now for time and for eternity, and I must do whatever lies in my power to help you to form it aright; for good and not for evil. You inherit a sinful nature from me, and have very strong passions which must be conquered or they will prove your ruin. I fear you do not see the great sinfulness of their indulgence, and that it may be that I am partly to blame for that in having passed too lightly over such exhibitions of them as have come under my notice: in short, that perhaps if I had been more justly severe with your faults you would have been more thoroughly convinced of their heinousness and striven harder and with greater success to conquer them. "Therefore, after much thought and deliberation, and much prayer for guidance and direction, I have fully decided that I ought to punish you severely for the repeated acts of disobedience you have been guilty of in the last few days, and the constant exhibition of ill-temper. "It pains me exceedingly to do it, but I must not consider my own feelings where my dear child's best interests are concerned." "Is it because I asked you to do it, papa?" she inquired. "I never thought you would when I said it." "No; I have been thinking seriously on the subject ever since you behaved so badly the day of the 'squantum,' and had very nearly decided the question just as I have fully decided it now. I know you are an honest child, even when the truth is against you; tell me, do you not yourself think that I am right?" "Yes, sir," she answered, low and tremulously, after a moment's struggle with herself. "Oh, please do it at once, so it will be over soon!" "I will," he said, rising and leading her into the inner room; "you shall not have the torture of anticipation a moment longer." Though the punishment was severe beyond Lulu's worst anticipations, she bore it without outcry or entreaty, feeling that she richly deserved it, and determined that no one who might be within hearing should learn from any sound she uttered what was going on. Tears and now and then a half-suppressed sob were the only evidences of suffering that she allowed herself to give. Her father was astonished at her fortitude, and more than ever convinced that she had in her the elements of a noble character. The punishment over, he took her in his arms, laying her head against his breast. Both were silent, her tears falling like rain. At length, with a heart-broken sob, "You hurt me terribly, papa," she said; "I didn't think you would ever want to hurt me so." "I did not want to," he answered in moved tones; "it was sorely against my inclination, I cannot tell you how gladly I should have borne twice the pain for you if so I could have made you a good girl. I know you have sometimes troubled yourself with foolish fears that you had less than your fair share of my affection; but I have not a child that is nearer or dearer to me than you are, my darling. I love you very much." "I'm so glad, papa; I 'most wonder you can," she sobbed; "and I love you dearly, dearly; I know I've not been acting like it lately, but I do, and just as much now as before. Oh, papa, you don't know how hard it is for me to be good!" "I think I do," he said; "for I am naturally quite as bad as you are, having a violent temper, which would most certainly have been my ruin had I not been forced to learn to control it; indeed I fear it is from me you get your temper. "I had a good Christian mother," he went on, "who was very faithful in her efforts to train her children up aright. My fits of passion gave her great concern and anxiety. I can see now how troubled and distressed she used to look. "Usually she would shut me up in a room by myself until I had had time to cool down, then come to me, talk very seriously and kindly of the danger and sinfulness of such indulgence of temper, telling me there was no knowing what dreadful deed I might some day be led to commit in my fury, if I did not learn to rule my own spirit; and that therefore for my own sake she must punish me to teach me self-control. She would then chastise me, often quite severely, and leave me to myself again to reflect upon the matter. Thus she finally succeeded in so convincing me of the great guilt and danger of giving rein to my fiery temper and the necessity of gaining the mastery over it, that I fought hard to do so, and with God's help have, I think, gained the victory. "It is the remembrance of all this, and how thankful I am to my mother now for her faithfulness, that has determined me to be equally faithful to my own dear little daughter, though unfortunately I lack the opportunity for the same constant watchfulness over my children." "Oh, papa, if you only could be with us all the time!" she sighed. "But I never thought you had a temper. I've seen some people fly at their naughty children in a great passion and beat them hard; I should think if you had such a bad temper as you say, you'd have treated me so many a time." "Very likely I should if your grandmother had not taught me to control it," he said; "you may thank her that you have as good a father as you have." "I think I have the best in the world," she said, putting her arm round his neck; "and now that it's all over, papa, I'm glad you did punish me just so hard; for I don't feel half so mean, because it seems as if I have sort of paid for my naughtiness toward you." "Yes, toward me; the account is settled between us; but remember that you cannot so atone for your sin against God; nothing but the blood of Christ can avail to blot out that account against you, and you must ask to be forgiven for His sake alone. We will kneel down and ask it now." Violet glanced again and again toward the cottages on the bluff, wondering and a trifle impatient at her husband's long delay, but at length saw him approaching, leading Lulu by the hand. There was unusual gravity, amounting almost to sternness, in his face, and Lulu's wore a more subdued expression than she had ever seen upon it, while traces of tears were evident upon her cheeks, "He has been talking very seriously to her in regard to the ill-temper she has shown during the past few days," Violet said to herself. "Poor wayward child! I hope she will take the lesson to heart, and give him less trouble and anxiety in future." He kept Lulu close at his side all the evening, and she seemed well content to stay there, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist, while she listened silently to the talk going on around her or to the booming of the waves upon the beach not many yards away. When it was time for the children to retire, he took her and Grace to the house. At the door he bent down and kissed Grace good-night, saying, "I shall not wait to see you in your bed, but shall come in to look at you before I go to mine." "May I have a kiss too, papa?" Lulu asked in a wishful, half-tremulous voice, as though a trifle uncertain whether her request would be granted. "Yes, my dear little daughter, as many as you wish," he replied, taking her in his arms and bestowing them with hearty good-will and affection. "I'm sorry--oh, very sorry for all my naughtiness, papa," she whispered in his ear while clinging about his neck. "It is all forgiven now," he said, "and I trust will never be repeated." Lulu was very good, submissive, and obedient during the remainder of her father's stay among them. She was greatly distressed when, two weeks later, orders came for him to join his ship the following day. She clung to him with devoted, remorseful affection and distress in prospect of the impending separation, while he treated her with even more than his wonted kindness, drawing her often caressingly to his knee, and his voice taking on a very tender tone whenever he spoke to her. It was in the evening he left them, for he was to drive over to Nantucket Town and pass the night there in order to take the early boat leaving for the mainland the next morning. Mr. Dinsmore went with him, intending to go to Boston for a few days, perhaps on to New York also, then return to Siasconset. Harold, Herbert, Bob, and Max set out that same evening for their camping ground; so that Mr. Edward Travilla was the only man of the party left to take care of the women and children. However, they would all have felt safe enough in that very quiet spot, or anywhere on the island, without any such protection. Lulu went to bed that night full of remorseful regret that through her own wilfulness she had lost many hours of her father's prized society, besides grieving and displeasing him. Oh, if she could but go back and live the last few weeks over, how differently she would behave! She would not give him the least cause to be displeased with or troubled about her. As often before, she felt a great disgust at herself, and a longing desire to be good and gentle like Gracie, who never seemed to have the slightest inclination to be quick-tempered or rebellious. "She's so sweet and dear!" murmured Lulu half aloud, and reaching out a hand to softly touch the little sister sleeping quietly by her side; "I should think papa would love her ten times better than me; but he says he doesn't, and he always tells the truth. I wish I'd been made like Gracie; but I'm ever so glad he can love me in spite of all my badness. Oh, I am determined to be good the next time he's at home, so that he will enjoy his visit more. It was a burning shame in me to spoil this one so; I'd like to beat you for it, Lulu Raymond, and I'm glad he didn't let you escape." Violet and her mother were passing the night together, and lying side by side talked to each other in loving confidence of such things as lay nearest their hearts. Naturally Vi's thoughts were full of the husband from whom she had just parted--for how long?--it might be months or years. "Mamma," she said, "the more I am with him and study his character, the more I honor and trust and love him. It is the one trial of my otherwise exceptionally happy life, that we must pass so much of our time apart, and that he has such a child as Lulu to mar his enjoyment of--" "Oh, dear daughter," interrupted Elsie, "do not allow yourself to feel otherwise than very kindly toward your husband's child; Lulu has some very noble traits, and I trust you will try to think of them rather than of her faults, serious as they may seem to you." "Yes, mamma, there are some things about her that are very lovable, and I really have a strong affection for her, even aside from the fact that she is his child; yet when she behaves in a way that distresses him I can hardly help wishing that she belonged to some one else. "You surely must have noticed how badly she behaved for two or three days. He never spoke to me about it, tried not to let me see that it interfered with his enjoyment (for he knew that that would spoil mine), but for all that I knew his heart was often heavy over her misconduct. "Yet she certainly does love her father. How she clung to him after she had heard that he must leave us so soon, with a remorseful affection, it seemed to me." "Yes, and though she shed but few tears in parting from him, I could see that she was almost heart-broken. She is a strange child, but if she takes the right turn, will assuredly make a noble, useful woman." "I hope so, mamma; and that will, I know, repay him for all his care and anxiety on her account. No father could be fonder of his children or more willing to do or endure anything for their sake. Of course I do not mean anything wrong; he would not do wrong himself or suffer wrong-doing in them; for his greatest desire is to see them truly good, real Christians. I hope my darling, as she grows older, will be altogether a comfort and blessing to him." "As her mother has been to me, and always was to her father," Elsie responded in loving tones. "Thank you, mamma," Violet said with emotion; "oh, if I had been an undutiful daughter and given pain and anxiety to my best of fathers, how my heart would ache at the remembrance, now that he is gone. And I feel deep pity for Lulu when I think what sorrow she is preparing for herself in case she outlives her father, as in the course of nature she is likely to do." "Yes, poor child!" sighed Elsie; "and doubtless she is even now enduring the reproaches of conscience aggravated by the fear that she may not see her father very soon again. "She and Gracie, to say nothing of my dear Vi, will be feeling lonely to-morrow, and Edward, Zoe, and I have planned various little excursions, by land and water, to give occupation to your thoughts and pleasantly while away the time." "You are always so kind, dearest mamma," said Violet; "always thinking of others and planning for their enjoyment." "Oh, how lonely it does seem without papa! our dear, dear papa!" was Gracie's waking exclamation. "I wish he could live at home all the time like other children's fathers do! When will he come again, Lulu?" "I don't know, Gracie; I don't believe anybody knows," returned Lulu sorrowfully. "But you have no occasion to feel half as badly about it as I." "Why not?" cried Grace, a little indignantly, even her gentle nature aroused at the apparent insinuation that he was more to Lulu than to herself; "you don't love him a bit better than I do." "Maybe not; but Mamma Vi is more to you than she is to me; though that wasn't what I was thinking of. I was only thinking that you had been a good child to him all the time he has been at home, while I was so very, very naughty that--" Lulu broke off suddenly and went on with, her dressing in silence. "That what?" asked Grace. "That I grieved him very much and spoiled half his pleasure," Lulu said in a choking voice. Then turning suddenly toward her sister, her face flushing hotly, her eyes full of tears, bitterly ashamed of what she was moved to tell, yet with a heart aching so for sympathy that she hardly knew how to keep it back, "Gracie, if I tell you something will you never, _never, never_ breathe a single word of it to a living soul?" Grace, who was seated on the floor putting on her shoes and stockings, looked up at her sister in silent astonishment. "Come, answer," exclaimed Lulu impetuously; "do you promise? I know if you make a promise you'll keep it. But I won't tell you without, for I wouldn't have Mamma Vi, or Max, or anybody else but you know, for all the world." "Not papa?" "Oh, Gracie, papa knows; it's a secret between him and me--only--only I have a right to tell you if I choose." "I'm glad he knows, because I couldn't promise not to tell him if he asked me and said I must. Yes, I promise, Lulu. What is it?" Lulu had finished her dressing, and dropping down on the carpet beside Grace she began, half averting her face and speaking in low, hurried tones. "You remember that morning we were all going to the 'squantum' I changed my dress and put on a white one, and because of that, and something I said to Max that papa overheard, he said I must stay at home; and he ordered me to take off that dress immediately. Well, I disobeyed him; I walked round the town in the dress before I took it off, and instead of staying at home I went in to bathe, and took a walk in the afternoon with Betty Johnson to Sankaty Lighthouse, and went up in the tower and outside too." "Oh, Lulu!" cried Grace, "how could you dare to do so?" "I did, anyway," said Lulu; "and you know I was very ill-tempered for two days afterward; so when papa knew it all he thought he ought to punish me, and he did." "How?" "Oh, Grace! don't you know? can't you guess? It was when he and I stayed back while all the rest went to the beach, that evening after Betty's friend told of seeing me at Sankaty." Grace drew a long breath. "Oh, Lu," she said pityingly, putting her arms lovingly about her sister, "I'm so sorry for you! How could you bear it? Did he hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes, terribly; but I'm glad he did it (though I wouldn't for anything let anybody know it but you), because I'd feel so mean if I hadn't paid somehow for my badness. Papa was so good and kind to me--he always is--and I had been behaving so hatefully to him. "And he wasn't in a bit of a passion with me. I believe, as he told me, he did hate to punish me, and only did it to help me to learn to conquer my temper." "And to be obedient, too?" "Yes; the punishment was for that too, he said. But now don't you think I have reason to feel worse about his going away just now than you?" "Yes," admitted Grace; "I'd feel ever so badly if I'd done anything to make dear papa sad and troubled; and I think I should be frightened to death if he was going to whip me." "No, you wouldn't," said Lulu, "for you would know papa wouldn't hurt you any more than he thought necessary for your own good. Now let me help you dress, for it must be near breakfast time." "Oh, thank you; yes, I'll have to hurry. Do you love papa as well as ever, Lu?" "Better," returned Lulu, emphatically; "it seems odd, but I do. I shouldn't though if I thought he took pleasure in beating me, or punishing me in any way." "I don't b'lieve he likes to punish any of us," said Grace. "I _know_ he doesn't," said Lulu. "And it isn't any odder that I should love him in spite of his punishments, than that he should love me in spite of all my naughtiness. Yes, I do think, Gracie, we have the best father in the world." "'Course we have," responded Grace; "but then we don't have him half the time; he's 'most always on his ship," she added tearfully. "Are you ready for breakfast, dears?" asked a sweet voice at the door. "Yes, Grandma Elsie," they answered, hastening to claim the good-morning kiss she was always ready to bestow. Lulu's heartache had found some relief in her confidence to her sister, and she showed a pleasanter and more cheerful face at the table than Violet expected to see her wear. It grew brighter still when she learned that they were all to have a long, delightful drive over the hills and moors, starting almost immediately upon the conclusion of the meal. The weather was charming, everybody in most amiable mood, and spite of the pain of the recent parting from him whom they so dearly loved, that would occasionally make itself felt in the hearts of wife and children, the little trip was an enjoyable one to all. Just as they drew up at the cottage door on their return, a blast of Captain Baxter's tin horn announced his arrival with the mail, and Edward, waiting only to assist the ladies and children to alight, hurried off to learn if they had any interest in the contents of the mailbag. CHAPTER VIII. "Be not too ready to condemn The wrongs thy brothers may have done; Ere ye too harshly censure them For human faults, ask, 'Have I none?'" --_Miss Eliza Cook_. The little girls took up their station at the front door to watch for "Uncle Edward's" return. Gracie presently cried out joyfully, "Oh, he's coming with a whole handful of letters! I wonder if one is from papa." "I'm afraid not," said Lulu; "he would hardly write last night, leaving us so late as he did, and hardly have time before the leaving of the early boat this morning." The last word had scarcely left her lips when Edward reached her side and put a letter into her hand--a letter directed to her, and unmistakably in her father's handwriting. "One for you, too, Vi," he said gayly, tossing it into her lap through the open window. "Excuse the unceremonious delivery, sister mine. Where are grandma and mamma? I have a letter for each of them." "Here," answered his mother's voice from within the room; then as she took the missives from his hand, "Ah, I knew papa would not forget either mamma or me." "Where's my share, Ned?" asked Zoe, issuing from the inner room, where she had been engaged in taking off her hat and smoothing her fair tresses. "Your share? Well, really I don't know; unless you'll accept the mail-carrier as such," he returned sportively. "Captain Baxter?" she asked in mock astonishment. "I'd rather have a letter by half." "But you can't have either," he returned, laughing; "you can have the postman who delivered the letters here--nothing more; yours is 'Hobson's choice.'" Lulu, receiving her letter with a half-smothered exclamation of intense, joyful surprise, ran swiftly away with it to the beach, never stopping till she had gained a spot beyond and away from the crowd, where no prying eye would watch her movements or note if the perusal of her treasure caused any emotion. There, seated upon the sand, she broke open the envelope with fingers trembling with eagerness. It contained only a few lines in Captain Raymond's bold chirography, but they breathed such fatherly love and tenderness as brought the tears in showers from Lulu's eyes--tears of intense joy and filial love. She hastily wiped them away and read the sweet words again and again; then kissing the paper over and over, placed it in her bosom, rose up, and slowly wended her way back toward the house, with a lighter, happier heart than she had known for some days. She had not gone far when Grace came tripping over the sands to meet her, her face sparkling with delight as she held up a note to view, exclaiming, "See, Lu! papa did not forget me; it came inside of mamma's letter." "Oh, Gracie, I am glad," said Lulu; "but it would be very strange for papa to remember the bad child and not the good one, wouldn't it?" she concluded, between a sigh and a smile. "I'm not always good," said Grace; "you know I did something very, very bad last winter one time--something you would never do. I b'lieve you'd speak the truth if you knew you'd be killed for it." "You dear little thing!" exclaimed Lulu, throwing her arm round Grace and giving her a hearty kiss; "it's very good in you to say it; but papa says I'm an honest child and own the truth even when it's against me." "Yes; you said you told him how you had disobeyed him; and If it had been I, I wouldn't have ever said a word about it for fear he'd punish me." "Well, you can't help being timid; and if I were as timid as you are, no doubt I'd be afraid to own up too; and I didn't confess till after that Miss Eastman had told on me," said Lulu. "Now let's sit down on the sand, and if you'll show me your letter, I'll show you mine." Grace was more than willing, and they busied themselves with the letters, reading and rereading, and with loving talk about their absent father, till summoned to the supper-table. Lulu was very fond of being on the beach, playing in the sand, wandering hither and thither, or just sitting gazing dreamily out over the waves; and her father had allowed her to do so, only stipulating that she should not go out of sight or into any place that looked at all dangerous. "I'm going down to the beach," she said to Grace, when they had left the table that evening; "won't you go too?" "Not yet," said Grace; "baby is awake, and looks so sweet that I'd rather stay and play with her a little while first." "She does look pretty and sweet," assented Lulu, glancing toward the babe, cooing in its nurse's arms, "but we can see enough of her after we go home to Ion, and haven't the sea any more. I'll go now, and you can come and join me when you are ready." Leaving the house, Lulu turned southward toward Sunset Heights, and strolled slowly on, gazing seaward for the most part, and drinking in with delight the delicious breeze as it came sweeping on from no one knows where, tearing the crests of the waves and scattering the spray hither and yon. The tide was rising, and it was keen enjoyment to watch the great billows chasing each other in and dashing higher and higher on the sands below. Then the sun drew near his setting, and the sea, reflecting the gorgeous coloring of the clouds, changed every moment from one lovely hue to another. Lulu walked on and on, wilfully refusing to think how great might be the distance she was putting between herself and home, and at length sat down, the better to enjoy the lovely panorama of cloud and sea which still continued to enrapture her with its ever-changing beauty. By and by the colors began to fade and give place to a silvery gray, which gradually deepened and spread till the whole sky was fast growing black with clouds that even to her inexperienced eye portended a storm. She started up and sent a sweeping glance around on every side. Could it be possible that she was so far from the tiny 'Sconset cottage that at present she called home? Here were Tom Never's Head and the life-saving station almost close at hand; she had heard papa say they were a good two miles from 'Sconset, so she must be very nearly that distance from home, all alone too, and with night and a storm fast coming on. "Oh me! I've been disobedient again," she said aloud, as she set off for home at her most rapid pace; "what would papa say? It wasn't exactly intentional this time, but I should not have been so careless." Alarmed at the prospect of being overtaken by darkness and tempest alone out in the wild, she used her best efforts to move with speed; but she could scarcely see to pick her steps or take a perfectly direct course, and now and again she was startled by the flutter of an affrighted night-bird across her path as she wandered among the sand dunes, toiling over the yielding soil, the booming of the waves and the melancholy cadences of the wind as it rose and fell filling her ears. She was a brave child, entirely free from superstitious fears, and having learned that the island harbored no burglars or murderers, and that there was no wild beast upon it, her only fear was of being overtaken by the storm or lost on the moors, unable to find her way till day-break. But, gaining the top of a sand-hill, the star-like gleam of Sankaty Light greeted her delighted eyes, and with a joyful exclamation, "Oh, now I can find the way!" she sprang forward with renewed energy, soon found the path to the village, pursued it with quickened steps and light heart, although the rain was now pouring down, accompanied with occasional flashes of lightning and peals of thunder, and in a few moments pushed open the door of the cottage and stepped into the astonished presence of the ladies of the party. She had not been missed till the approach of the storm drove them all within doors; then perceiving that the little girl was not among them, the question passed from one to another, "Where is Lulu?" No one could say where; Grace remembered that she had gone out intending to take a stroll along the beach, but did not mention in which direction. "And she has never been known to stay out so late; and--and the tide is coming in," cried Violet, sinking pale and trembling into a chair. "Oh, mamma, if she is drowned, how shall I answer to my husband for taking so little care of his child?" "My dear daughter, don't borrow trouble," Elsie said cheerfully, though her own cheek had grown very pale; "it was in my care he left her, not in yours." "Don't fret, Vi," Edward said; "I don't believe she's drowned; she has more sense than to go where the tide would reach her; but I'll go at once to look for her, and engage others in the search also." He started for the door. "She may be out on the moors, Ned," called Zoe, running after him with his waterproof coat. "Here, put this on." "No time to wait for that," he said. "But you must take time," she returned, catching hold of him and throwing it over his shoulders; "men have to obey their wives once in awhile; Lu's not drowning; don't you believe it; and she may as well get a wetting as you." Grace, hiding her head in Violet's lap, was sobbing bitterly, the latter stroking her hair in a soothing way, but too full of grief and alarm herself to speak any comforting words. "Don't cry, Gracie; and, Vi, don't look so distressed," said Betty. "Lulu, like myself, is one of those people that need never be worried about--the bad pennies that always turn up again." "Then she isn't fit for heaven," remarked Rosie in an undertone not meant for her sister's ear; "but I don't believe," she added in a louder key, "that there is anything worse the matter than too long a walk for her to get back in good season." "That is my opinion, Vi," said Mrs. Dinsmore; and Elsie added, "Mine also." No one spoke again for a moment, and in the silence the heavy boom, boom of the surf on the beach below came distinctly to their ears. Then there was a vivid flash of lightning and a terrific thunder crash, followed instantly by a heavy down-pour of rain. "And she is out in all this!" exclaimed Violet in tones of deep distress. "Dear child, if I only had her here safe in my arms, or if her father were here to look after her!" "And punish her," added Rosie. "It's my humble opinion that if ever a girl of her age needed a good whipping, she does." "Rosie," said her mother, with unwonted severity, "I cannot allow you to talk in that way. Lulu's faults are different from yours, but perhaps no worse; for while she is passionate and not sufficiently amenable to authority, you are showing yourself both uncharitable and Pharisaical." "Well, mamma," Rosie answered, blushing deeply at the reproof, "I cannot help feeling angry with her for giving poor Vi so much unnecessary worry and distress of mind. And I am sure her father must have felt troubled and mortified by the way she behaved for two or three days while he was here." "But he loves her very dearly," said Violet; "so dearly that to lose her in this way would surely break his heart." "But I tell you he is not going to lose her in this way," said Betty in a lively tone; "don't you be a bit afraid of it." But Violet could not share the comfortable assurance; to her it seemed more than likely Lulu had been too venturesome, and that a swiftly incoming wave had carried her off her feet and swept her in its recoil into the boiling sea. "I shall never see the dear child again!" was her anguished thought; "and oh, what news to write to her father! He will not blame me, I know, but oh, I cannot help blaming myself that I did not miss her sooner and send some one to search for and bring her back." Elsie read her daughter's distress in her speaking countenance, and sitting down by her side tried to cheer her with loving, hopeful words. "Dear Vi," she said, "I have a strong impression that the child is not lost, and will be here presently. But whatever has happened, or may happen, stay your heart, dear one, upon your God; trust Him for the child, for your husband, and for yourself. You know that troubles do not spring out of the ground, and to His children He gives help and deliverance out of all He sends them. "'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.' 'He shall deliver thee in six troubles: yea in seven there shall no evil touch thee.'" There was perhaps not more than a half hour of this trying suspense between Edward's departure in search of the missing child and her sudden appearance in their midst: sudden it seemed because the roar of the sea and howling of the storm drowned all other sounds from without, and prevented any echo of approaching footsteps. "Lulu!" they all cried in varied tones of surprise and relief, as they started up and gathered about her dripping figure. "Where have you been?" "How wet you are!" "Oh, dear child, I am so glad and thankful to see you; I have been terribly frightened about you!" This last from Violet. "I--I didn't mean to be out so late or to go so far," stammered Lulu. "And I didn't see the storm coming up in time, and it caught and hindered me. Please, Mamma Vi, and Grandma Elsie, don't be angry about it. I won't do so again." "We won't stop to talk about it now," Elsie said, answering for Violet and herself; "your clothes must be changed instantly, for you are as wet as if you had been in the sea; and that with fresh water, so that there is great danger of your taking cold." "I should think the best plan would be for her to be rubbed with a coarse towel till reaction sets in fully and then put directly to bed," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "If that is done we may hope to find her as well in the morning as if she had not had this exposure to the storm." Lulu made no objection nor resistance, being only too glad to escape so easily. Still she was not quite sure that some punishment might not be in store for her on the morrow. And she had an uncomfortable impression that were it not for her father's absence it might not be a very light one. When she was snugly in bed, Grandma Elsie came to her, bringing with her own hands a great tumbler of hot lemonade. "Drink this, Lulu," she said, in her own sweet voice and with a loving look that made the little girl heartily ashamed of having given so much trouble and anxiety; "it will be very good for you, I think, as well as palatable." "Thank you, ma'am," Lulu said, tasting it; "it is delicious, so strong of both lemon and sugar." "I am glad you like it; drink it all if you can," Elsie said. When Lulu had drained the tumbler it was carried away by Agnes, and Grandma Elsie, sitting down beside the bed, asked, "Are you sleepy, my child? If you are we will defer our talk till to-morrow morning; if not, we will have it now." "I'm not sleepy," Lulu answered, blushing and averting her face, adding to herself, "I suppose it's got to come, and I'd rather have it over." "You know, my child, that in the absence of your father and mine you are my care and I am responsible for you, while you are accountable to me for your good or bad behavior. Such being the case, it is now my duty to ask you to give an account of your whereabouts and doings in the hours that you were absent from us this evening." Lulu replied by an exact statement of the truth, pleading in excuse for her escapade her father's permission to stroll about the beach, even alone, her enjoyment of the exercise of walking along the bluff, and her absorbing interest in the changing beauty of sky and sea--all which tended to render her oblivious of time and space, so that on being suddenly reminded of them she found herself much farther from home than she had supposed. "Was it not merely within certain limits you were given permission to ramble about the beach?" Elsie asked gently. "Yes, ma'am; papa said I was not to go far, and I did not intend to; indeed, indeed, Grandma Elsie, I had not the least intention of disobeying, but forgot everything in the pleasure of the walk and the beautiful sights." "Do you think that is sufficient excuse, and ought to be accepted as fully exonerating you from blame in regard to this matter?" "I don't think people can help forgetting sometimes," Lulu replied, a trifle sullenly. "I remember that in dealing with me as a child my father would never take forgetfulness of his orders as any excuse for disobedience; and though it seemed hard then, I have since thought he was right, because the forgetfulness is almost always the result of not having deemed the matter of sufficient importance to duly charge the memory with it. "In the Bible God both warns us against forgetting and bids us remember: "'Remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them.' "'Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.' "'Beware lest thou forget the Lord.' "'The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God.' "You see that God does not accept forgetfulness as a sufficient excuse, or any excuse for sin." "Then you won't, of course," muttered Lulu, carefully avoiding looking into the kind face bending over her; "how am I to be punished? I don't feel as if anybody has a _right_ to punish me but papa," she added, with a flash of indignant anger. "I heartily wish he were here to attend to it," was the response, in a kindly pitying tone. "But since, unfortunately, he is not, and my father, too, is absent, the unpleasant duty devolves upon me. I have not had time to fully consider the matter, but have no thought of being very severe with you; and perhaps if you knew all the anxiety and sore distress suffered on your account this evening--particularly by your mamma and little sister--you would be sufficiently punished already." "Did Mamma Vi care?" Lulu asked, in a half-incredulous tone. "My child, she was almost distracted," Elsie said. "She loves you for both your own and your father's sake. Besides, as she repeated again and again, she was sorely distressed on his account, knowing his love for you to be so great that to lose you would well-nigh break his heart." A flash of joy illumined Lulu's face at this new testimony to her father's love for her, but passed away as suddenly as it came. "I do feel punished in hearing that you were all so troubled about me, Grandma Elsie," she said, "and I mean to be very, very careful not to cause such anxiety again. Please tell Mamma Vi I am sorry to have given her pain; but she shouldn't care anything about such a naughty girl." "That, my child, she cannot help," Elsie said; "she loves your father far too well not to love you for his sake." After a little more kindly admonitory talk she went away, leaving a tender, motherly kiss upon the little girl's lips. At the door Grace met her with a request for a good-night kiss, which was promptly granted. "Good-night, dear little one; pleasant dreams and a happy awaking, if it be God's will," Elsie said, bending down to touch her lips to the rosebud mouth and let the small arms twine themselves around her neck. "Good-night, dear Grandma Elsie," responded the child. "Oh, aren't you ever so glad God brought our Lulu safely home to us?" "I am indeed, dear; let us not forget to thank Him for it in our prayers to-night." Lulu heard, and as Grace's arms went round her neck the next moment, and the sweet lips, tremulous with emotion, touched her cheek, "Were you so distressed about me, Gracie?" she asked with feeling. "Did Mamma Vi care so very much that I might be drowned?" "Yes, indeed, Lu, dear Lu; oh, what could I do without my dear sister?" "You know you have another one now," Suggested Lulu. "That doesn't make any difference," said Grace. "She's the darling baby sister; you are the dear, dear big sister." "Papa calls me his little girl," remarked Lulu, half musingly; "and somehow I like to be little to him and big to you. Oh, Gracie, what do you suppose he will say when he hears about to-night?--my being so bad; and so soon after he went away, too." "Oh, Lu, what made you?" "Because I was careless; didn't think; and I begin to believe that it was because I didn't choose to take the trouble," she sighed. "I'm really afraid if papa were here I should get just the same sort of a punishment he gave me before. Gracie, don't you ever, ever tell anybody about that." "No, Lu; I promised I wouldn't. But I should think you'd be punished enough with all the wetting and the fright; for weren't you most scared to death?" "No; I was frightened, but not nearly so much as that. Not so much as I should be if papa were to walk in just now; because he'd have to hear all about it, and then he'd look so sorry and troubled, and punish me besides." "Then you wouldn't be glad to see papa if he came back?" Grace said, in a reproachfully inquiring tone. "Yes, I should," Lulu answered, promptly; "the punishment wouldn't last long, you know; he and I would both get over it pretty soon, and then it would be so delightful to have him with us again." Lulu woke the next morning feeling no ill effects whatever from her exposure to the storm. Before she and Grace had quite finished their morning toilet Grandma Elsie was at their door, asking if they were well. She stayed for a little chat with them, and Lulu asked what her punishment was to be. "Simply a prohibition of lonely rambles," Elsie answered, with a grave but kindly look; "and I trust it will prove all-sufficient; you are to keep near the rest of us for your own safety." CHAPTER IX. "He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes."--_Prov_. 13: 24. When the morning boat touched at Nantucket pier there were among the throng which poured ashore two fine-looking gentlemen--one in the prime of life, the other growing a little elderly--who sought out at once a conveyance to 'Sconset. The hackman had driven them before, and recognized them with evident pleasure mingled with surprise. "Glad to see you back again, capt'n," he remarked, addressing the younger of his two passengers; "but it's kind of unexpected, isn't it? I understood you'd gone to join your ship, expecting to sail directly for foreign parts." "Yes, that was all correct," returned Captain Raymond, gayly, for he it was, in company with Mr. Dinsmore; "but orders are sometimes countermanded, as they were in this instance, to my no small content." "They'll be dreadful glad to see you at 'Sconset," was the next remark; "surprised, too. By the way, sir, your folks had a fright last evening." "A fright?" inquired both gentlemen in a breath, and exchanging a look of concern. "Yes, sirs; about one of your little girls, capt'n--the oldest one, I understood it was. Seems she'd wandered off alone to Tom Never's Head, or somewhere in that neighborhood, and was caught by the darkness and storm, and didn't find her way home till the older folks had begun to think she'd been swept away by the tide, which was coming in, to be sure; but they thought it might have been the backward flow of a big wave that had rushed up a little too quick for her, taking her off her feet and hurrying her into the surf before she could struggle up again." All the captain's gayety was gone, and his face wore a pained, troubled look. "But she did reach home in safety at last?" he said, inquiringly. "Oh, yes; all right except for a wetting, which probably did her no harm. But now maybe I'm telling tales out of school," he added, with a laugh. "I shouldn't like to get the little girl into trouble, so I hope you'll not be too hard on her, capt'n. I dare say the fright has been punishment enough to keep her from doing the like again." "I wish it may have been," was all the captain said. Then he fell into a revery so deep that he scarcely caught a word of a brisk conversation, in regard to some of the points of interest on the island, carried on between Mr. Dinsmore and the hackman. Lulu was having an uncomfortable day. When she met the family at the breakfast-table Grandma Rose seemed to regard her with cold displeasure; "Mamma Vi" spoke gently and kindly; hoping she felt no injury from last night's exposure, but looked wretchedly ill; and in answer to her mother's inquiries admitted that she had been kept awake most of the night by a violent headache, to which Rosie added, in an indignant tone, and with an angry glance at Lulu: "Brought on by anxiety in regard to a certain young miss who is always misbehaving and causing a world of trouble to her best friends." "Rose, Rose," Elsie said, reprovingly; "let me hear no more such remarks, or I shall send you from the table." Lulu had appeared in their midst, feeling humble and contrite, and had been conscience-smitten at sight of her mamma's pale face; but the sneer on Betty's face, the cold, averted looks of Edward and Zoe, and then Rosie's taunt roused her quick temper to almost a white heat. She rose, and pushing back her chair with some noise, turned to leave the table at which she had but just seated herself. "What is it, Lulu?" asked Grandma Elsie, in a tone of gentle kindliness. "Sit still, my child, and ask for what you want." "Thank you, ma'am," said Lulu. "I do not want anything but to go away. I'd rather do without my breakfast than stay here to be insulted." "Sit down, my child," repeated Elsie, as gently and kindly as before; "Rosie will make no more unkind remarks; and we will all try to treat you as we would wish to be treated were we in your place." No one else spoke. Lulu resumed her seat and ate her breakfast, but with little appetite or enjoyment; and on leaving the table tried to avoid contact with any of those who had caused her offence. "May I go down to the beach, Grandma Elsie?" she asked, in low, constrained tones, and with her eyes upon the floor. "If you will go directly there, to the seats under the awning which we usually occupy, and not wander from them farther than they are from the cliff," Elsie answered. "Promise me that you will keep within those bounds, and I shall know I may trust you; for you are an honest child." The cloud lifted slightly from Lulu's brow at those kindly words. She gave the promise, and walked slowly away. As she descended the stairway that led down the face of the cliff, she saw that Edward and Zoe were sitting side by side on one of the benches under the awning. She did not fancy their company just now, and knew hers would not be acceptable to them. She thought she would pass them and seat herself in the sand a little farther on. Edward was speaking as she came up behind them, and she heard him say, "It was the most uncomfortable meal ever eaten in our family; and all because of that ungovernable child." Lulu flushed hotly, and stepping past turned and confronted him with flashing eyes. "I heard you, Uncle Edward," she said, "though I had no intention of listening; and I say it is very unjust to blame me so when it was Rosie's insulting tongue and other people's cold, contemptuous looks that almost drove me wild." "You are much too easily driven wild," he said. "It is high time you learned to have some control over your temper. If I were your father I'd teach it you, even if I must try the virtue of a rod again and again; also you should learn proper submission to authority, if it had to be taught in the same manner." Lulu was too angry to speak for a moment; she stood silent, trembling with passion, but at length burst out: "It's none of your business how papa manages me, Mr. Travilla; and I'm very glad he's my father instead of you!" "You are a very saucy girl, Lulu Raymond," said Zoe, reddening with anger on her husband's account, "and shamefully ungrateful for all Mr. Travilla's kind exertions on your behalf last night." "Hush, hush, Zoe; do not remind her of it," Edward said. "'A benefit upbraided forfeits thanks.' I should have done quite the same for any one supposed to be in danger and distress." "What was it?" asked Lulu; "nobody told me he had done anything." "He was out for hours in all that storm, hunting you," replied Zoe, with a proudly admiring glance at her husband. "I'm very much obliged," said Lulu, her voice softening. "And sorry you suffered on my account," she added. "I did not suffer anything worth mentioning," he responded; "but your mamma was sorely distressed--thinking you might be in the sea--and, in consequence, had a dreadful headache all night. And since such dire consequences may follow upon your disregard for rules and lawful authority, Lulu, I insist that you shall be more amenable to them. "I believe you think that when your father and grandpa are both away you can do pretty much as you please; but you shall not while I am about. I won't have my mother's authority set at defiance by you or any one else." "Who wants to set it at defiance?" demanded Lulu, wrathfully. "Not I, I am sure. But I won't be ruled by you, for papa never said I should." "I think I shall take down this conversation and report it to him," Edward said, only half in earnest. Lulu turned quickly away, greatly disturbed by the threat, but resolved that her alarm should not be perceived by either him or Zoe. Walking a few yards from them, she sat down upon the sand and amused herself digging in it, but with thoughts busied with the problem, "What will papa say and do if that conversation is reported to him?" A very little consideration of the question convinced her that if present her father would say she had been extremely impertinent, punish her for it, and make her apologize. Presently a glance toward the cottages on the bluff showed her Violet and Grace descending the stairway. She rose and hurried to meet them. "Mamma Vi," she said, as soon as within hearing, "I am ever so sorry to have frightened you so last night and given you a headache. But you oughtn't to care whether such a naughty girl as I am is drowned or not." "How can you talk so, Lulu dear?" Violet answered, putting an arm round the child's waist and giving her a gentle kiss. "Do you think your Mamma Vi has no real love for you? If so, you are much mistaken. I love you, Lulu, for yourself, and dearly for your father's sake. Oh, I wish you loved him well enough to try harder to be good in order to add to his happiness; it would add to it more than anything else that I know of. Your naughtiness does not deprive you of his fatherly affection, but it does rob him of much enjoyment which he would otherwise have." Lulu hung her head in silence, turned, and walked away full of self-accusing and penitent thoughts. She was not crying; tears did not come so readily to her eyes as to those of many children of her age, but her heart was aching with remorseful love for her absent father. "To think that I spoiled his visit home," she sighed to herself. "Oh, I wish he could come back to have it over again, and I would try to be good and not spoil his enjoyment in the very least!" "Come back now?" something seemed to reply; "suppose he should; wouldn't he punish you for your behavior since he left, only two days ago?" "Yes," she sighed; "I haven't the least doubt that if he were here and knew all he would punish me severely again; and I suppose he wouldn't be long in the house before he would hear it all; yet for all that I should be--oh, so glad if he could come back to stay a good while." Last night's storm had spent itself in a few hours, and the morning was bright and clear; yet a long drive planned for that day by our friends was unanimously postponed, as several of them had lost sleep, and wanted to make it up with a nap. Violet sought her couch immediately after dinner, slept off the last remains of her headache, and about the middle of the afternoon was preparing to go down to the beach, where all the others were, except Grace, who was seldom far from mamma's side, when the outer door opened, and a step and voice were heard which she had not hoped to hear again for months or years. The next moment she was in her husband's arms, her head pillowed on his breast, while his lips were pressed again and again to brow and cheek and lips, and Grace's glad shout arose, in sweet, silvery tones, "Papa has come back! Papa has come back! My dear, dear papa!" "Can it be possible, my dear, dear husband?" cried Violet, lifting to his a face radiant with happiness. "It seems too good to be true." "Not quite so good as that," he said, with a joyous laugh, "But it is quite a satisfaction to find that you are not sorry to see me." "Of which you were terribly afraid, of course," she returned, gayly. "Do tell me at once how long our powers of endurance of such uncongenial society are to be taxed?" "Ah, that is beyond my ability." "Then we may hope for weeks or months?" she said, rapturously. "Certainly we are not forbidden to hope," he answered, smiling tenderly upon her. "Oh, I am so glad!" she said, with a happy sigh, leaning her head on his shoulder and gazing fondly up into his face, his right arm about her waist, while Grace clung to the other hand, holding it lovingly between her own and pressing her lips to it again and again. "Ah, my darling little girl," he said presently, letting Violet go to take Grace in his arms. "Are you glad to see papa back again so soon?" "Oh, yes, indeed; nothing else could have made me so very, very glad!" she cried, hugging him close, and giving and receiving many tender caresses. "But how did it happen. Levis?" Violet was asking. "Through some unlooked-for change in the plans and purposes of the higher powers," he answered, lightly. "My orders were countermanded, with no reasons given, and I may remain with my family till further orders; and, as you say, we will hope it may be months before they are received." "And you were glad to come back to us?" Violet said, inquiringly, but with not a shade of doubt in her tones. "Yes, yes indeed; I was full of joy till I heard that one of my children had been disobeying me, bringing serious consequences upon herself and others." His countenance had grown very grave and stern. "Where is Lulu?" he asked, glancing about in search of her. "Down on the beach with mamma and the rest," Violet answered. "Can you give me a true and full account of her behavior since I have been away?" he asked. "My dear husband," Violet said, entreatingly, "please do not ask me." "Pardon me, dearest," he returned. "I should not have asked you; Lulu must tell me herself; thankful I am that many and serious as are her faults, she is yet so honest and truthful that I can put full confidence in her word and feel sure that she will not deceive me, even to save herself from punishment." "I think that is high praise, and that Lulu is deserving of it," remarked Violet, glad of an opportunity to speak a word in the child's favor. Captain Raymond gave her a pleased, grateful look. "You were going to the beach, were you not?" he said. "Then please go on; I shall follow after I have settled this matter with Lulu. There can be no comfort for her or myself till it is settled. Gracie, go and tell your sister to come here to me immediately." "Do be as lenient as your sense of duty will allow, dear husband," whispered Violet in his ear, then hastened on her way. Grace was lingering, gazing at him with wistful, tear-filled eves. "What is it?" he asked, bending down to smooth her hair caressingly. "You should go at once, little daughter, when papa bids." "I would, papa, only--only I wanted to--to ask you not to punish Lulu very hard." "I am glad my little Gracie loves her sister," he said; "and you need never doubt, my darling, that I dearly love both her and you. Go now and give her my message." All day long Lulu had kept herself as far apart from the others--her sister excepted--as lay in her power. She was sitting now alone in the sand, no one within several yards of her, her hands folded in her lap, while she gazed far out to sea, her eyes following a sail in the distant offing. "Perhaps it is papa's ship," she was saying to herself. "Oh, how long will it be before we see him again! And oh, how sorry he will be when he hears about last night and this morning!" At that instant she felt Grace's arms suddenly thrown round her, while the sweet child voice exclaimed, in an ecstasy of delight, "Oh, Lu, he _has_ come! he _has_, he _has_!" "Who?" Lulu asked, with a start and tremble that reminded Grace of the message she had to deliver, and that Lulu's pleasure at their father's unexpected return could not be so unalloyed as her own; all which she had forgotten for the moment in the rapture of delight she herself felt at his coming. "Papa, Lulu," she answered, sobering down, a good deal; "and I was 'most forgetting that he sent me to tell you to come to him immediately." "Did he?" Lulu asked, trembling more than before. "Does he know about last night, Gracie? Did Mamma Vi tell him?" "He knows 'bout it; somebody told him before he got to 'Sconset," said Grace. "But mamma didn't tell him at all; he asked her, but she begged him to please not ask her. Mamma doesn't ever tell tales on us, I'm sure." "No, I don't believe she does. But what did papa say then?" "That you should tell him all about it yourself; you were an honest child, serious as your faults were, and lie could trust you to own the truth, even when you were to be punished for it. But, Lulu, you have to go right up to the house; papa said 'immediately.'" "Yes," Lulu replied, getting upon her feet very slowly, and looking a good deal frightened; "did papa seem very angry?" "I think he intends to punish you," Grace replied, in a sorrowful tone; "but maybe he won't if you say you're sorry and won't do so any more. But hurry, Lulu, or he may punish you for not obeying promptly." "Is Mamma Vi there?" asked Lulu, still lingering. "No; yonder she is; don't you see?" said Grace, nodding her head in the direction of the awning under which nearly their whole party were now seated: "there's nobody there but papa. Oh hurry, Lulu, or he will whip you, I'm afraid." "Don't you ever say that before anybody, Gracie," Lulu said, low and tremulously; then turned and walked rapidly toward the stairway that led up the bluff to the cottages. At a window looking toward the bluff the captain stood, watching for Lulu's coming. "She is not yielding very prompt obedience to the order," he said to himself; "but what wonder? The poor child doubtless dreads the interview extremely; in fact, _I_ should be only too glad to escape it; 'tis no agreeable task to have to deal out justice to one's own child--a child so lovable, in spite of her faults. How much easier to pass the matter over slightly, merely administering a gentle reprimand! But no, I cannot; 'twould be like healing slightly the festering sore that threatens the citadel of life. I must be faithful to my God-given trust, however trying to my feelings. Ah, there she is!" as a little figure appeared at the top of the staircase and hurried across the intervening space to the open doorway. There she halted, trembling and with downcast eyes. It was a minute or more before she ventured to lift them, and then it was a very timid glance she sent in her father's direction. He was looking at her with a very grave, rather stern, countenance, and her eyes fell again, while still she shrank from approaching him. "You are not very glad to see me, I think," he said, holding out his hand, but with no relaxing of the sternness of his expression. "Oh, papa, yes! yes, indeed I am!" she burst out, springing to his side and putting her hand in his, "even though I suppose you are going to punish me just as you did the last time." He drew her to his knee, but without offering her the slightest caress. "Won't you kiss me, papa?" she asked, with a little sob. "I will; but you are not to take it as a token of favor; only of your father's love that is never withdrawn from you, even when he is most severe in the punishment of your faults," he answered, pressing his lips again and again to forehead, cheeks, and lips. "What have you done that you expect so severe a punishment?" "Papa, you know, don't you?" she said, hiding her blushing face on his breast. "I choose to have you tell me; I want a full confession of all the wrong-doing you have been guilty of since I left you the other day." "I disobeyed you last night, papa, about taking a long walk by myself; but it was because I forgot to notice how far I was going; at least, I didn't notice," she stammered, remembering that she had wilfully refrained from so doing. "You forgot? forgot to pay attention to your father's commands? did not think them of sufficient importance for you to take the trouble to impress them upon your mind. I cannot accept that excuse as a good and sufficient one. "And, tell me honestly, are you not, as I strongly suspect, less careful to obey your father's orders when he is away, so that you feel yourself in a measure out of his reach, than when he is close at hand?" "Papa, you ask such hard questions," she said. "Hard to my little daughter only because of her own wrong-doing. But hard or easy, they must be answered. Tell me the truth, would you not have been more careful to keep within prescribed bounds last night if I had been at home, or you had known that you would see me here to-day?" "Yes, papa," she answered, in a low, unwilling tone. "I don't think anybody else can have quite so much authority over me as you, and--and so I do, I suppose, act a little more as if I could do as I please when you are away." "And that after I have explained to you again and again that in my absence you are quite as much under the authority of the kind friends with whom I have placed you as under mine when I am with you. I see there is no effectual way to teach you the lesson but by punishing you for disregarding it." Then he made her give him a detailed account of her ramble of the night before and its consequences. When she had gone as far in the narrative as her safe arrival among the alarmed household, he asked whether her Grandma Elsie inflicted any punishment upon her. "No, sir," answered Lulu, hanging her head and speaking in a sullen tone. "I told her I didn't feel as if anybody had any right to punish me but you." "Lulu I did you dare to talk in that way to her?" exclaimed the captain. "I hope she punished you for your impertinence; for if she did not I certainly must." "She lectured me then, and this morning told me my punishment was a prohibition against wandering away from the rest more than just a few yards. "But, papa, they were all so unkind to me at breakfast--I mean all but Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi and Gracie. Betty looked sneering, and the others so cold and distant, and Rosie said something very insulting about my being a bad, troublesome child and frightening Mamma Vi into a headache." "Certainly no more than you deserved," her father said. "Did you bear it with patience and humility, as you ought?" "Do you mean that I must answer you, papa?" "Most assuredly I do; tell me at once exactly what you did and said." "I don't want to, papa," she said, half angrily. "You are never to say that when I give you an order," he returned, in a tone of severity; "never venture to do it again. Tell me, word for word, as nearly as you can remember it, what reply you made to Rosie's taunt." "Papa, I didn't say anything to her; I just got up and pushed back my chair, and turned to leave the table. Then Grandma Elsie asked me what I wanted, and I said I didn't want anything, but would rather go without my breakfast than stay there to be insulted. Then she told me to sit down and eat, and Rosie wouldn't make any more unkind speeches." "Were they all pleasant to you after that?" he asked. "No, papa; they haven't been pleasant to me at all to-day; and Uncle Edward has said hateful things about me, and to me," she went on, her cheek flushing and her eyes flashing with anger, half forgetting, in the excitement of passion, to whom she was telling her story, and showing her want of self-control. "And I very much fear," he said, gravely, "that you were both passionate and impertinent. Tell me just what passed." "If I do you'll punish me, I know you will," she burst out. "Papa, don't you think it's a little mean to make me tell on myself and then punish me for what you find out in that way?" "If my object was merely to give you pain, I think it would be mean enough," he said, not at all unkindly; "but as I am seeking your best interests--your truest happiness--in trying to gain full insight into your character and conduct, meaning to discipline you only for your highest good, I think it is not mean or unkind. From your unwillingness to confess to me, I fear you must have been in a great passion and very impertinent. Is it not so?" "Papa, I didn't begin it; if I'd been let alone I shouldn't have got in a passion or said anything saucy." "Possibly not; but what is that virtue worth which cannot stand the least trial? You must learn to rule your own spirit, not only when everything goes smoothly with you, but under provocation; and in order to help you to learn that lesson--or rather as a means toward teaching it to you--I shall invariably punish any and every outbreak of temper and every impertinence of yours that come under my notice when I am at home. Now, tell me exactly what passed between your Uncle Edward and yourself." Seeing there was no escape for her, Lulu complied, faithfully repeating every word of the short colloquy at the beach when she went down there directly after breakfast. Her father listened in astonishment, his face growing sterner every moment. "Lucilla," he said, "you are certainly the most impertinent, insolent child I ever saw! I don't wonder you were afraid to let me know the whole truth in regard to this affair. I am ashamed of your conduct toward both your Grandma Elsie and your Uncle Edward. You must apologize to both of them, acknowledging that you have been extremely impertinent, and asking forgiveness for it." Lulu made no reply; her eyes were downcast, her face was flushed with passion, and wore a stubborn look. "I won't;" the words were on the tip of her tongue; she had almost spoken them, but restrained herself just in time; her father's authority was not to be defied, as she had learned to her cost a year ago. He saw the struggle that was going on in her breast. "You must do it," he said; "you may write your apologies, though, if you prefer that to speaking them." He opened a writing-desk that stood on a table close at hand, and seated her before it with paper, pen, and ink, and bade her write, at his dictation. She did not dare refuse, and had really no very strong disinclination to do so in regard to the first, which was addressed to Grandma Elsie--a lady so gentle and kind that even proud Lulu was willing to humble herself to her. But when it came to Edward's turn her whole soul rose up in rebellion against it. Yet she dared not say either "I won't" or "I don't want to." But pausing, with the pen in her fingers: "Papa," she began timidly, "please don't make me apologize to him; he had no right to talk to me the way he did." "I am not so sure of that," the captain said. "I don't blame him for trying to uphold his mother's authority; and now I think of it, you are to consider yourself under his control in the absence of your mamma and the older persons to whom I have given authority over you. Begin at once and write what I have told you to." When the notes were written, signed, and folded he put them in his pocket, turned and paced the floor. Lulu, glancing timidly into his face, saw that it was pale and full of pain, but very stern and determined. "Papa, are you--are you going to punish me?" she asked, tremulously. "I mean as you did the other day?" "I think I must," he said, pausing beside her, "though it grieves me to the very heart to do it; but you have been disobedient, passionate, and very impertinent; it is quite impossible for me to let you slip. But you may take your choice between that and being locked up in the bedroom there for twenty-four hours, on bread and water. Which shall it be?" "I'd rather take the first, papa," said Lulu, promptly, "because it will be over in a few minutes, and nobody but ourselves need know anything about it." "I made sure you would choose the other," he said, in some surprise; "yet I think your choice is wise. Come!" "Oh, papa, I'm so frightened," she said, putting her trembling hand in his; "you did hurt me so dreadfully the other time; must you be as severe to-day?" "My poor child, I am afraid I must," he said; "a slight punishment seems to avail nothing in your case, and I must do all in my power to make you a good, gentle, obedient child." A few minutes later Captain Raymond joined the others on the beach, but Lulu was not with him. She had been left behind in the bedroom, where she must stay, he told her, until his return. Everybody seemed glad to see him; but after greeting them all in turn, he drew Violet to a seat a little apart from the others. Grace followed, of course, keeping close to her father's side. "Where is Lulu, papa?" she asked with a look of concern, "Up at the house." "Won't you let her come down here, papa? She loves so to be close down by the waves." "She may come after a little," he said, "but not just now." Then taking two tiny notes from his pocket: "Here, Gracie," he said, "take this to your Grandma Elsie and this to your Uncle Edward." "Yes, sir; must I wait for an answer?" "Oh, no," he replied, with a slight smile; "you may come right back to your place by papa's side." Elsie read the little missive handed her at a glance, rose up hastily, and went to the captain with it in her hand, a troubled look on her face. "My dear captain," she said, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, "why did you do this? The child's offence against me was not a grave one in my esteem, and I know that to one of her temperament it would be extremely galling to be made to apologize. I wish you had not required it of her." "I thought it for her good, mother," he answered; "and I think so still; she is so strongly inclined to impertinence and insubordination that I must do all in my power to train her to proper submission to lawful authority and respect for superiors." Edward joined them at that moment. He looked disturbed and chagrined. "Really, captain," he said, "I am not at all sure that Lulu has not as much right to an apology from me as I to this from her. I spoke to her in anger, and with an assumption of authority to which I really had no right, so that there was ample excuse for her not particularly respectful language to me. I am sorry, therefore, she has had the pain of apologizing." "You are very kind to be so ready to over look her insolence," the captain said; "but I cannot permit such exhibitions of temper, and must, at whatever cost, teach her to rule her own spirit." "Doubtless you are right," Edward said; "but I am concerned and mortified to find that I have got her into such disgrace and trouble. I must own I am quite attached to Lulu; she has some very noble and lovable traits of character." "She has indeed," said his mother; "she is so free from the least taint of hypocrisy or deceit; so perfectly honest and truthful; so warm-hearted, too; so diligent and energetic in anything she undertakes to do--very painstaking and persevering--and a brave, womanly little thing." The captain's face brightened very much as he listened to these praises of his child. "I thank you heartily, mother and brother," he said; "for the child is very dear to her father's heart, and praise of her is sweet to my ear. I can see all these lovable traits, but feared that to other eyes than mine they might be entirely obscured by the very grave faults joined with them. But it is just like you both to look at the good rather than the evil. "And you have done so much for my children! I assure you I often think of it with the feeling that you have laid me under obligations which I can never repay." "Ah, captain," Elsie said, laughingly, "you have a fashion of making a great mountain out of a little mole-hill of kindness. Flattery is not good for human nature, you know, so I shall leave you and go back to papa, who has a wholesome way of telling me of my faults and failings." "I really don't know where he finds them," returned Captain Raymond, gallantly; but she was already out of hearing. "Nor I," said Violet, replying to his last remark; "mamma seems to me to be as nearly perfect as a human creature can be in this sinful world." "Now don't feel troubled about it, Ned," Zoe was saying to her husband, who was again at her side. "I think it was just right that she should be made to apologize to you, for she was dreadfully saucy." "Yes; but I provoked her, and I ought to be, and am, greatly ashamed of it. I fear, too, that in so doing I have brought a severe punishment upon her." "Why should you think so?" "Because I know that such a task could not fail to be exceedingly unpalatable to one of her temperament; and don't you remember how long she stood out against her father's authority last summer when he bade her ask Vi's pardon for impertinence to her?" "Yes; it took nearly a week of close confinement to make her do it; but as he showed himself so determined in that instance, she probably saw that it would be useless to attempt opposition to his will in this, and so obeyed without being compelled by punishment." "Well, I hope so," he said. "She surely ought to know by this time that he is not one to be trifled with." It seemed to Lulu a long time that she was left alone, shut up in the little bedroom of the cottage, though it was in reality scarcely more than half an hour. She was very glad when at last she heard her father's step in the outer room, then his voice as he opened the door and asked, "Would you like to take a walk with your papa, little girl?" "Yes indeed, papa!" was her joyful reply. "Then put on your hat and come." She made all haste to obey. "Is Gracie going too, papa? or anybody else?" she asked, putting her hand confidingly into his. "No; you and I are going alone this time; do you think you will find my company sufficient for once?" he asked, smiling down at her. "Oh yes, indeed, papa; I think it will be ever so nice to have you all to myself; it's so seldom I can." They took the path along the bluffs toward "Tom Never's Head." When they had fairly left the village behind, so that no one could overhear anything they might say to each other, the captain said, "I want to have a talk with you, daughter, and we may as well take it out here in the sweet fresh air, as shut up in the house." "Oh, yes, papa; it is so much pleasanter! I can hardly bear to stay in the house at all down here at the seashore; and it seemed a long while that you left me alone there this afternoon." "Yes, I suppose so: and I hope I shall not have occasion to do so again. My child, did you ever consider what it is that makes you so rebellious, so unwilling to submit to authority, and so ready to fly into a passion and speak insolently to your superiors?" "I don't quite understand you papa," she said. "I only know that I can't bear to have people try to rule me who have no right." "Sometimes you are not willing to be ruled even by your father; yet I hardly suppose you would say he has no right?" "Oh, no, papa; I know better than that," she said, blushing and hanging her head; "I know you have the best right in the world." "Yet sometimes you disobey me; at others obey in an angry, unwilling way that shows you would rebel if you dared. "And pride is at the bottom of it all. You think so highly of yourself and your own wisdom that you cannot bear to be controlled or treated as one not capable of guiding herself. "But the Bible tells us that God hates pride. 'Every one that is proud in heart is an abomination to the Lord; though hand join in hand, he shall not be unpunished.' "'Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.' "'Proud and haughty scorner is his name who dealeth in proud wrath.' "Ah, my dear daughter, I am sorely troubled when I reflect how often you deal in that. My great desire for you is that you may learn to rule your own spirit; that you may become meek and lowly in heart, patient and gentle like the Lord Jesus, 'who when He was reviled, reviled not again; when He suffered, He threatened not; but committed Himself to Him that judgeth righteously.' Do you never feel any desire to be like Him?" "Yes, papa, sometimes; and I determine that I will; but the first thing I know I'm in a passion again; and I get so discouraged that I think I'll not try any more to be good; for I just can't." "It is Satan who puts that thought in your heart," the captain said, giving her a look of grave concern; "he knows that if he can persuade you to cease to fight against the evil that is in your nature he is sure to get possession of you at last. "He is a most malignant spirit, and his delight is in destroying souls. The Bible bids us, 'Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil as a roaring lion walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.' "We are all sinners by nature, and Satan, and many lesser evil spirits under him, are constantly seeking our destruction; therefore we have a warfare to wage if we would attain eternal life, and no one who refuses or neglects to fight this good fight of faith will ever reach heaven; nor will any one who attempts it without asking help from on high. "So if you give up trying to be good you and I will have a sad time; because it will be my duty to compel you to try. The Bible tells me, 'Withhold not correction from the child; for if thou beatest him with the rod he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.' "I must if possible deliver you from going to that awful place, and also from the dreadful calamities indulgence of a furious temper sometimes brings even in this life; even a woman has been known to commit murder while under the influence of unbridled rage; and I have known of one who lamed her own child for life in a fit of passion. "Sometimes people become deranged simply from the indulgence of their tempers. Do you think I should be a good and kind father if I allowed you to go on in a path that leads to such dreadful ends here and hereafter?" "No, sir," she said in an awed tone; "and I will try to control my temper." "I am glad to hear that resolve," he replied. "The Bible tells us, 'He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.'" They were silent for a little while, then hanging her head and blushing, "Papa," she asked, "what did you do with those notes you made me write?" "Sent them to those to whom they were addressed. And they were very kind, Lulu; much kinder than you deserved they should be; both your Grandma Elsie and your Uncle Edward expressed regret that you had been made to apologize, and spoke of you in affectionate terms." "I'm glad,'" she said with a sigh of relief; "and I don't mean ever to be at all impertinent to them again." "I trust you will not indeed," he said. "Papa, I think this is about where I was the other evening when I first noticed that the storm was coming." "A long way from home for a child of your age; especially alone and at night. You must not indulge your propensity for wandering to a distance from home by yourself. You are too young to understand the danger of it; too young to be a guide to yourself, and must therefore be content to be guided by older and wiser people. "You said, a while ago, 'I just can't be good;' did you mean to assert that you could not help being disobedient to me that evening?" She hung her head and colored deeply. "It was so pleasant to walk along looking at the beautiful, changing sea, papa," she said, "that I couldn't bear to stop, and wouldn't let myself think how far I was going." "Ah, just as I suspected; your could not was really would not; the difficulty all in your will. You must learn to conquer your will when it would take you in the wrong direction. "We will turn and go back now, as it is not far from tea-time." Lulu shrank from meeting the rest of their party, particularly Grandma Elsie and Edward; but they all treated her so kindly that she was soon at her ease among them again. CHAPTER X. "I am rapt, and cannot Cover the monstrous bulk of this ingratitude With any size of words." --_Shakespeare_. The next day they all set out soon after breakfast for a long drive, taking the direction of the camping-ground of the lads, where they called and greatly astonished Max with a sight of his father, whom he supposed to be far out on the ocean. The boy's delight fully equalled his surprise, and he was inclined to return immediately to 'Sconset; but the captain advised him to stay a little longer where he was; and he accordingly decided to do so; though regretting the loss of even an hour of the society of the father who was to him the best man in the world and the most gallant and capable officer of the navy; in short, the impersonation of all that was good, wise, and brave. The 'Sconset cottages had been engaged only until the first of September, but by that time our friends were so in love with life upon the island that learning of some cottages on the cliffs, a little north-west of Nantucket Town, which were just vacated and for rent, they engaged two of them and at once moved in. From their new abodes they had a fine view of the ocean on that side of the island, and from their porches could watch the swift-sailing yachts and other vessels passing to and fro. The bathing-ground was reached by a succession of stairways built in the face of the cliff. The surf was fine, and bathing less dangerous there than at 'Sconset. Those of them who were fond of the sport found it most enjoyable; but the captain took the children into the town almost every day for a lesson in swimming, where the still bathing made it easy for them. And now they took almost daily sails on the harbor, occasionally venturing out into the ocean itself; pleasant drives also; visiting the old windmill, the old graveyards, the soldiers' monument, and every place of interest in the vicinity. Besides these, there was a little trip to Martha's Vineyard, and several were taken to various points on the adjacent shores of the mainland. Much as they had enjoyed 'Sconset life, it now seemed very pleasant to be again where they could pay frequent visits to libraries and stores, go to church, and now and then attend a concert or lecture. And there was a good deal of quiet pleasure to be found in rambles about the streets and queer byways and lanes of the quaint old town, looking at its odd houses and gardens, and perhaps catching a glimpse of the life going on within. They gained an entrance to some; one day it was to the home of an old sea captain who had given up his former occupation and now wove baskets of various sizes and shapes, all very neat, strong and substantial. There was always something pleasant to do; sometimes it was to take the cars on the little three-mile railroad to Surfside and pass an hour or two there; again to visit the Athenaeum and examine its stores of curiosities and treasures, mostly of the sea; or to select a book from its library; or to spend an hour among the old china and antique furniture offered for sale to summer visitors. They were admitted to see the cast of the dauphin and bought photographs of it, as well as of many of the scenes in and about the town, with which to refresh their memories of the delightful old place when far away, or to show to friends who had never had the pleasure of a visit to its shores. Violet spent many an enjoyable hour in sketching, finding no lack of subjects worthy of her pencil; and those of the party who liked botany found curious and interesting specimens among the flora of the island. They had very delightful weather most of the time, but there was an occasional rainy day when their employments and amusements must be such as could be found within doors. But even these days, with the aid of fancy-work, and drawing materials, newspapers, magazines and books, conversation and games, were very far from dull and wearisome; often one read aloud while the others listened. One day Elsie brought out a story in manuscript. "I have been thinking," she said, "that this might interest you all as being a tale of actual occurrences during the time of the French Revolution; as we have been thinking and talking so much of that in connection with the story of the poor little dauphin." "What is it? and who is the author?" asked her father. "It is an historical story written by Betty's sister Molly," she answered. "For the benefit of the children I will make a few preparatory remarks," she added, lightly, and with a pleasant smile. * * * * * "While France was torn by those terrible Internal convulsions, it was also fighting the combined armies of other nations, particularly Austria and Prussia, who were moved against it from sympathy with the king, and a desire to reinstate him on his throne, and a sense of danger to themselves if the disorganizing principles of the revolutionists should spread into their territories. "Piedmont was involved in this conflict. Perhaps you remember that it is separated from Dauphiny, in France, by the Cottian Alps, and that among the valleys on the Piedmontese side dwell the Waldenses or Vaudois-evangelical Christians, who were for twelve hundred years persecuted by the Church of Rome. "Though their own sovereigns often joined in these persecutions, and the laws of the land were always far more oppressive to them than to their popish fellow-citizens, the Waldenses were ever loyal to king and country and were sure to be called upon for their defence in time of war. "In the spring of 1793--some three months after the beheading of King Louis XVI.--and while the poor queen, the dauphin and the princesses, his sister and aunt, still languished in their dreadful prisons--a French army was attempting to enter Piedmont from Dauphiny, which they could do only through the mountain-passes; and these all the able-bodied Waldenses and some Swiss troops, under the command of General Godin, a Swiss officer, were engaged in defending. "It is among the homes of the Waldenses, thus left defenceless against any plot their popish neighbors might hatch for their destruction, that the scene of this story is laid. "Now, papa, will you be so kind as to read it aloud?" she concluded, handing it to him. "With pleasure," he said, and all having gathered around to listen, he began. * * * * * "On a lovely morning in the middle of May, 1793, a young girl and a little lad might have been seen climbing the side of a mountain overlooking the beautiful Valley of Luserna. They were Lucia and Henri Vittoria, children of a brave Waldensian soldier then serving in the army of his king, against the French, with whom their country was at war. "Lucia had a sweet, innocent face, lighted up by a pair of large, soft, dark eyes, and was altogether very fair to look upon. Her lithe, slender figure bounded from rock to rock with movements as graceful and almost as swift as those of a young gazelle. "'Sister,' cried the lad half pantingly, 'how nimble and fleet of foot you are to-day! I can scarce keep pace with you.' "'Ah, Henri, it is because my heart is so light and glad!' she returned with a silvery laugh, pausing for an instant that he might overtake her. "'Yes,' he said, as he gained her side, 'the good news from my father and Pierre, and Rudolph Goneto--that they are well and yet unharmed by French sword or bullet--has filled all our hearts with joy. Is it not to carry these glad tidings to Rudolph's mother we take this early walk?' "'Yes; a most pleasant errand, Henri;' and the rose deepened on the maiden's cheek, already glowing with health and exercise. "They were now far above the valley, and another moment brought them to their destination--a broad ledge of rock on which stood a cottage with its grove of chestnut-trees, and a little patch of carefully cultivated ground. "Magdalen Goneto, the mother of Rudolph, a matron of placid countenance and sweet and gentle dignity of mien had seen their approach and come forth to meet them. "She embraced Lucia with grave tenderness, bestowed a kind caress upon Henri, and leading the way to her neat dwelling, seated them and herself upon its porch, from which there was a magnificent view of the whole extent of the valley. "To the left, and close at hand, lay San Giovanni, with its pretty villages, smiling vineyards, cornfields and verdant meadows sloping gently away to the waters of the Pelice. On the opposite side of the river, situate upon a slight eminence was the Roman Catholic town of Luserna. To the right, almost at their feet, embowered amid beautiful trees--chestnut, walnut, and mulberry--La Tour, the Waldensian capital and home of Lucia and Henri, nestled among its vineyards and orchards. "Farther up the vale might be seen Bobbi Villar, and many smaller villages scattered amid the fields and vineyards, or hanging on the slopes of the hills, while hamlets and single cottages clung here and there to the rugged mountain-side, wherever a terrace, a little basin or hollow afforded a spot susceptible of cultivation. Beyond all towered the Cottian Alps, that form the barrier between Piedmont and Dauphiny, their snowy pinnacles glittering in the rays of the newly risen sun. "It was thither the able-bodied men of the valley had gone to defend the passes against the French. "Toward those lofty mountains Lucia's soft eyes turned with wistful, questioning gaze; for there were father, brother, lover, hourly exposed to all the dangers of war. "Magdalen noted the look, and softly murmured, 'God, even the God of our fathers, cover their heads in the day of battle!' "'He will, I know He will,' said Lucia, turning to her friend with a bright, sweet smile. "'You bring me tidings, my child,' said Magdalen, taking the maiden's hand in hers, 'good tidings, for your face is full of gladness!' "'Yes, dear friend, your son is well,' Lucia answered with a modest, ingenuous blush; 'my father also, and Pierre; we had word from them only yesternight. But ah me!' she added with a sigh, 'what fearful scenes of blood and carnage are yet enacted in Paris, the gay French capital! for from thence also, the courier brought news. Blood, he says, flows like water, and not content with having taken the life of their king, they force the queen and the rest of the royal family to languish in prison; and the guillotine is constantly at work dispatching its wretched victims, whose only crime, in many instances, is that of wealth and noble birth.' "'Alas, poor wretches! alas poor king and queen!' cried Magdalen; 'and, for ourselves, what danger, should such bloodthirsty ruffians force an entrance into our valleys! The passes had needs be well guarded!' "Lucia lingered not long with her friend, for home duties claimed her attention. "Magdalen went with them to the brow of the hill, and again embracing Lucia, said in tender, joyous accents, 'Though we must now bid adieu, dear child, when the war is over you will come to brighten Rudolph's home and mine with your constant presence.' "'Yes; such was the pledge he won from me ere we parted,' the maiden answered with modest sincerity, a tender smile hovering about the full red lips and a vivid color suffusing for an instant the delicately rounded cheek. "Then with an affectionate good-by, she tripped away down the rocky path, Henri following. "A glad flush still lingered on the sweet, girlish face, a dewy light shone in the soft eyes. Her thoughts were full of Magdalen's parting words and the picture they had called up of the happy married life awaiting Rudolph and herself when he should return to the pursuits of peace. "And he at his post in those more distant mountains, thought of her and his mother; safe, as he fondly trusted, in the homes his strong arm was helping to defend against a foreign foe. The Vaudois, judging others by themselves, were, notwithstanding their many past experiences of the treacherous cruelty of Rome, strangely unsuspicious of their popish neighbors. "The descent was scarcely yet accomplished by our young friends, when startled by the sound of heavy footsteps and gruff voices in their rear, and casting a look behind them, they beheld, rapidly approaching by another path which wound about the base of the mountain, two men of most ruffianly aspect. "A wild terror seized upon the maiden as for an instant she caught the gaze of mingled malice and sensuality they bent upon her; and seizing Henri's hand, she flew over the ground toward La Tour with the fleetness of a hunted doe. "For herself what had she not to fear! and for the child that he might be slain or reserved for a fate esteemed by the Vaudois worse than death, in being carried off to Pignerol and brought up in an idolatrous faith. "The men pursued, calling to her with oaths, curses, obscene words, and jeering laughter. "These but quickened her flight; she gained the bridge over the Angrogna, sped across it, over the intervening ground, and through the gate into the town; the footsteps of her pursuers echoing close behind. "'Ah ha! escaped my embraces for the present, have you, my pretty barbet?' cried one of the miscreants, following her with gloating, cruel eyes as she sped onward up the street, feeling only comparatively safe even there. 'Ah well, it but delays my pleasure a few hours. I know where to find ye and shall pay my respects to-night.' "'And I,' added his companion with a fierce laugh; 'to ye and many another like ye. It's work quite to my taste Holy Mother Church has laid out for us to-night, Andrea.' "'Yes, yes, Giuseppe, we'll not quarrel with the work or the wages; all the plunder we can lay hands on; to say naught of the pretty maids such as yon, or the escape from the fires of purgatory.' "They were wending their way to the convent of the Récollets as they talked. Arrived at its gates they were immediately admitted, to find it filled with cut-throats such as themselves, and soon learned that the church also and the house of the curé were in like condition. "'Good!' they cried, 'how many names in all?' "'Seven hundred,' said one. "'Eight hundred,' asserted another. "'Well, well, be it which it may, we're strong enough for the work, all the able-bodied barbetti being on the frontier,' cried Andrea, exultingly, 'we'll make short shrift with the old men, women and children.' "'Yes; long live the holy Roman Church! Hurrah for the holy faith! Down with the barbetti!' cried a chorus of voices. 'We'll have a second St. Bartholomew in these valleys and rid them of the hated presence of the cursed heretics.' "'That we will,' responded Giuseppe. 'But what's the order of proceedings?' "'All the faithful to meet at Luserna at sunset; the vesper bell of the convent gives the signal shortly after, and we immediately spread ourselves over the valley on a heretic hunt that from San Giovanni to Bobbi shall leave not a soul alive to tell the tale.' "While Magdalen and Lucia conversed in the cottage of the former, M. Brianza, curé of Luserna, seated in the confessional, listened with horror and indignation to a tale of intended wholesale rapine, murder, and arson, which his penitent was unfolding. "'I will have neither part nor lot in this thing,' said the priest to himself, as he left the church a moment later; 'nay more, I shall warn the intended victims of their danger.' "Hurrying to his house, he instantly dispatched messengers in all haste to San Giovanni and La Tour. "About the same time, in the more remote town of Cavour, the fiendish plot was revealed to Captain Odetti, an officer of the Piedmontese militia, then enrolled to act against the French, with a request that he would take part in its execution. Being a rigid Romanist it was confidently expected that he would willingly do so. "But as noble and humane a man as Luserna's good curé, he listened with like horror and detestation, and mounting his horse, instantly set off for La Tour to warn the helpless folk of the threatened calamity, and assist in averting it, if that might yet be possible. "He travelled post haste, for time pressed; the appointed hour for the attack already drew so near that it was doubtful if even the most prompt action could still avail. "Pale and breathless with haste and terror, Lucia and Henri gained the shelter of their home, and in reply to the anxious questioning of mother and grandparents, told of the hot pursuit of the evil men who had chased them into the town. "Their story was heard with much concern, not only by the family, but also by a young man who had entered nearly at the same moment with themselves. "His right arm was in a sling; his face, thin and wan with suffering, wore an expression of anxiety and alarm which deepened momentarily as the narrative proceeded. "'How is Bianca?' he asked, upon its conclusion, the quiet tone telling nothing of the profound solicitude that filled his breast. "'Much the same,' returned Sara Vittoria, the mother. "'A little better, I think,' said a weak but cheerful voice from the next room. 'Maurice, how is your poor arm? come and tell me.' "He rose and complied with the request. "Bianca, the elder sister of Lucia, had been for a year or more the betrothed of Maurice Laborie. He found her lying pale and languid upon a couch. "'What is it, Maurice?' she asked, presently, noticing his troubled look. "'I wish you were well, Bianca.' "'Ah! I am more concerned about your wound.' "His thoughts seemed far away. He rose hastily. "'I must speak to your grandsire. I will be in again;' and he left the room. "Marc Rozel, the father of Sara Vittoria, a venerable, white-haired veteran who had seen his four-score years and ten, sat at the open door of the cottage, leaning upon his staff, his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the towering heights of Mount Vandelin. "'"As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about His people from henceforth even forever,"' Maurice heard him murmur as he drew near. "There was comfort in the words, and the cloud of care partially lifted from the brow of the young Vaudois. But accosting the aged saint with deep respect, and bending down to speak close to his ear, he uttered a few rapid sentences in an undertone. "'There seems a threatening of danger, Father Rozel; evil-looking men, such as Lucia and the lad were but now describing, have been seen coming into the town for the last two or three days; till now, it is said, the Romish church, the convent of Récollets, the house of the curé, and several other Catholic houses are full of them. What errand think you draws them hither just at this time, when nearly every able-bodied Vaudois is absent on the frontier?' Rozel's face reflected somewhat of the agitation and alarm in that of Maurice; but ere he could open his lips to reply, a neighbor, a young woman with a child in her arms, came rushing across the street, and calling to them in tones tremulous with excitement and affright, told of the warning just brought by Brianza's messenger. "Her face was white with terror, and she clasped her infant to her breast with a look of agony, as she asked, 'Can it be, oh can it be that we are all to be slain in our helplessness? Something must be done, and that quickly. But what, alas! can we do? our husbands, brothers, fathers are all at a distance, and the fatal hour draws near.' "The tones of her voice and some of her words had reached the ears of those within the cottage, and they now gathered about her in an intensely excited, terrified group. Question and answer followed in rapid succession till each knew all that she had heard. "'Can it be possible?' cried Sara, 'can even popish cruelty, ingratitude, and treachery go so far? are not our brave defenders theirs also? keeping the passes against a common foe?' "A mournful shake of the head from her aged father was the only reply, save the sobs and cries of the frightened children. "But at that instant a horseman came dashing up the street, suddenly drew rein before their dwelling, and hastily dismounting, hurried toward them. "'Captain Odetti!' exclaimed Rozel in some surprise. "'Yes, Rozel, I come to warn you, though, alas! I fear I am too late to prevent bloodshed,' said the officer, sending a pitying glance from one to another of the terror-stricken group. "'There is a conspiracy against you; the assassins are even now on foot; but if I cannot save, I will perish with you. The honor of my religion is at stake, and I must justify it by sharing your danger.' "'Can it be that such designs are really entertained against us?' asked Rozel, in trembling tones, glancing from one loved face to another with a look of keenest anguish. 'On what pretext? I know of none.' "'The late base and cowardly surrender of Fort Mirabouc.' "'There was but one Vaudois present, and his voice was raised against it.' "'True, but what matters that to foes bent upon your destruction? some one was to blame, and why not make a scapegoat of the hated Vaudois? But let us not waste time in useless discussion. We must act.' "The fearful tidings flew from house to house, and in the wildest terror the feeble folk began to make what preparations they could for self-defence; by Odetti's advice barricading the streets and houses, collecting missiles to hurl down from the upper windows upon the heads of the assassins, and at the same time dispatching messenger after messenger to General Godin, the Swiss officer in command of the troops on the frontier, telling of the danger and praying for instant aid. "But he, alas! unable, in the nobility of his soul, to credit the existence of a plot so atrocious, turned a deaf ear to their entreaties, declaring his conviction that the alarm was groundless--a mere panic--and that his troops could not be spared to go on so useless an errand. "As one courier after another returned with this same disheartening report, the terror and despair were such as to beggar description. "Lucia Vittoria, recalling, with many a shudder of wild affright, the evil looks and fierce words and gestures of her pursuers of the morning, resolved to defend her own, her mother's, and sister's honor to the last gasp. "'The terrible excitement of the hour seemed to give her unnatural strength for her task of lifting and carrying stones and fragments of rock to be used in repelling the expected assault. Assisted by Henri and every member of the family capable of the exertion, she toiled unceasingly while anything yet remained to be done. "In the midst of their exertions Magdalen Goneto suddenly appeared among them. "'I have heard, and I come to live or die with you, dear friends,' she said, and fell to work with the others. "At length all was completed, and they could only await in dreadful suspense the coming of events. They had continued to importune the commandant, but with no better success than at first. "In the closed and barricaded dwellings hearts were going up to God in agonized prayer for help, for deliverance. "In that of the Vittorias few words were spoken save as now and again the voice of the aged Rozel or that of his venerable wife, his daughter, or Magdalen Goneto, broke the awful silence with some promise from the Book of books to those who trust in the Lord. "Maurice, whose father and brothers were away with the army, torn with anxiety for mother, sisters, and betrothed alike, persuaded the former to follow Magdalen's example in repairing to the house of the Vittorias, that such efforts as he was able to put forth in his crippled condition might be made in their common defence. "Freely would he shed the last drop of his blood to shield them from harm, but, alas! what match was he for even one of the horde of desperadoes that would soon be upon them? what could he do? how speedily would he be overpowered! Help _must_ be obtained. "He stole out through the garden to learn the latest news from the frontier. "The fourteenth courier had just returned in sadness; the commandant was still incredulous; still firm in his refusal to render aid. "'We are then given up to the sword of the assassin!' groaned his hearers. "'No, no, never! it must not be!' cried Maurice with sudden stern determination, though there was a quiver of pain in his voice; and sending a glance of mingled love and anguish toward the cottage that sheltered those dearer to him than life, he set off at a brisk pace up the valley. "Love moved him to the task, and spite of weakness and pain, never before had he trodden those steep and dangerous mountain paths with such celerity. "Arrived and admitted to Godin's presence, he poured out his petition with the vehemence of one who can take no denial, urging his suit with all the eloquence of intense anxiety and deep conviction of the terrible extremity of the feeble folk in the valley. "Doubt began to creep into the mind of the brave officer. 'Might there not be some truth in the story after all?' Yet he answered as before. 'A mere panic. I cannot believe in a plot so atrocious. What! murder in cold blood the innocent, helpless wives and children of the brave men who are defending theirs from a common foe? No, no; human nature is not so depraved!'" "'So it was thought on the eve of the Sicilian Vespers; on the eve of St. Bartholomew; at the time when Castracaro, when De La Trinite, when Pianeza--' "'Ah,' interrupted the general with a frown, 'but those were deeds of days long gone by, and men are not now what they then were.' "'Sir,' returned Maurice earnestly, 'for twelve hundred years the she-wolf of Rome has ravaged our fold, slaying sheep and lambs alike--sparing neither age nor sex; and, sir, it is her boast that she never changes. "'Nor are men incapable of the grossest injustice and cruelty even in these days. Look at the fearful scenes of blood enacted even now in France! General, the lives of thousands of his majesty's evangelical subjects are trembling in the balance, and I do most solemnly assure you that unless saved by your speedy interposition, or a direct miracle from Heaven, they will this night fall victims to a sanguinary plot. "'Ah, sir, what more can I say to convince, to move you? The assassins are already assembling, the time wanes fast, and will you stretch forth no hand to save their innocent, helpless victims?' "The general was evidently moved by the appeal. 'Had I but sufficient proof,' he muttered in an undertone of doubt and perplexity. "Maurice caught eagerly at the word. 'Proof, general! would Odetti, would Brianza have warned us, were the danger not imminent? And do not the annals of your own Switzerland furnish examples of similar plots?' "'True, too true! yet--' "But at this moment the sixteenth courier came panting up to pour out, in an agony of haste and fear, the same tale of contemplated wholesale massacre, and the story reaching the ears of the Vaudois troops they gathered about the general, imploring, _demanding_ to be sent instantly to the aid of their menaced wives and children. "General Godin's mind had been filled with conflicting emotions while Maurice spoke; his humanity, his honor as a soldier, his duty to the government, were struggling for the mastery. "'Ought he to march without orders or even the knowledge of his superiors? and that too with no more certain proof of the illegal assembling of those who were said to be plotting against the peace and safety of the Vaudois families?' "Yet there was no time to reconnoitre ere the dire mischief might be done. His humanity at last prevailed over more prudential considerations. He commanded the brigade of Waldenses to march instantly, and himself followed with another division. "Bianca Vittoria had been carried to an upper room, where all the family were now gathered about her bed. "With unutterable anguish the mother looked upon her two lovely daughters in the early bloom of womanhood, the babe sleeping upon her breast, the little ones clinging to her skirts, her aged and infirm parents, all apparently doomed to a speedy, violent death--and worse than death. Her own danger was well-nigh forgotten in theirs. "Utter silence reigned in that room and the adjoining one, at this time occupied by Magdalen and the mother and sisters of Maurice; every ear was strained to catch the sound of the approaching footsteps of the assassins, or of the longed-for deliverers; a very short season would now decide their fate. Oh, would help never come! "Lucia, kneeling beside her sister's couch, clasping one thin, white hand in hers, suddenly dropped it and sprang to her feet. "'How fast it grows dark! and what was that?' as a heavy, rolling sound reverberated among the mountains; 'artillery?' and her tones grew wild with terror. "'Thunder; the heavens are black with clouds,' said Magdalen, coming in and speaking with the calmness of despair. "A heavy clap nearly drowned her words, then followed crash on crash; the rain came down in torrents--the wind, which had suddenly risen to almost a hurricane, dashing it with fury against walls and windows; the darkness became intense except as ever and anon the lurid glare of the lightning lit up the scene for an instant, giving to each a momentary glimpse of the pale, terror-stricken faces of the others. "'Alas, alas, no help can reach us now!' moaned Sara, clasping her babe closer to her breast, 'no troops can march over our fearful mountain-passes in this terrific storm and thick darkness. _We must die_!' "'Oh, God of our fathers, save us! let us not fall into the hands of those ruffians, who--more to be feared than the wild beasts of the forest--would rob us of honor and of life!' cried Lucia, falling upon her knees again, and lifting hands and eyes to heaven. "'Amen!' responded the trembling voice of Rozel. 'Lord, Thine hand is not shortened that it cannot save, neither Thine ear heavy that it cannot hear!' "The scenes that followed what pen may portray! the wild anguish of some expressed in incoherent words, shrieks of terror, and cries for help, as they seemed to hear amid the roar of the elements the hurried footsteps of the assassins, and to see in the lightning's flash the glitter of their steel; the mute agony of others as in the calmness of despair they crouched helplessly together awaiting the coming blow. * * * * * "Meanwhile the fathers, husbands, sons, brothers were hastening homeward, their brave hearts torn with anguish at thought of the impossibility of arriving before the hour set for the murderers to begin their fiendish work. "There was no regular order of march, but each rushed onward at his utmost speed, praying aloud to God for help to increase it, and calling frantically to his fellows to 'hasten, _hasten_ to the rescue of all they held most dear.' "Alas for their hopes! the shades of evening were already falling, and the storm presently came on in terrific violence, the darkness, the blinding momentary glare of the lightning, the crashing thunder peals, the driving, pouring rain and fierce wind greatly increasing the difficulties and perils of their advance. God Himself seemed to be against them. "But urged on by fear and love for their helpless ones, and by parties of distracted women and children sent forward from La Tour--some of whom, in their terror and despair, asserted that the work of blood had already begun--they pressed onward without a moment's pause, springing from rock to rock, sliding down precipices, scaling giddy heights, leaping chasms which at another time they would not have dared to attempt, and tearing through the rushing, roaring mountain torrents already greatly swollen by the rain. "They reached the last of these, and dashing through it, were presently in sight of La Tour, when the tolling of the vesper bell of the convent of the Récollets--the preconcerted signal for the assassins to sally forth--smote upon their ears. "'Too late! too late!' cried Rudolph Goneto hoarsely. "'But if too late to save, we will avenge!' responded a chorus of deep voices, as with frantic haste they sped over the intervening space. "The next moment the tramp of their feet and the clang of their arms were heard in the streets of the town. Windows and doors flew open and with cries and tears of joy and thankfulness, wives, children, and aged parents gathered about them almost smothering them with caresses. "The storm, which had seemed to seal their doom, had proved their salvation--preventing some of the murderers from reaching the rendezvous in season, and so terrifying the others that they dared not attempt the deed alone; especially as it had already begun to be rumored that troops were on the march to the threatened valley. "Rudolph found himself encircled by his mother's arms, her kisses and tears warm upon his cheek. "He held her close, both hearts too full for speech. Then a single word fell from the soldier's lips, 'Lucia?' "'Safe.' "Darting into the house, guided by some subtle instinct, he stood the next moment in the upper room where she knelt by her sister's couch, the two mingling their tears and thanksgivings together. "All was darkness, but at sound of the well-known step Lucia sprang up with a cry of joy. 'Saved!' "Rudolph's emotions, as he held her to his heart, were too big for utterance. "Some one entered with a light. It was Magdalen, and behind her came Maurice, pale, haggard, and dripping with rain. "Bianca's heart gave a joyous bound. He too was safe. "But a tumult of voices from below--some stern, angry, threatening, others sullen, dogged, defiant, or craven with abject terror--attracted their attention. "Magdalen set down the light and hurried away in the direction of the sounds, Rudolph and Lucia following. "A number of the Waldenses, sword in hand, and eyes flashing with righteous indignation, were gathered about two of the would-be assassins, caught by them almost on the threshold of the cottage. "Their errand who could doubt? and Henri had recognized them as his and Lucia's pursuers of the morning. "She too knew them instantly, and clung pale with affright to Rudolph's arm, while he could scarce restrain himself from rushing upon, and running them through with his sword. "'Spare us, sirs,' entreated Andrea, quaking with fear under the wrathful glance of the father of the maidens, 'spare us; we have not harmed you or yours.' "'Nor plotted their destruction? Miserable wretch, ask not your life upon the plea that it is not forfeit. Can I doubt what would have been the fate of my wife and daughters had they fallen into your hands?' "'But your religion teaches you to forgive.' "'True; yet also to protect the helpless ones committed to my care.' "'We will leave your valleys this hour; never to set foot in them again.' "'Ah! yet how far may we trust the word of one whose creed bids him keep no faith with heretics?' "'" Vengeance is Mine, I will repay."' "It was the voice of the aged Rozel which broke the momentary silence. "Vittoria sheathed his sword. Not his to usurp the prerogative of Him who had that night given so signal deliverance to His 'Israel of the Alps.'" "Is that all?" asked Lulu, drawing a long breath, as Mr. Dinsmore refolded the manuscript and gave it back to his daughter. "Yes," he said, "the author has told of the deliverance of the imperilled ones, and that Vittoria refrained from taking vengeance upon their cowardly foes; and so ends the story of that night of terror in the valleys." "But were all the Waldenses equally forbearing, grandpa?" asked Zoe. "They were; in all the valleys not a drop of blood was shed; justly exasperated though the Waldenses were, they contented themselves with sending to the government a list of the names of the baffled conspirators. "But no notice was taken of it; the would-be murderers were never called to account till they appeared before a greater than an earthly tribunal. "But General Godin was presently superseded in his command and shortly after dismissed the service. Two plain indications that the sympathy of the government was with the assassins and not at all with their intended victims." "But is it true, sir?" asked Max. "Yes; it is true that at that time, in those valleys, and under those circumstances, such a plot was hatched and its carrying out prevented in the exact way that this story relates." "Mean, cowardly, wicked fellows they must have been to want to murder the wives and children and burn and plunder the houses of the men that were defending them and theirs from a common enemy!" exclaimed the boy, his face flushing and eyes flashing with righteous indignation. "Very true; but such are the lessons popery teaches and always has taught; 'no faith with heretics,' no mercy to any who deny her dogmas; and that anything is right and commendable which is done to destroy those who do not acknowledge her authority and to increase her power; one of her doctrines being that the end sanctifies the means!" "But what did they mean when they said they were going to have a second St. Bartholomew in the valleys?" asked Grace. "Did you never hear of the massacre of St. Bartholomew, daughter?" her father asked, stroking her hair caressingly as she sat upon his knee. "No, papa; won't you tell me about it?" "It occurred in France a little more than three hundred years ago; it was a dreadful massacre of the Protestants to the number of from sixty to a hundred thousand; and it was begun on the night of the twenty-third of August; which the Papists call St. Bartholomew's Day. "The Protestants were shot, stabbed, murdered in various ways, in their beds, in the street, any where that they could be found; and for no crime but being Protestants." "And popery would do the very same now and here, had she the power," commented Mr. Dinsmore, "for it is her proudest boast that she never changes. She teaches her own infallibility; and what she has done she will do again if she can." "What is infallibility, papa?" asked Grace. "To be infallible is to be incapable of error or of making mistakes," he answered. "So popery teaching that she has never done wrong or made a mistake justifies all the horrible cruelties she practised in former times; and, in fact, she occasionally tells us, through some of her bolder or less wary followers, that what she has done she will do again as soon as she attains the power." "Which she never will in this free land," exclaimed Edward. "Never, provided Columbia's sons are faithful to their trust; remembering that 'eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,'" responded his grandfather. Grace was clinging tightly to her father, and her little face was pale and wore a look of fright. "What is it, darling?" he asked. "O papa, will they come here some time and kill us?" she asked, tremulously. "Do not be frightened, my dear little one," he said, holding her close; "you are in no danger from them." "I don't believe all Roman Catholics would have Protestants persecuted if they could," remarked Betty. "Do you, uncle?" "No; I think there are some truly Christian people among them," he answered; "some who have not yet heard and heeded the call, 'Come out of her, my people, that ye be not partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues.' We were talking, not of Papists, but of Popery. Sincere hatred of the system is not incompatible with sincere love to its deluded followers." CHAPTER XI. "My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up."--_Psalm_ 5:3. It was early morning; Captain Raymond was pacing to and fro along the top of the cliffs, now sending a glance seaward, and now toward the door of the cottage which was his temporary home, as if expecting a companion in his ramble. Presently the door opened and Lulu stepped out upon the porch. One eager look showed her father, and she bounded with joyful step to meet him. "Good-morning, my dear papa," she cried, holding up her face for a kiss, which he gave with hearty affection. "Good-morning, my dear little early bird," he responded. "Come, I will help you down the steps and we will pace the sands at the water's edge." This was Lulu's time for having her father to herself, as she phrased it. He was sure to be out at this early hour, if the weather would permit, and she almost equally sure to join him: and as the others liked to lie a little longer in bed, there was seldom any one to share his society with her. He led her down the long flights of stairs and across the level expanse of sand, close to where the booming waves dashed up their spray. For some moments the two stood hand in hand silently gazing upon sea and sky, bright with the morning sunlight; then they turned and paced the beach for a time, and then the captain led his little girl to a seat in the porch of a bathing-house, from which they could still look far out over the sea. "Papa," she said, nestling close to his side, "I am very fond of being down here all alone with you." "Are you, daughter?" he said, bending down to caress her hair and cheek. "Well, I dearly love to have my little girl by my side. How long have you been up?" "I can't tell exactly; because, you know, papa, there is no time-piece in my room. But I wasn't long dressing; for I didn't want to lose a minute of the time I might have out here with you." "Did you do nothing but put on your clothes after leaving your bed?" he asked, gravely. "I washed my hands and face and smoothed my hair." "And was that all?" She glanced up at him in surprise at the deep gravity of his tone; then suddenly comprehending what his questioning meant, hung her head, while her cheek flushed hotly. "Yes, papa," she replied, in a low, abashed tone. "I am very, very sorry to hear it," he said. "If my little girl begins the day without a prayer to God for help to do right, without thanking Him for His kind care over her while she slept, she can hardly expect to escape sins and sorrows which will make it anything but a happy day." "Papa, I do 'most always say my prayers in the morning and at night; but I didn't feel like doing it this time. Do you think people ought to pray when they don't feel like it?" "Yes; I think that is the very time when they most need to pray; they need to ask God to take away the hardness of their hearts; the evil in them that is hiding His love and their own needs; so that they have no gratitude to express for all His great goodness and mercy to them, no petitions to offer up for strength to resist temptation and to walk steadily in His ways; no desire to confess their sins and plead for pardon for Jesus' sake. Ah! that is certainly the time when we have most urgent need to pray. "Jesus taught that men (and in the Bible men stand for the whole human race) 'ought always to pray and not to faint.' And we are commanded to pray without ceasing." "Papa, how can we do that?" she asked. "You know we have to be doing other things sometimes." "It does not mean that we are to be always on our knees," he said; "but that we are to live so near to God, so loving Him, and so feeling our constant dependence upon Him, that our hearts will be very often going up to His throne in silent petition, praise or confession. "And if we live in such union with Him we will highly prize the privilege of drawing especially near to Him at certain seasons; we will be glad to be alone with Him often, and will not forget or neglect to retire to our closets night and morning for a little season of close communion with our best and dearest Friend. "You say you love to be alone with me, your earthly father; I trust the time will come when you will love far better to be alone with your heavenly Father. I must often be far away from you, but He is ever near; I may be powerless to help you, though close at your side, but He is almighty to save, to provide for, and to defend; and He never turns a deaf ear to the cry of His children." "Yes, papa; but oh I wish that you were always near me too," she said, leaning her cheek affectionately against his arm. "I am very, very sorry that ever I have been a trouble to you and spoiled your enjoyment of your visits home." "I know you are, daughter; but you have been very good of late. I have rejoiced to see that you were really trying to rule your own spirit. So far as I know, you have been entirely and cheerfully obedient to me, and have not indulged in a single fit of passion or sullenness." "Yes, papa; but I have been nearly in a passion two or three times; but you gave me a look just in time to help me to resist it. But when you are gone I shall not have that help." "Then, my child, you must remember that your heavenly Father is looking at you; that He bids you fight against the evil of your nature, and if you seek it of Him, will give you strength to overcome. Here is a text for you; I want you to remember it constantly; and to that end repeat it often to yourself, 'Thou, God, seest me.' "And do not forget that He sees not only the outward conduct but the inmost thoughts and feelings of the heart." A boy's glad shout and merry whistle mingled pleasantly with the sound of the dashing of the waves, and Max came bounding over the sands toward their sheltered nook. "Good-morning, papa," he cried. "You too, Lulu. Ahead of me as usual, I see!" "Yes," the captain said, reaching out a hand to grasp the lad's and gazing with fatherly affection and pride into the handsome young face glowing with health and happiness, "she is the earliest young bird in the family nest. However, she seeks her roost earlier than her brother does his." "Yes; and I am not so very late, am I, sir?" "No, my boy, I do not suppose you have taken any more sleep than you need for your health and growth; and I certainly would not have you do with less." "I know you wouldn't, papa; such a good, kind father as you are," responded Max. "I wouldn't swap fathers with any other boy," he added, with a look of mingled fun and affection. "Nor would I exchange my son for any other; not even a better one," returned the captain laughingly, tightening his clasp of the sturdy brown hand he held. "I haven't heard yet the story of yesterday's success in boating and fishing; come sit down here by my side and let me have it." Max obeyed, nothing loath, for he was becoming quite expert in both, and always found in his father an interested listener to the story of his exploits. He and the other lads had returned from their camping at the time of the removal of the family party from 'Sconset to Nantucket Town. On the conclusion of his narrative the captain pronounced it breakfast time, and they returned to the house. After breakfast, as nearly the whole party were gathered upon the porch, discussing the question what should be the amusements of the day, a near neighbor with whom they had some acquaintance, ran in to ask if they would join a company who were going over to Shimmo to have a clam-bake. "The name of the place is new to me," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "Is it a town, Mrs. Atwood?" "Oh, no," replied the lady, "there is only one dwelling; a farmhouse with its barns and other out-houses comprises the whole place. It is on the shore of the harbor some miles beyond Nantucket Town. It is a pleasant spot, and I think we shall have an enjoyable time; particularly if I can persuade you all to go." "A regular New England clam-bake!" said Elsie, "I should really like to attend one, and am much obliged for your invitation, Mrs. Atwood; as we all are, I am sure." No one felt disposed to decline the invitation, and it was soon settled that all would go. The clam-bake was to occupy only the afternoon; so they would have time to make all necessary arrangements, and for the customary surf and still baths. Mrs. Atwood had risen to take leave. "Ah," she said, "I was near forgetting something I meant to say: we never dress for these expeditions, but, on the contrary, wear the oldest and shabbiest dresses we have; considering them altogether the most suitable to the occasion, as then we need not be troubled if they should be wet with spray or soiled by contact with seaweed, grass, or anything else." "A very sensible custom," Mrs. Dinsmore responded, "and one which we shall all probably follow." Mrs. Atwood had hardly reached the gate when Lulu, turning to her father with a very discontented face, exclaimed, "I don't want to wear a shabby old dress! Must I, papa?" "You will wear whatever your Grandma Elsie or mamma directs," he answered, giving her a warning look. Then motioning her to come close to his side, he whispered in her ear, "I see that you are inclined to be ill-tempered and rebellious again, as I feared you would, when I learned that you had begun the day without a prayer for help to do and feel right. Go, now, to your room and ask it." "You needn't fret, Lu; you don't own a dress that any little girl ought to feel ashamed to wear," remarked Betty, as the child turned to obey. "And we are all going to wear the very worst we have here with us, I presume," added Zoe; "at least such is my intention." "Provided your husband approves," whispered Edward sportively. "Anyhow," she answered, drawing herself up in pretended offence; "can't a woman do as she pleases even in such trifles?" "Ah I but it is the privileges of a child-wife which are under discussion now," "Now, sir, after that you shall just have the trouble of telling me what to wear," said Zoe, rising from the couch where they had been sitting side by side; "come along and choose." Lulu was in the room where she slept, obeying her father's order so far as outward actions went; but there was little more than lip-service in the prayer she offered, for her thoughts were wandering upon the subject of dress, and ways and means for obtaining permission to wear what she wished that afternoon. By the time she had finished "saying her prayers," she had also reached a conclusion as to her best plan for securing the desired privilege. Grandma Elsie was so very kind and gentle that there seemed more hope of moving her than any one else; so to her she went, and, delighted to find her comparatively alone, no one being near enough to overhear a low-toned conversation, began at once: "Grandma Elsie, I want to wear a white dress to the clam-bake; and I think it would be suitable, because the weather is very warm, and white will wash, so that it would not matter if I did get it soiled." "My dear child, it is your father's place to decide what concerns his children, when he is with them," Elsie said, drawing the little girl to her and smoothing her hair with soft, caressing touch. "Yes, ma'am; but he says you and Mamma Vi are to decide this. So if you will only say I may wear the white dress, he will let me. Won't you, please?" "If your father is satisfied with your choice I shall certainly raise no objection; nor will your mamma, I am quite sure." "Oh, thank you, ma'am!" and Lulu ran off gleefully in search of her father. She found him on the veranda, busied with the morning paper, and to her satisfaction, he too was alone. "What is it, daughter?" he asked, glancing from his paper to her animated, eager face. "About what I am to wear this afternoon, papa. I would like to wear the white dress I had on yesterday evening, and Grandma Elsie does not object, and says she knows Mamma Vi will not, if you say I may." "Did she say she thought it a suitable dress?" he asked gravely. Lulu hung her head. "No, sir; she didn't say that she did or she didn't." "Go and ask her the question." Lulu went back and asked it. "No, my child, I do not," Elsie answered. "It is very unlikely that any one else will be in white or anything at all dressy, and you will look overdressed, which is in very bad taste; besides, though the weather seems warm enough for such thin material here on shore, it will be a great deal cooler on the water; and should the waves or spray come dashing over us, you would find your dress clinging to you like a wet rag--neither beauty nor comfort in it." "I could wear a waterproof over it while we are sailing," said Lulu. "Even that might not prove a perfect protection," Elsie replied. "I think, my dear, you will do well to content yourself to wear your travelling dress, which is of a light woollen material, neat without being too dressy, and of a color that will not show every little soil. And it is as good and handsome as the dress I shall wear or as Rosie, and probably any one else, will have on." "But you can choose for yourself, Grandma Elsie, and I wish I could." "That is one of the privileges of older years," Elsie answered pleasantly. "I was considerably older than you are before I was allowed to select my own attire. But I repeat that I shall not raise the slightest objection to your wearing anything your father is willing to see on you." Lulu's hopes were almost gone, but she would make one more effort. She went to her father, and putting her arms round his neck, begged in her most coaxing tones for the gratification of her wish. "What did your Grandma Elsie say?" he asked. Lulu faithfully, though with no little reluctance, repeated every word Elsie had said to her on the subject. "I entirely agree with her," said the captain; "so entirely that even had she found no objection to urge against it, I should have forbidden you to wear the dress." Lulu heard him with a clouded brow; in fact, the expression of her face was decidedly sullen. Her father observed it with sorrow and concern. "Sit down here till I am ready to talk to you," he said, indicating a chair close at his side. Lulu obeyed, sitting quietly there while he finished his paper. Throwing it aside at length, he took her hand and drew her in between his knees, putting an arm about her waist. "My little daughter," he said, in his usual kind tone, "I am afraid you care too much for dress and finery. What I desire for you is that you may 'be clothed with humility,' and have 'the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is, in the sight of God, of great price.'" "I never can have that, papa, for it isn't a bit like me," she said, with a sort of despairing impatience and disgust at herself. "No, that is too true; it is not like you as you are by nature--the evil nature inherited from me; but God is able to change that, to give you a clean heart and renew within you a right spirit. Jesus is a Saviour from sin (He saves none in their sins), and He is able to save to the uttermost, able to take away the very last remains of the old corrupt nature with which we were born. "Oh, my child, seek His help to fight against it and to overcome! It grieves me more than I can express to see you again showing an unlovely, wilful temper." "Oh, papa, don't be grieved," she said, throwing her arms round his neck and pressing her lips to his cheek. "I will be good and wear whatever I'm told; look pleasant about it too, for indeed I do love you too well to want to grieve you and spoil your pleasure." "Ah, that is my own dear little girl," he answered, returning her caresses. The sullen expression had vanished from her face and it wore its brightest look, yet it clouded again the next moment, but with sorrow, not anger, as she sighed, "Oh! if you were always with us, papa, I think I might grow good at last; but I need your help so much, and you are gone more than half the time." "Your heavenly Father is never gone, daughter, and will never turn a deaf ear to a cry for strength to resist temptation to sin. He says, 'In me is thine help.' "And we are told, 'God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.'" In the mean time Mrs. Dinsmore, who from choice took most of the housekeeping cares, was ordering an early dinner and various baskets of provisions for the picnic. As the family sat down to the table, these last were being conveyed on board a yacht lying at the little pier near the bathing-place below the cliffs; and almost immediately upon finishing their meal, all, old and young, trooped down the stairways, across the sandy beach, and were themselves soon aboard the vessel. Others of the company were already seated in it, and the rest following a few minutes later, and the last basket of provisions being safely stowed away in some safe corner of the craft, they set sail, dragging at their stern a dory in which was a large quantity of clams in the shell. It was a bright day, and a favorable breeze sent the yacht skimming over the water at an exhilarating rate of speed. All hearts seemed light, every face was bright, not excepting Lulu's, though she was attired in the plain colored dress recommended by Grandma Elsie. There was no greater display of finery than a knot of bright ribbon, on the part of even the gayest young girl present. Betty wore a black bunting--one of her school dresses--with a cardinal ribbon at the throat; Zoe the brown woollen that had for her such mingled associations of pain and pleasure, and looked wonderfully sweet and pretty in it, Edward thought. They sat side by side, and Betty, watching them furtively, said to herself, "They are for all the world just like a pair of lovers yet, though they have been married over a year." Then turning her attention first to Violet and Captain Raymond, then upon her Aunt and Uncle Dinsmore, she came to the same conclusion in regard to them also. "And it was just so with cousin Elsie and her husband," she mused. "I can remember how devoted they were to each other. But she seems very happy now, and she well may be, with father, sons and daughters all so devoted to her. And she's so rich too; never has to consider how to make one dollar do the work of two; a problem I am so often called upon to solve. In fact, it is to her and uncle, Bob and I owe our education, and pretty much everything we have. "I don't envy her her money, but I do the love that has surrounded her all her life. She never knew her own mother, to be sure, but her father petted and fondled her as a child, and was father and mother both to her, I've often heard her say; while mine died before I was born, and mother lost her reason when I was a little thing." But Betty was not much given to melancholy musing, or indeed to musing of any kind; a passing sail presently attracted her attention and turned her thoughts into a new channel. And soon, the wind and tide being favorable, the yacht drew near her destination. There was no wharf, but the passengers were taken to the shore, a few at a time, in the dory. It also landed provision baskets and the clams. Those ladies and gentlemen to whom clam-bakes were a new experience watched with interest the process of cooking the bivalves. A pit of suitable size for the quantity to be prepared was made in the sand, the bottom covered with stones; it was then heated by a fire kindled in it, the brands were removed, seaweed spread over the stones, the clams poured in, abundance of seaweed piled over and about them, a piece of an old sail put over that, and they were left to bake or steam, while another fire was kindled near by, and a large tin bucket, filled with water, set on it to boil for making coffee. While some busied themselves with these culinary operations, others repaired to the dwelling, which stood some little distance back from the beach, the ground sloping gently away from it to the water's edge. The lady of the house met them at the door, and hospitably invited them to come in and rest themselves in her parlor, or sit on the porch; and understanding their errand to the locality, not only gave ready permission for their table to be spread in the shade of her house, but offered to lend anything they might require in the way of utensils. Accepting her offer, they set to work, the men making a rough sort of impromptu table with some boards, and the ladies spreading upon it the contents of the provision baskets. Mrs. Dinsmore, Elsie and the younger ladies of their party, offered to assist in these labors, but were told that they were considered guests, and must be content to look on or wander about and amuse themselves. There was not much to be seen but grassy slopes destitute of tree or shrub, and the harbor and open sea beyond. They seated themselves upon the porch of the dwelling-house, while Captain Raymond and the younger members of their family party wandered here and there about the place. There seemed to be some sport going on among the cooks--those engaged in preparing the coffee. Lulu hurried toward them to see what it was about, then came running back to her father, who stood a little farther up the slope, with Grace clinging to his hand. "Oh!" she said with a face of disgust, "I don't mean to drink any of that coffee; why, would you believe it, they stirred it with a poker?" "Did they?" laughed the captain; "they might have done worse. I presume that was used for lack of a long enough spoon. We must not be too particular on such occasions as this." "But you won't drink any of it, will you, papa?" "I think it altogether likely I shall." "Why, papa! coffee that was stirred with a dirty poker?" "We will suppose the poker was not very dirty," he said, with a good-humored smile; "probably there was nothing worse on it than a little ashes, which, diffused through so large a quantity of liquid, could harm no one." "Must I drink it if they offer me a cup?" "No; there need be no compulsion about it; indeed, I think it better for a child of your age not to take coffee at all." "But you never said I shouldn't, papa." "No; because you had formed the habit in my absence, and, as I am not sure that it is a positive injury to you, I have felt loath to deprive you of the pleasure." "You are so kind, papa," she said, slipping her hand into his and looking up affectionately into his face. "But I will give up coffee if you want me to. I like it, but I can do without it." "I think milk is far more wholesome for you," he said, with a smile of pleased approval. "I should like you to make that your ordinary beverage at meals, but I do not forbid an occasional cup of coffee." "Thank you, papa," she returned. "Grandma Elsie once told me that when she was a little girl her father wouldn't allow her to drink coffee at all, or to eat any kind of hot cakes or rich sweet cake; and oh I don't know how many things that she liked he wouldn't let her have. I don't think he was half as nice a father as ours; do you, Gracie?" "'Course I don't, Lu; I just think we've got the very best in the whole world," responded Grace, laying her cheek affectionately against the hand that held hers in its strong, loving clasp. "That is only because he is your own, my darlings," the captain said, smiling down tenderly upon them. A lady had drawn near, and now said, "Supper is ready, Captain Raymond; will you bring your little girls and come to the table?" "Thank you; we will do so with pleasure," he said, following her as she led the way. The table, covered with a snow-white cloth and heaped with tempting viands, presented a very attractive appearance. The clams were brought on after the most of the company were seated, with their coffee and bread and butter before them. They were served hot from the fire and the shell, in neat paper trays, and eaten with melted butter. Eaten thus they make a dish fit for a king. By the time that all appetites were satisfied, the sun was near his setting, and it was thought best to return without delay. On repairing to the beach, they found the tide so low that even the dory could not come close to dry land; so the ladies and children were carried through the water to the yacht. This gave occasion for some merriment. "You must carry me, Ned, if I've got to be carried," said Zoe; "I'm not going to let anybody else do it." "No; nor am I," he returned, gayly, picking her up and striding forward. "I claim it as my especial privilege." Mr. Dinsmore followed with his wife, then Captain Raymond with his. "Get in, Mr. Dinsmore," said the captain, as they deposited their burdens; "there is no occasion for further exertion on your part; I'll bring mother." "No, sir," said Edward, hurrying shoreward again, "that's my task; you have your children to take care of." "Your mother is my child, Ned, and I think I shall take care of her," Mr. Dinsmore said, hastening back to the little crowd still at the water's edge. "We will have to let her decide which of us shall have the honor," said the captain. "That I won't," Mr. Dinsmore said, laughingly, stepping to his daughter's side and taking her in his arms. "Now, you two may take care of the younger ones," he added, with a triumphant glance at his two rivals. "Ah, Ned, we are completely outwitted," laughed the captain. "Yes; with grandpa about one can't get half a chance to wait upon mother. Betty, shall I have the honor and pleasure of conveying you aboard of yonder vessel?" "Yes, thank you; I see Harold and Herbert are taking Rosie and Walter," she said. "But I warn you that I am a good deal heavier than Zoe." "Nevertheless, I think my strength will prove equal to the exertion," he returned, as he lifted her from the ground. Lulu and Grace stood together, hand in hand, Max on Gracie's other side. "Take Gracie first, please, papa," said Lulu; "she is frightened, I believe." "Frightened?" he said, stooping to take her in his arms; "there is nothing to be afraid of, darling. Do you think papa would leave you behind or drop you into the water?" "No; I know you wouldn't," she said, with a little nervous laugh, and clinging tightly about his neck. "Mayn't I wade out, papa?" Max called after him. "Yes; but stay with your sister till I come for her." "Where's my baby, Levis?" asked Violet, laughingly, as he set Grace down by her side. "The baby! Sure enough, where is it?" he exclaimed, with an anxious glance toward the shore. "Ah, there stands the nurse with it in her arms. You shall have it in yours in a moment." "Here's the baby, papa; please take her first; I don't mind waiting," said Lulu, as he stepped ashore again. He gave her a pleased, approving look. "That is right; it will be but a minute or two," he said, as he took the babe and turned away with it. In a few minutes more, all the passengers were aboard, and they set sail; but they had not gone far when it became evident that something was amiss; they were making no progress. "What is the matter?" asked several voices, and Violet looked inquiringly at her husband. "There is no cause for apprehension," he said; "we are aground, and may possibly have to wait here for the turn of the tide; that's all." "It's the lowest tide I ever saw," remarked the captain of the yacht; "we'll have to lighten her; if some of the heaviest of you will get into the dory, it will help." Quite a number immediately volunteered to do so, among them Edward and Zoe, Bob and Betty, Harold and Herbert. The dory was speedily filled, and then, with a little more exertion the yacht was set afloat. They moved out into deep water, and a gentle breeze wafted them pleasantly toward their desired haven. "Look at the sun, papa," Elsie said, gazing westward. "It has a very peculiar appearance." "Yes," he said, "it looks a good deal like a balloon; it's redness obscured by that leaden-colored cloud. It is very near its setting; we shall not get in till after dark." "But that will not matter?" "Oh, no; our captain is so thoroughly acquainted with his vessel, the harbor and the wharf, that I have no doubt he would land us safely even were it much darker than it will be." Zoe and Edward, in the dory, were talking with a Nantucket lady, a Mrs. Fry. "How do you like our island, and particularly our town?" she asked. "Oh, ever so much!" said Zoe. "We have visited a good many watering-places and sea-side resorts, but never one where there was so much to see and to do; so many delightful ways of passing the time. I think I shall vote for Nantucket again next year, when we are considering where to pass the hot months." "And I," said Edward, "echo my wife's sentiments on the subject under discussion." "Your wife" the lady exclaimed, with a look of surprise. "I took her to be your sister; you are both so very young in appearance." "We are not very old," laughed Edward; "Zoe is but sixteen, but we have been married a year." "You have begun early; it is thought by some that early marriages are apt to be the happiest, and I should think them likely to be, provided the two are willing to conform their tastes and habits each to those of the other. I trust you two have a long life of happiness before you." "Thank you," they both said, Edward adding, "I think we are disposed to accommodate ourselves to each other, and whether our lives be long or short, our trials many or few, I trust we shall always find great happiness in mutual sympathy, love and confidence." The lady asked if they had seen all the places of interest on the island, and in reply they named those they had seen. "Have you been to Mrs. Mack's?" she asked. "No, madam, we have not so much as heard of her existence," returned Edward, sportively. "May I ask who and what she is?" "Yes; she is the widow of a sea-captain, who has a collection of curiosities which she keeps on exhibition, devoting the proceeds, so she says, to benevolent purposes. She is an odd body; herself the greatest curiosity she has to show, I think. You should visit her museum by all means." "We shall be happy to do so if you will kindly put us in the way of it," said Edward. "How shall we proceed in order to gain admittance?" "If we can get up a party it will be easy enough; I shall then send her word, and she will appoint the hour when she will receive us; she likes to show her independence, and will not exhibit unless to a goodly number. "I know of several visitors on the island who want to go, and if your party will join with them there will be no difficulty." "I think I can promise that we will," said Edward. "I will let you know positively to-morrow morning." "That will do nicely. Hark, they are singing aboard the yacht." They listened in silence till the song was finished. "I recognized most of the voices," Mrs. Fry remarked, "but two lovely sopranos were quite new to me. Do you know the owners?" turning smilingly to Edward. "My mother and sister," he answered, with proud satisfaction. "Naturally fine, and very highly cultivated," she said. "You must be proud of them." "I am," Edward admitted, with a happy laugh. The sun was down and twilight had fairly begun. Grace, seated on her father's knee, was gazing out over the harbor. "See, papa, how many little lights close down to the water!" she said. "Yes; they are lamps on the small boats that are sailing or rowing about; they show them for safety from running into each other." "And they look so pretty." "Yes, so they do; and it is a sight one may have every evening from the wharf. Shall I take you down there some evening and let you sit and watch them as they come and go?" "Oh, yes, do, papa; I think it would be so nice! And you would take Max and Lulu too, wouldn't you?" "If they should happen to want to go; there are benches on the wharf where we can sit and have a good view. I think we will try it to-morrow evening if nothing happens to prevent." "Oh, I'm so glad! You are such a good, kind papa," she said, delightedly, giving him a hug. "The very best you have ever had, I suppose," he responded, with a pleased laugh. "Yes, indeed," she answered, naïvely, quite missing the point of his jest. On reaching home Edward and Zoe reported their conversation with the lady in the dory, and asked, "Shall we not go?" "I think so, by all means, since it is for benevolent objects," said Elsie. "Or anyhow, since we feel in duty bound to see all that is to be seen on this island," said Captain Raymond. No dissenting voice was raised, and when the next morning word came that Mrs. Mack would exhibit that afternoon if a party were made up to attend, they all agreed to go. The distance was too great for ladies and children to walk, so carriages were ordered. Captain Raymond and his family filled one. "This is the street that oldest house is on," remarked Lulu, as they turned a corner; "I mean that one we went to see; that has the big horse-shoe on its chimney." "What do they have that for, papa?" asked Grace. "In old times when many people were ignorant and superstitious, it was thought to be a protection from witches." "Witches, papa? what are they?" "I don't think there are any, really," he said, with a kindly smile into the eagerly inquiring little face; "but in old times it was a very common belief that there were people--generally some withered-up old women--who had dealings with Satan, and were given power by him to torment, or bring losses and various calamities upon any one whom they disliked. "When you are a little older you shall hear more about it, and how that foolish belief led to great crimes and cruelties inflicted upon many innocent, harmless people. But now, while my Gracie is so young and timid, I do not want her to know too much about such horrors." "Yes, papa," she responded; "I won't try to know till you think I'm quite old enough." Several vehicles drew up at the same moment in front of Mrs. Mack's door, and greetings and some introductions were exchanged on the sidewalk and door-steps. Edward introduced his mother and Mrs. Fry to each other, and the latter presented to them a Mrs. Glenn, who, she said, was a native of Nantucket, but had only recently returned after an absence of many years. "Mrs. Mack knew me as a young girl," Mrs. Glenn remarked, "and I am quite curious to see whether she will recognize me." At that instant the door was opened in answer to their ring, and they were invited to enter and walk into the parlor. They found it comfortably furnished and neat as wax. Seating themselves they waited patiently for some moments the coming of the lady of the house. At length she made her appearance; a little old lady, neatly attired, and with a pleasant countenance. Mrs. Fry saluted her with a good-afternoon, adding, "I have brought some friends with me to look at your curiosities. This lady," indicating Mrs. Glenn, "you ought to know, as you were acquainted with her in her girlhood." "Do you know me, Mrs. Mack?" asked Mrs. Glenn, offering her hand. "Yes, you look as natural as the pigs," was the rather startling reply; accompanied, however, by a smile and cordial shake of the offered hand. "Now, we'll take the money first to make sure of it," was the next remark, addressed to the company in general. "What is your admission fee?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, producing his pocketbook. "Fifteen cents apiece." "By no means exorbitant if your collection is worth seeing," he returned, good-humoredly. "Never mind your purses, Elsie, Raymond, Ned, I'll act as paymaster for the party." The all-important business of collecting the entrance fees having been duly attended to, Mrs. Mack led the way to an upper room where minerals, shells, sharks' teeth, and various other curiosities and relics were spread out upon tables and shelves, ranged along the sides and in the centre of the apartment. "Now," she said, "the first thing is to register your names. You must all register. You begin," handing the book to Mr. Dinsmore, "you seem to be the oldest." "I presume I am," he said, dryly, taking the book and doing as he was bidden. "Now, you, Raymond," passing it on to the captain, "we'll take it for granted that you are next in age and importance." "That's right, captain," laughed Betty, as he silently took the book and wrote his name, "it wouldn't be at all polite to seem to think yourself younger than any lady present." "Of course not, Miss Betty; will you take your turn next?" "Of course not, sir; do you mean to insinuate that I am older than Aunt Rose?" she asked, passing the book on to Mrs. Dinsmore. "Don't be too particular about going according to ages," said Mrs. Mack, "it takes up too much time." "You may write my name for me, Ned," said Zoe, when he took the book. "Yes, write your sister's name for her; it'll do just as well," said Mrs. Mack. "But I'm not his sister," said Zoe. "What, then? is he your lover?" "No," Edward said, laughing, "we're husband and wife." "You've begun young," she remarked, taking the book and passing it on; "don't look as if you'd cut your wisdom teeth yet, either of you. When the ladies have all registered, some of you grown folks had better do it for the children." Having seen all their names duly inscribed in her register, "Seat yourselves," she said, waving her hand toward some benches and chairs. Then, with the help of a half-grown girl, she set out a small circular table, placed a box upon it, pushed up chairs and a bench or two, and said, "Now, as many of you as can, come and sit round this table; the others shall have their turn afterward." When all the places were filled, she opened the box and took from it a number of beautifully carved articles--napkin-rings, spoons, etc. "Now, all take your turns in looking at this lovely carved work, while I tell you its story," she said, "the story of how it came into my possession." "You see, my husband was a sea-captain, and upon one occasion, when he was about setting sail for a long voyage, a young man, or lad--he was hardly old enough to be called a man--came and asked to be taken as one of the crew. He gave a name, but it wasn't his true name, inherited from his father, as my husband afterward discovered. But not suspecting anything wrong, he engaged the lad, and took him with him on the voyage. "And the lad behaved well aboard the ship, and he used to carve wonderfully well--as you may see by looking at these articles--just with a jack-knife, and finally--keeping at it in his leisure moments--he made all these articles, carving them out of sharks' teeth. "You can see he must have had genius; hadn't he? and yet he'd run away from home to go to sea, as my husband afterward had good reason to believe." She made a long story of it, spinning out her yarn until the first set had examined the carved work to their satisfaction. Then, "Reverse yourselves," she said, indicating by a wave of her hand, that they were to give place at the table to the rest of the company. When all had had an opportunity to examine the specimens of the lad's skill, the young girl was ordered to restore them to the box, but first to count them. That last clause brought an amused smile to nearly every face in the audience, but Lulu frowned, and muttered, "Just as if she thought we would steal them!" Next, Mrs. Mack began the circuit of the room, carrying a long slender stick with which she pointed out those which she considered the most interesting of her specimens or articles of virtu. One of these last was a very large, very old-fashioned back-comb, having a story with a moral attached, the latter recited in doggerel rhyme. She had other stories, in connection with other articles, to tell in the same way. In fact, so many and so long were they, that the listeners grew weary and inattentive ere the exhibition was brought to a close. The afternoon was waning when they left the house. As Captain Raymond and his family drove into the heart of the town on their way home, their attention was attracted by the loud ringing of a hand-bell, followed now and again by noisy vociferation, in a discordant, man's voice. "So the evening boat is in," remarked the captain. "How do you know, papa?" asked Grace. "By hearing the town-crier calling his papers; which could not have come in any other way." "What does he say, papa?" queried Lulu. "I have listened as intently as possible many a time, but I never can make out more than a word or two, sometimes not that." "No more can I," he answered, with a smile; "it sounds to me like 'The first news is um mum, and the second news is mum um mum, and the third news is um um mum." The children all laughed. "Yonder he is, coming this way," said Max, leaning from the carriage window. "Beckon to him," said the captain; "I want a paper." Max obeyed; the carriage stopped, the crier drew near and handed up the paper asked for. "How much?" inquired the captain. "Five cents, sir." "Why, how is that? You asked me but three for yesterday's edition of this same paper." "More news in this one." "Ah, you charge according to the amount of news, do you?" returned the captain, laughing, and handing him a nickel. "Yes, sir; I guess that's about the fair way," said the crier, hastily regaining the sidewalk to renew the clang, clang of his bell and the "um mum mum" of his announcement. CHAPTER XII. "Wave high your torches on each crag and cliff. Let many lights blaze on our battlements; Shout to them in the pauses of the storm, And tell them there is hope." --_Maturings "Bertram."_ The evening was cool, and our whole party were gathered in the parlor of the cottage occupied by the Dinsmores and Travillas--games, fancy-work, reading, and conversation making the time fly. Edward and Zoe had drawn a little apart from the others, and were conversing together in an undertone. "Suppose we go out and promenade the veranda for a little," he said, presently. "I will get you a wrap and that knit affair for your head that I think so pretty and becoming." "Crocheted," she corrected; "yes, I'm quite in the mood for a promenade with my husband; and I'm sure the air outside must be delightful. But you won't have to go farther than that stand in the corner for my things." He brought them, wrapped the shawl carefully about her, and they went out. Betty, looking after them, remarked aside to her Cousin Elsie, "How lover-like they are still!" "Yes," Elsie said, with a glad smile: "they are very fond of each other, and it rejoices my heart to see it." "And one might say exactly the same of the captain and Violet," pursued Betty, in a lower tone, and glancing toward that couple, as they sat side by side on the opposite sofa--Violet with her babe in her arms, the captain clucking and whistling to it, while it cooed and laughed in his face--Violet's ever-beautiful face more beautiful than its wont, with its expression of exceeding love and happiness as her glance rested now upon her husband and now upon her child. "Yes," Elsie said again, watching them, with a joyous smile still wreathing her lips and shining in her eyes; "and it is just so with my dear Elsie and Lester. I am truly blest in seeing my children so well mated and so truly happy." "Zoe, little wife," Edward was saying, out on the veranda, "can you spare me for a day or two?" "Spare you, Ned? How do you mean?" "I should like to join the boys--Bob, Harold, and Herbert--in a little trip on a sailing vessel which leaves here early to-morrow morning and will return on the evening of the next day or the next but one. I should ask my little wife to go with us, but, unfortunately, the vessel has no accommodations for ladies. What do you say, love? I shall not go without your consent." "Thank you, you dear boy, for saying that," she responded, affectionately, squeezing the arm on which she leaned; "go if you want to; I know I can't help missing the kindest and dearest husband in the world, but I shall try to be happy in looking forward to the joy of reunion on your return." "That's a dear," he said, bending down to kiss the ruby lips. "It is a great delight to meet after a short separation, and we should miss that entirely if we never parted at all." "But oh, Ned, if anything should happen to you!" she said, in a quivering voice. "Hush, hush, love," he answered, soothingly; "don't borrow trouble; remember we are under the same protection on the sea as on the land, and perhaps as safe on one as on the other." "Yes; but when I am with you I share your danger, if there is any, and that is what I wish; for oh, Ned, I couldn't live without you!" "I hope you may never have to try it, my darling," he said, in tender tones, "or I be called to endure the trial of having to live without you; yet we can hardly hope to go together. "But let us not vex ourselves with useless fears. We have the promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' And we know that nothing can befall us without the will of our Heavenly Father, whose love and compassion are infinite. 'We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.'" "But if one is not at all sure of belonging to Him?" she said, in a voice so low that he barely caught the words. "Then the way is open to come to Him. He says, 'Come unto me.' 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.' The invitation is to you, love, as truly as if addressed to you alone; as truly as if you could hear His voice speaking the sweet words and see His kind eyes looking directly at you. "It is my ardent wish, my most earnest, constant prayer, that my beloved wife may speedily learn to know, love, and trust in Him who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life!" "You are so good, Ned! I wish I were worthy of such a husband," she murmured, half sighing as she spoke. "Quite a mistake, Zoe," he replied, with unaffected humility; "to hear you talk so makes me feel like a hypocrite. I haves no righteousness of my own to plead, but, thanks be unto God, I may rejoice in the imputed righteousness of Christ! And that may be yours, too, love, for the asking. "'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.' "They are the Master's own words; and He adds: 'For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.'" Meanwhile the contemplated trip of the young men was under discussion in the parlor. "Dear me!" said Betty, who had just heard of it, "how much fun men and boys do have! Don't you wish you were one of them, Lulu?" "No, I don't," returned Lulu, promptly. "I'd like to be allowed to do some of the things they do that we mustn't, but I don't want to be a boy." "That is right," said her father; "there are few things so unpleasant to me as a masculine woman, who wishes herself a man and tries to ape the stronger, coarser sex in dress and manners. I hope my girls will always be content, and more than content, to be what God has made them." "If you meant to hit me that time, captain," remarked Betty, in a lively tone, "let me tell you it was a miserable failure, for I don't wish I was a man, and never did. Coarse creatures, as you say--present company always excepted--who would want to be one of them." "I'd never have anything to do with one of them if I were in your place, Bet," laughed her brother. "Perhaps I shouldn't, only that they seem a sort of necessary evil," she retorted. "But why don't you invite some of us ladies to go along?" "Because you are _not_ necessary evils," returned her brother, with a twinkle of fun in his eye. "You should, one and all, have an invitation if we could make you comfortable," said Harold, gallantly: "but the vessel has absolutely no accommodations for ladies." "Ah, then, you are excusable," returned Betty. The young men left the next morning, after an early breakfast. Zoe and Betty drove down to the wharf with them to see them off, and watched the departing vessel till she disappeared from sight. Zoe went home in tears, Betty doing her best to console her. "Come, now, be a brave little woman; it's for only two or three days at the farthest. Why, I'd never get married if I thought I shouldn't be able to live so long without the fortunate man I bestowed my hand upon." "Oh, you don't know anything about it, Betty!" sobbed Zoe. "Ned's all I have in the world, and it's so lonesome without him! And then, how do I know that he'll ever get back? A storm may come up and the vessel be wrecked." "That's just possible," said Betty, "and it's great folly to make ourselves miserable over bare possibilities--things which may never happen." "Oh, you are a great deal too wise for me!" said Zoe, in disgust. "Oh," cried Betty, "if it's a pleasure and comfort to you to be miserable--to make yourself so by anticipating the worst--do so by all means. I have heard of people who are never happy but when they are miserable." "But I am not one of that sort," said Zoe, in an aggrieved tone. "I am as happy as a lark when Ned is with me. Yes, and I'll show you that I can be cheerful even without him." She accordingly wiped her eyes, put on a smile, and began talking in a sprightly way about the beauty of the sea as they looked upon it, with its waves dancing and sparkling in the brilliant light of the morning sun. "What shall we do to-day?" queried Betty. "Take a drive," said Zoe. "Yes; I wish there was some new route or new place to go to." "There's a pretty drive to the South Shore, that maybe you have not tried yet," suggested the hackman. "South Shore? That's another name for Surfside, isn't it?" asked Betty. "It's another part of the same side of the island I refer to," he answered. "It's a nice drive through the avenue of pines--a road the lovers are fond of--and if the south wind blows, as it does this morning, you have a fine surf to look at when you get there." "If a drive is talked of to-day, let us propose this one, Zoe," said Betty. "Yes; I dare say it is as pleasant as any we could take," assented Zoe. "I wish Edward was here to go with us." Elsie, with her usual thoughtfulness for others, had been considering what could be done to prevent Zoe from feeling lonely in Edward's absence. She saw the hack draw up at the door, and meeting the young girls on the threshold with a bright face and pleasant smile: "You have seen the boys off?" she said, half inquiringly. "The weather is so favorable, that I think they can hardly fail to enjoy themselves greatly." "Yes, mamma, I hope they will; but ah, a storm may come and wreck them before they can get back," sighed Zoe, furtively wiping away a tear. "Possibly; but we won't be so foolish as to make ourselves unhappy by anticipating evils that may never come," was the cheery rejoinder. "The Edna has a skilful captain, a good crew, and is doubtless entirely seaworthy--at least so Edward assured me--and for the rest we must trust in Providence. "Come in, now, and let me give you each a cup of coffee. Your breakfast with the boys was so early and so slight, that you may find appetite for a supplement," she added, sportively, as she led the way into the cosey little dining-room of the cottage, where they found a tempting repast spread especially for them, the others having already taken their morning meal. "How nice in you, Cousin Elsie!" exclaimed Betty. "I wasn't expecting to eat another breakfast, but I find a rapidly coming appetite; these muffins and this coffee are so delicious." "So they are," said Zoe. "I never knew anybody else quite so kindly thoughtful as mamma." "I think I know several," Elsie rejoined; "but it is very pleasant to be so highly appreciated. Now, my dear girls, you will confer a favor if you will tell me in what way I can make the day pass most pleasantly to you." "Thank you, cousin. It is a delightful morning for a drive, I think," said Betty; then went on to repeat what their hackman had said of the drive to the South Shore. "It sounds pleasant. I think we will make up a party and try it," Elsie said. "You would like it, Zoe?" "Yes, mamma, better than anything I know of beside. The man says that just there the beach has not been so thoroughly picked over for shells and other curiosities, and we may be able to find some worth having." No one had made any special plans for the day, so all were ready to fall into this proposed by Zoe and Betty. Hacks were ordered--enough to hold all of their party now at hand--and they started. They found the drive all it had been represented. For some distance their way lay along the bank of a long pond, pretty to look at and interesting as connected with old times and ways of life on the island. Their hackmen told them that formerly large flocks of sheep were raised by the inhabitants, and this pond was one of the places where the sheep were brought at a certain time of year to be washed and shorn. On arriving at their destination, they found a long stretch of sandy beach, with great thundering waves dashing upon it. "Oh," cried Zoe and Betty, in delight, "it is like a bit of 'Sconset!" "Look away yonder," said Lulu; "isn't that a fisherman's cart?" "Yes," replied her father. "Suppose we go nearer and see what he is doing." "Oh, yes; do let us, papa!" cried Lulu, always ready to go everywhere and see everything. "You may run on with Max and Grace," he said; "some of us will follow presently." He turned and offered his arm to Violet. "It is heavy walking in this deep sand; let me help you." "Thank you; it is wearisome, and I am glad to have my husband's strong arm to lean upon," she answered, smiling sweetly up into his eyes as she accepted the offered aid. The young girls and the children came running back to meet them. "He's catching blue-fish," they announced; "he has a good many in his cart." "Now, watch him, Mamma Vi; you haven't had a chance to see just such fishing before," said Max. "See, he's whirling his drail; there! now he has sent it far out into the water. Now he's hauling it in, and--oh yes, a good big fish with it." "What is a drail?" Violet asked. "It is a hook with a long piece of lead above it covered with eel-skin," answered her husband. "There it goes again!" she exclaimed. "It is a really interesting sight, but rather hard work, I should think." When tired of watching the fisherman, they wandered back and forth along the beach in search of curiosities, picking up bits of sponge, rockweed, seaweed, and a greater variety of shells than they had been able to find on other parts of the shore which they had visited. It was only when they had barely time enough left to reach home for a late dinner that they were all willing to enter the carriages and be driven away from the spot. As they passed through the streets of the town, the crier was out with his hand-bell. "Oh yes! oh yes! all the windows to be taken out of the Athenaeum to-day, and the Athenaeum to be elevated to-night." After listening intently to several repetitions of the cry, they succeeded in making it out. "But what on earth does he mean?" exclaimed Betty. "Ventilated, I presume," replied the captain. "There was an exhibition there last night, and complaints were made that the room was close." Toward evening of the next day our friends in the cliff cottages began to look for the return of the Edna with the four young men of their party. But night fell, and yet they had not arrived. Elsie began to feel anxious, but tried not to allow her disturbance to be perceived, especially by Zoe, who seemed restless and ill at ease, going often out to the edge of the cliff and gazing long and intently toward that quarter of the horizon where she had seen the Edna disappear on the morning she sailed out of Nantucket harbor. She sought her post of observation for the twentieth time just before sunset, and remained there till it grew too dark to see much beyond the line of breakers along the shore below. Turning to re-enter the house, she found Captain Raymond standing by her side. "O captain," she cried, "isn't it time the Edna was in?" "I rather supposed they would be in a little earlier than this, but am not at all surprised that they are not," he answered, in a cheery tone. "Indeed, it is quite possible that they may not get in till to-morrow. When they left it was uncertain that they would come back to-day. So, my good sister, I think we have no cause for anxiety." "Then I shall try not to be anxious," she said; "but it seems like a month since I parted from Ned, and it's a sore disappointment not to see him to-night. I don't know how Vi stands your long absences, captain." "Don't you suppose it's about as hard for me as for her, considering how charming she is?" he asked, lightly. "Perhaps it is; but men don't live in their affections as women do; love is only half the world to the most loving of them, I verily believe, while it's all the world to us." "There is some truth in that," he acknowledged; "we men are compelled to give much time and thought to business, yet many of us are ardent lovers or affectionate husbands. I, for one, am extremely fond of wife and children." "Yes, I am sure of it, and quite as sure that Ned is very fond of me." "There isn't a doubt of it. I think I have never seen a happier couple than you seem to be, or than Leland and his Elsie; yet Violet and I will not yield the palm to either of you." "And was there ever such a mother-in-law as mamma?" said Zoe. "I don't remember my own mother very distinctly, but I do not believe I could have loved her much better than I do Edward's mother." "Words would fail me in an attempt to describe all her excellences," he responded. "Well, Lulu, what is it?" as the child came running toward them. "Tea is ready, papa, and Grandma Rose says 'please come to it.'" Shortly after leaving the table, the captain, noticing that Zoe seemed anxious and sad, offered to go into the town and inquire if anything had been seen or heard of the Edna. "Oh, thank you," she said, brightening; "but won't you take me along?" "Certainly, if you think you will not find the walk too long and fatiguing." "Not a bit," she returned, hastily donning hat and shawl. "Have you any objection to my company, Levis?" Violet asked, with sportive look and tone. "My love, I shall be delighted, if you feel equal to the exertion," he answered, with a look of pleasure that said more than the words. "Quite," she said. "Max, I know you like to wait on me; will you please bring my hat and shawl from the bedroom there?" "Yes, indeed, with pleasure, Mamma Vi," the boy answered, with alacrity, as he hastened to obey. "Three won't make as agreeable a number for travelling the sidewalks as four, and I ought to be looking out for Bob," remarked Betty; "so if anybody will ask me to go along perhaps I may consent." "Yes, do come," said Zoe. "I'll take you for my escort." "And we will walk decorously behind the captain and Vi, feeling no fear because under the protection of his wing," added the lively Betty. "But do you think, sir, you have the strength and ability to protect three helpless females?" she asked, suddenly wheeling round upon him. "I have not a doubt I can render them all the aid and protection they are at all likely to need in this peaceful, law-abiding community," he answered, with becoming gravity, as he gave his arm to his wife, and led the way from the house. "It is a rather lonely but by no means dangerous walk, Cousin Betty," he added, holding the gate open for her and the others to pass out. "Lonely enough for me to indulge in a moderate amount of fun and laughter, is it not, sir?" she returned, in an inquiring tone. She seemed full of life and gayety, while Zoe was unusually quiet. They walked into the town and all the way down to the wharf; but the Edna was not there, nor could they hear any news of her. Zoe seemed full of anxiety and distress, though the others tried to convince her there was no occasion for it. "Come, come, cheer up, little woman," the captain said, seeing her eyes fill with tears. "If we do not see or hear from them by this time to-morrow night, we may begin to be anxious; but till then there is really no need." "There, Zoe, you have an opinion that is worth something, the captain being an experienced sailor," remarked Betty. "So thry to be aisy, my dear, and if ye can't be aisy, be as aisy as ye can!" Zoe laughed faintly at Betty's jest; then, with a heroic effort, put on an air of cheerfulness, and contributed her full quota to the sprightly chat on the homeward walk. She kept up her cheerful manner till she had parted from the rest for the night, but wet her solitary pillow with tears ere her anxiety and loneliness were forgotten in sleep. Her spirits revived with the new day, for the sun rose clear and bright, the sea was calm, and she said to herself, "Oh, surely the Edna will come in before night, and Ned and I will be together again!" Many times that day both she and his mother scanned intently the wide waste of waters, and watched with eager eyes the approach of some distant sail, hoping it might prove the one they looked and longed for. But their hopes were disappointed again and again; noon passed, and the Edna was not in sight. "Mamma, what can be keeping them?" sighed Zoe, as the two stood together on the brow of the hill, still engaged in their fruitless search. "Not necessarily anything amiss," Elsie answered. "You remember that when they went it was quite uncertain whether they would return earlier than to-night; so let us not suffer ourselves to be uneasy because they are not yet here." "I am ashamed of myself," Zoe said. "I wish I could learn to be as patient and cheerful as you are, mamma." "I trust you will be more so by the time you are my age," Elsie said, putting an arm about Zoe's waist and drawing her close, with a tender caress. "I still at times feel the risings of impatience; I have not fully learned to 'let patience have her perfect work.' "There is an old proverb, 'A watched pot never boils,'" she added, with sportive look and tone. "Suppose we seat ourselves in the veranda yonder and try to forget the Edna for awhile in an interesting story. I have a new book which looks very interesting, and has been highly commended in some of the reviews. We will get papa to read it aloud to us while we busy ourselves with our fancy-work. Shall we not?" Zoe assented, though with rather an indifferent air, and they returned to the house. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, the only ones they found there, the others being all down on the beach, fell readily into the plan; the book and the work were brought out, and the reading began. It was a good, well-told story, and even Zoe presently became thoroughly interested. Down on the beach Violet and the captain sat together in the sand, he searching sea and sky with a spyglass. She noticed a look of anxiety creeping over his face. "What is it, Levis?" she asked. "I fear there is a heavy storm coming," he said. "I wish with all my heart the Edna was in. But I trust they have been wise enough not to put out to sea and are safe in harbor some where." "I hope so, indeed," she responded, fervently, "for we have much precious freight aboard of her. But the sky does not look very threatening to me, Levis." "Does it not? I wish I could say the same. But, little wife, are you weatherwise or otherwise?" he asked, laughingly. "Not wise in any way except as I may lay claim to the wisdom of my other half," she returned, adopting his sportive tone. "Ah," she exclaimed the next moment, "I, too, begin to see some indications of a storm; it is growing very dark yonder in the northeast!" Betty came hurrying up, panting and frightened. "O captain, be a dear, good man, and say you don't think we are to have a storm directly--before Bob and the rest get safe to shore!" "I should be glad to oblige you, Betty," he said, "but I cannot say that; and what would it avail if I did? Could my opinion stay the storm?" "Zoe will be frightened to death about Edward," she said, turning her face seaward again as she spoke, and gazing with tear-dimmed eyes at the black, threatening cloud fast spreading from horizon to zenith, "and I--oh, Bob is nearer to me than any other creature on earth!" "Let us hope for the best, Betty," the captain said, kindly; "it is quite possible, perhaps I might say probable, that the Edna is now lying at anchor in some safe harbor, and will stay there till this storm is over." "Oh, thank you for telling me that!" she cried. "I'll just try to believe it is so and not fret, though it would pretty nearly kill me if anything should happen to Bob. Still, it will do no good to fret." "Prayer would do far more," said Violet, softly--"prayer to Him whom even the winds and the sea obey. But isn't it time to go in, Levis? the storm seems to be coming up so very fast." "Yes," he said, rising and helping her to get on her feet. "Where are the children?" "Yonder," said Betty, nodding in their direction. "I'll tell them--shall I?" "No, thank you; you and Violet hurry on to the house as fast as you can; I will call the children, follow with them, and probably overtake you in time to help you up the stairs." Before they were all safely housed, the wind had come down upon them and was blowing almost a gale. It was with considerable difficulty the captain succeeded in getting them all up the long steep flights of stairs by which they must reach the top of the cliff. About the time they started for the house the party on the veranda became aware that a storm was rising. Zoe saw it first, and dropped her work in her lap with the cry, "Oh, I knew it would be so! I just knew it! A dreadful storm is coming, and the Edna will be wrecked, and Edward will drown. I shall never see him again!" The others were too much startled and alarmed at the moment to notice her wild words or make any reply. They all rose and hurried into the house, and Mr. Dinsmore began closing windows and doors. "The children, papa!" cried Elsie; "they must be down on the beach, and--" "The captain is with them, and I will go to their assistance," he replied, before she could finish her sentence. He rushed out as he spoke, to return the next moment with Walter in his arms and the rest closely following. "These are all safe, and for the others I must trust the Lord," Elsie said softly to herself as her father set Walter down, and she drew the child to her side. But her cheek was very pale, and her lips trembled as she pressed them to the little fellow's forehead. He looked up wonderingly. "Mamma, what is the matter? You're not afraid of wind and thunder?" "No, dear; but I fear for your brothers out on this stormy sea," she whispered in his ear. "Pray for them, darling, that if God will, they may reach home in safety." "Yes, mamma, I will; and I believe He'll bring them. Is it 'cause Ned's in the ship Zoe's crying so?" "Yes; I must try to comfort her." And putting him gently aside, Elsie went to her young daughter-in-law, who had thrown herself upon a couch, and with her head pillowed on its arm, her face hidden in her hands, was weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break. "Zoe, love," Elsie said, kneeling at her side and putting her arms about her, "do not despair. 'Behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened that it cannot save; neither His ear heavy that it cannot hear.'" "No, but--He does let people drown; and oh, I can never live without my husband!" "Dear child, there is no need to consider that question till it is forced upon you. Try, dear one, to let that alone, and rest in the promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'" The captain had drawn near, and was standing close beside them. "Mother has given you the best of advice, my little sister," he said, in his kind, cheery way; "and for your further comfort let me say that it is altogether likely the Edna is safe in harbor somewhere. I think they probably perceived the approach of the storm in season to be warned not to put out to sea till it should be over." "Do you really think so, captain?" she asked, lifting her head to wipe away her tears. He assured her that he did; and thinking him a competent judge of what seamen would be likely to do in such an emergency, she grew calm for a time, though her face was still sad; and till darkness shut out the sight, she cast many an anxious glance from the window upon the raging waters. "If not in harbor, they must be in great peril?" Mr. Dinsmore remarked, aside, and half inquiringly, to the captain. "Yes, sir; yes, indeed. I am far more anxious than I should like to own to their mother, Zoe, or Violet." It was near their tea hour when the storm burst; they gathered about the table as usual, but there was little eating done except by the children, and the meal was not enlivened, as was customary with them, by cheerful, sprightly chat, though efforts in that direction were not wanting on the part of several of their number. The storm raged on with unabated fury, and Zoe, as she listened to the howling of the wind and the deafening thunder peals, grew wild with terror for her husband. She could not be persuaded to go to bed, even when her accustomed hour for retiring was long past, but would sit in her chair, moaning, "O Ned! Ned! my husband, my dear, dear husband! Oh, if I could only do anything to help you! My darling, my darling! you are all I have, and I can't live without you!" then spring up and pace the floor, sobbing, wringing her hands, and sometimes, as a fierce blast shook the cottage or a more deafening thunder peal crashed over-head, even shrieking out in terror and distress. In vain Elsie tried to soothe and quiet her with reassuring, comforting words or caresses and endearments. "Oh, I can't bear it!" she cried again and again. "Ned is all I have, and it will kill me to lose him. Nobody can know how I suffer at the very thought." "My dear," Elsie said, with a voice trembling with emotion, "you forget that Edward is my dearly loved son, and that I have two others, who are no less dear to their mother's heart, on board that vessel." "Forgive me, mamma," Zoe sobbed, taking Elsie's hand and dropping tears and kisses upon it. "I did forget, and it was very shameful, for you are so kind and loving to me, putting aside your own grief and anxiety to help me in bearing mine. But how is it yon can be so calm?" "Because, dear, I am enabled to stay my heart on God, my Almighty Friend, my kind, wise, Heavenly Father. Listen, love, to these sweet words: 'O Lord God of hosts, who is a strong Lord like unto Thee? or to thy faithfulness round about Thee? Thou rulest the roaring of the sea: when the waves thereof arise, Thou stillest them.'" "They are beautiful," said Betty, who sat near, in a despondent attitude, her elbow on her knee, her cheek in her hand. "Oh, Cousin Elsie, I would give all the world for your faith, and to be able to find the comfort and support in Bible promises and teachings that you do!" The outer door opened, and Mr. Dinsmore and Captain Raymond came in, their waterproof coats dripping with rain. They had been out on the edge of the cliff taking an observation, though it was little they could see through the darkness; but occasionally the lightning's lurid flash lit up the scene for a moment, and afforded a glimpse of the storm-tossed deep. "Be comforted, ladies," the captain said; "there are at least no signs of any vessel in distress; if any such were near, she would undoubtedly be firing signal-guns. So I think we may hope my conjecture that our boys are safe in harbor somewhere, is correct." "And the storm is passing over," said Mr. Dinsmore; "the thunder and lightning have almost ceased." "But the wind has not fallen, and that is what makes the great danger, grandpa, isn't it?" asked Zoe. "Oh, hark, what was that? I heard a step and voice!" And rushing to the outer door as she spoke, she threw it open, and found herself in her husband's arms. "O Ned, Ned!" she cried, in a transport of joy, "is it really you? Oh, I thought I should never see you again, you dear, dear, _dear_ boy!" She clung round his neck, and he held her close, with many a caress and endearing word, drawing her a little to one side to let his brothers step past them and embrace the tender mother, who wept for joy as she received them, almost as if restored to her from the very gates of death. "There, love, I must let you go while I take off this dripping coat," Edward said, at length, releasing Zoe. "How wet I have made you! I fear your pretty dress is quite spoiled," he added, with a tender, regretful smile. "That's nothing," she answered, with a gay laugh; "you'll only have to buy me another, and you've plenty of money." "Plenty to supply all the wants of my little wife, I hope." "Ah, mother dear," as he threw aside his wet overcoat and took her in his arms, "were you alarmed for the safety of your three sons?" "Yes, indeed I was," she said, returning his kisses; "and I feel that I have great cause for thankfulness in that you are all brought back to me unharmed. 'Oh, that men would praise the Lord for His goodness and for His wonderful works to the children of men!'" Betty had started up on the entrance of her cousins, glancing eagerly from one dripping figure to another, then staggered back and leaned, pale and trembling, against the wall. In the excitement no one had noticed her, but now she exclaimed, in tremulous accents, and catching her breath, "Bob--my brother; where is he?" "O Betty," Harold answered, turning hastily at the sound of her voice, "forgive our thoughtlessness in not explaining that at once! Bob went to a hotel; he said we could bring the news of his safety and our own, and it wasn't worth while for him to travel all the way up here through the storm." "No, of course not; I wouldn't have had him do so," she returned, with a sigh of relief, her face resuming its wonted gayety of expression; "but I'm mighty glad he's safe on terra firma." "But your story, boys; let us have it," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, we _have_ a story, grandpa," said Edward, with emphasis and excitement; "but Harold should tell it; he could do it better than I." "No, no," Harold said; "you are as good a story-teller as I." "There!" laughed Herbert. "I believe I'll have to do it myself, or with your extreme politeness to each other you'll keep the audience waiting all night. "The storm came suddenly upon us when we were about half way home, or maybe something more; and it presently became evident that we were in imminent danger of wreck. The captain soon concluded that our only chance was in letting the Edna drive right before the wind, which would take us in exactly the direction we wished to pursue, but with rather startling celerity; and that was what he did. "She flew over the water like a wild winged bird, and into the harbor with immense velocity. Safely enough, though, till we were there, almost at the wharf, when we struck against another vessel anchored near, and actually cut her in two, spilling the crew into the water." "Don't look so horrified, mother dear," said Harold, as Herbert paused for breath; "no one was drowned, no one even hurt." "Barring the wetting and the fright, as the Irish say," added Edward. "But the latter was a real hurt," said Harold; "for the cry they sent up as they made the sudden, involuntary plunge from their berths, where they were probably asleep at the moment of collision, into the cold, deep water of the harbor, was something terrible to hear." "Enough to curdle one's blood," added Herbert. "And you are quite sure all were picked up?" asked Elsie, her sweet face full of pity for the unfortunate sufferers. "Yes, mother, quite sure," answered Edward; "the captain of the craft said, in my hearing, that no one was missing." "And the captain of the other will probably have pretty heavy damages to pay," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "I presume so," said Edward; "but even that would be far better than the loss of his vessel, with all the lives of those on board." "Money could not pay for those last," Elsie said, low and tremulously, as she looked at her three tall sons through a mist of unshed tears; "and I will gladly help the Edna's captain to meet the damages incurred in his efforts to save them." "Just like you, mother," Edward said, giving her a look of proud, fond affection. "I entirely approve, and shall be ready to contribute my share," said her father. "But it is very late, or rather early--long past midnight--and we should be getting to bed. But let us first unite in a prayer of thanksgiving to our God for all His mercies, especially this--that our dear boys are restored to us unharmed." They knelt, and led by him, all hearts united in a fervent outpouring of gratitude and praise to the Giver of all good. CHAPTER XIII. "Hitherto hath the Lord helped us."--1 SAMUEL 7:12. It was a lovely Sabbath afternoon, still and bright; Elsie sat alone on the veranda, enjoying the beauty of the sea and the delicious breeze coming from it. She had been reading, and the book lay in her lap, one hand resting upon the open page; but she was deep in meditation, her eyes following the restless movements of the waves that, with the rising tide, dashed higher and higher upon the beach below. For the last half hour she had been the solitary tenant of the veranda, while the others enjoyed their siesta or a lounge upon the beach. Presently a noiseless step drew near her chair, some one bent down over her and softly kissed her cheek. "Papa" she said, looking up into his face with smiling eyes, "you have come to sit with me? Let me give you this chair," and she would have risen to do so, but he laid his hand on her shoulder, saying, "No; sit still; I will take this," drawing up another and seating himself therein close at her side. "Do you know that I have been watching you from the doorway there for the last five minutes?" he asked. "No, sir; I deemed myself quite alone," she said. "Why did you not let me know that my dear father, whose society I prize so highly, was so near?" "Because you seemed so deep in thought, and evidently such happy thought, that I was loath to disturb it." "Yes," she said, "they were happy thoughts. I have seemed to myself, for the last few days, to be in the very land of Beulah, so delightful has been the sure hope--I may say certainty--that Jesus is mine and I am His; that I am His servant forever, for time and for eternity, as truly and entirely His as words can express. Is it not a sweet thought, papa? is it not untold bliss to know that we may--that we shall serve Him forever? that nothing can ever separate us from the love of Christ?" "It is, indeed--Christ who is our life. He says, 'Because I live, ye shall live also;' thus He is our life. Is He not our life also because He is the dearest of all friends to us--His own people?" "Yes; and how the thought of His love, His perfect sympathy, His infinite power to help and to save, gives strength and courage to face the unknown future. 'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?' 'Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.' "In view of the many dangers that lie around our every path, the many terrible trials that may be sent to any one of us, I often wonder how those who do not trust in this almighty Friend can have the least real, true happiness. Were it my case, I should be devoured with anxiety and fears for myself and my dear ones." "But as it is," her father said, gazing tenderly upon her, "you are able to leave the future, for them and for yourself, in His kind, wise, all-powerful hands, knowing that nothing can befall you without His will, and that He will send no trial that shall not be for your good, and none that He will not give you strength to endure?" "Yes, that is it, papa; and oh, what rest it is! One feels so safe and happy; so free from fear and care; like a little child whose loving earthly father is holding it by the hand or in his strong, kind arms." "And you have loved and trusted Him since you were a very little child," he remarked, half musingly. "Yes, papa; I cannot remember when I did not; and could there be a greater cause for gratitude?" "No; such love and trust are worth more to the happy possessor than the wealth of the universe. But there was a time when, though my little girl had it, I was altogether ignorant of it, and marvelled greatly at her love for God's word and her joy and peace in believing. I shall never cease to bless God for giving me such a child." "Nor I to thank Him for my dear father," she responded, putting her hand into his, with the very same loving, confiding gesture she had been wont to use in childhood's days. His fingers closed over it, and he held it fast in a warm, loving grasp, while they continued their talk concerning the things that lay nearest their hearts--the love of the Master, His infinite perfection, the interests of His kingdom, the many great and precious promises of His word--thus renewing their strength and provoking one another to love and to good works. "Then they that feared the Lord spake often one to another; and the Lord hearkened, and heard it; and a book of remembrance was written before Him for them that feared the Lord, and that thought upon His name. "And they shall be mine, saith the Lord of hosts, in that day when I make up my jewels; and I will spare them, as a man spareth his own son that serveth him." Ere another week had rolled its round, events had occurred which tested the sustaining power of their faith in God, and the joy of the Lord proved to be indeed their strength, keeping their hearts from failing in an hour of sore anxiety and distress. The evening was bright with the radiance of a full moon and unusually warm for the season; so pleasant was it out of doors that most of our friends preferred the veranda to the cottage parlors, and some of the younger ones were strolling about the town or the beach. Betty had gone down to the latter place, taking Lulu with her, with the captain's permission, both promising not to go out of sight of home. "Oh, how lovely the sea is to-night, with the moon shining so brightly on all the little dancing waves!" exclaimed Lulu, as they stood side by side close to the water's edge. "Yes," said Betty; "doesn't it make you feel like going in?" "Do people ever bathe at night?" asked Lulu. "I don't know why they shouldn't," returned her companion. "It might be dangerous, perhaps," suggested Lulu. "Why should it?" said Betty; "it's almost as light as day. Oh, Bob," perceiving her brother close at hand, "don't you want to go in? I will if you will go with me." "I don't care if I do," he answered, after a moment's reflection: "a moonlight bath in the sea would be something out of the common; and there seems to be just surf enough to make it enjoyable." "Yes; and my bathing-suit is in the bath-house yonder. I can be ready in five minutes." "Can you? So can I; we'll go in if only for a few minutes. Won't you go with us, Lulu?" "I'd like to," she said, "but I can't without leave; and I know papa wouldn't give it, for I had a bath this morning, and he says one a day is quite enough." "I was in this morning," said Bob; "Betty, too, I think, and--I say, Bet, it strikes me I've heard that it's a little risky to go in at night." "Not such a night as this, I'm sure, Bob; why, it's as light as day; and if there is danger it can be only about enough to give spice to the undertaking." With the last word she started for the bath-house, and Bob, not to be outdone in courage, hurried toward another appropriated to his use. Lulu stood waiting for their return, not at all afraid to be left alone with not another creature in sight on the beach. Yet the solitude disturbed her as the thought arose that Bob and Betty might be about to put themselves in danger, while no help was at hand for their rescue. The nearest she knew of was at the cottages on the bluff, and for her to climb those long flights of stairs and give the alarm in case anything went wrong with the venturesome bathers, would be a work of time. "I'd better not wait for them to get into danger, for they would surely drown before help could reach them," she said to herself, after a moment's thought. "I'll only wait till I see them really in, and then hurry home to see if somebody can't come down and be ready to help if they should begin to drown." But as they passed her, presently, on their way to the water, Bob said: "We're trusting you to keep our secret, Lulu; don't tell tales on us." She made no reply, but thought within herself, "That shows he doesn't think he's doing exactly right. I'm afraid it must be quite dangerous." But while his remark and injunction increased her apprehensions for them, it also made her hesitate to carry to their friends the news of their escapade till she should see that it brought them into actual danger and need of assistance. She watched them tremblingly as they waded slowly out beyond the surf into the smooth, swelling waves, where they began to swim. For a few moments all seemed to be well; then came a sudden shrill cry from Betty, followed by a hoarser one from Bob, which could mean nothing else than fright and danger. For an instant Lulu was nearly paralyzed with terror; but rousing herself by a determined effort, she shouted at the top of her voice, "Don't give up; I'll go for help as fast as ever I can," and instantly set off for home at her utmost speed. "Help, help! they'll drown, oh, they'll drown!" she screamed as she ran. Harold, who was in the act of descending the last flight of stairs, saw her running toward him, and heard her cry, though the noise of the surf prevented his catching all the words. "What's the matter?" he shouted, clearing the remainder of the flight at a bound. "Betty, Bob--drowning!" she cried, without slackening her speed, "I'm going for help." He waited, to hear no more, but sped on toward the water; and only pausing to divest himself of his outer clothing, plunged in, and, buffeting with the waves, made his way as rapidly as possible toward the struggling forms, which, by the light of the moon, he could dimly discern at some distance from the shore. Faint cries for help and the gleam of Betty's white arm, as for an instant she raised it above the wave, guided him to the spot. Harold was an excellent swimmer, strong and courageous; but he had undertaken a task beyond his strength, and his young life was very near falling a sacrifice to the folly of his cousins and his own generous impulse to fly to their aid. Both Bob and Betty were already so nearly exhausted as to be scarcely capable of doing anything to help themselves, and in their mad struggle for life caught hold of him and so impeded his movements that he was like to perish with them. Mean while Lulu had reached the top of the cliff, then the veranda where the older members of the family party were seated, and, all out of breath with fright and the exertion of climbing and running, she faltered out, "Bob and Betty; they'll drown if they don't get help quickly." "What, are they in the water?" cried Mr. Dinsmore and Captain Raymond, simultaneously springing to their feet; the latter adding, "I fear they'll drown before we can possibly get help to them." "Oh, yes; they're drowning now," sobbed Lulu; "but Harold's gone to help them." "Harold? He's lost if he tries it alone!" "The boy's mad to think of such a thing!" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore and Edward in a breath, while Elsie's cheek turned deathly pale, and her heart went up in an agonized cry that her boy's life might be spared; the others also. The gentlemen held a hasty consultation, then scattered, Mr. Dinsmore hastening in search of other aid, while Captain Raymond and Edward hurried to the beach, the ladies following with entreaties to them to be careful. But fortunately for the endangered ones, other aid had already reached them--a boat that had come out from Nantucket for a moonlight sail, and from the shore a noble Newfoundland dog belonging to a retired sea captain. Strolling along the beach with his master, he heard the cries for help, saw the struggling forms, and instantly plunging in among the waves, swam to the rescue. Seizing Betty by the hair, he held her head above water till the sailboat drew near and strong arms caught hold of her and dragged her in, pale, dripping, and seemingly lifeless. They then picked up the young men, both entirely unconscious, and made for the shore with all possible haste. It was doubtful if the last spark of life had not been extinguished in every one of the three; but the most prompt, wise, and vigorous measures were instantly taken and continued for hours--hours of agonizing suspense to those who loved them. At length Bob gave unmistakable signs of life; and shortly after Betty sighed, opened her eyes, and asked, feebly, "Where am I? what has happened?" But Harold still lay as one dead, and would have been given up as such had not his mother clung to hope, and insisted that the efforts at restoration should be continued. Through the whole trying scene she had maintained an unbroken calmness of demeanor, staying herself upon her God, lifting her heart to His throne in never-ceasing petitions, and in the midst of her bitter grief and anxiety rejoicing that if her boy were taken from her for a time, it would be but to exchange the trials and cares of earth for the joys of heaven; and the parting from him here would soon be followed by a blissful reunion in that blessed land where sin and sorrow and suffering can never enter. But at length, when their efforts were rewarded so that he breathed and spoke, and she knew that he was restored to her, the reaction came. She had given him a gentle, tender kiss, had seen him fall into a natural, refreshing sleep, and passing from his bedside into an adjoining room, she fainted in her father's arms. "My darling, my dear, brave darling!" he murmured, as he laid her down upon a couch and bent over her in tenderest solicitude, while Mrs. Dinsmore hastened to apply restoratives. It was not a long faint; she presently opened her eyes and lifted them with a bewildered look up into her father's face. "What is it, papa?" she murmured; "have I been ill?" "Only a short faint," he answered. "But you must be quite worn out." "Oh, I remember!" she cried. "Harold, my dear son--" "Is doing well, love. And now I want you to go to your bed and try to get some rest. See, day is breaking, and you have had no sleep, no rest." "Nor have you, papa; do go and lie down; but I must watch over my poor boy," she said, trying to rise from the couch. "Lie still," he said, gently detaining her; "lie here, if you are not willing to go to your bed. I am better able to sit up than you are, and will see to Harold." "His brothers are with him, mamma," said Zoe, standing by; "and Edward says they will stay beside him as long as they are needed." "Then you and I will both retire and try to take some rest, shall we not?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, bending over Elsie and softly smoothing her hair. "Yes, papa; but I must first take one peep at the dear son so nearly lost to me." He helped her to rise; then she perceived that Captain Raymond and Violet were in the room. "Dearest mamma," said the latter, coming forward to embrace her, "how glad I am that you are better, and our dear Harold spared to us!" She broke down in sobs and tears. "Yes, my child; oh, let us thank the Lord for His great goodness! But this night has been quite too much for you. Do you go at once and try to get some rest." "I shall see that she obeys, mother," the captain said, in a tenderly sportive tone, taking Elsie's hand and lifting it to his lips. "I think I may trust you," she returned, with a faint smile. "You were with Bob; how is he now?" "Doing as well as possible under the circumstances; as is Betty also; you need trouble your kind heart with no fear or care for them." It had been a terrible night to all the family--the children the only ones who had taken any rest or sleep--and days of nursing followed before the three who had so narrowly escaped death were restored to their wonted health and strength. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and Elsie devoted themselves to that work, and were often assisted in it by Zoe, Edward, and Herbert. Harold was quite a hero with these last and with Max and Lulu; in fact, with all who knew or heard of his brave deed, though he modestly disclaimed any right to the praises heaped upon him, asserting that he had done no more than any one with common courage and humanity would have done in his place. Bob and Betty were heartily ashamed of their escapade, and much sobered at the thought of their narrow escape from sudden death. Both dreaded the severe reproof they had reason to expect from their uncle, but he was very forbearing, and thinking the fright and suffering entailed by their folly sufficient to deter them from a repetition of it, kindly refrained from lecturing them on the subject, though, when a suitable opportunity offered, he did talk seriously and tenderly, with now one and now the other, on the guilt and danger of putting off repentance toward God, and faith toward our Lord Jesus Christ, reminding them that they had had a very solemn warning of the shortness and uncertainty of life, and asking them to consider the question whether they were ready for a sudden call into the immediate presence of their Judge. "Really now, uncle," remarked Bob on one of these occasions, "there are worse fellows in the world than I am--much worse." "I am willing to admit that, my boy," returned Mr. Dinsmore; "but many of those fellows have not enjoyed the privileges and teachings that you have, and responsibility is largely in proportion to one's light and opportunities. "Jesus said, 'That servant, who knew his Lord's will, and prepared not himself, neither did according to His will, shall be beaten with many stripes. But he that knew not, and did commit things worthy of stripes, shall be beaten with few stripes.'" "Yes; and you think I'm one of the first class, I suppose?" "I do, my boy; for you have been well instructed, both in the church and in the family; also you have a Bible, and may study it for yourself as often and carefully as you will." "But I really have never done anything very bad, uncle." "How can you say that, Robert, when you know that you have lived all your life in utter neglect of God's appointed way of salvation? hearing the gracious invitation of Him who died that you might live, 'Come unto me,' and refusing to accept it? "'God so loved the world that He gave His only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life,' and having for years refused to believe, how can you assert that you have done nothing very bad? 'How shall we escape, if we neglect so great salvation?'" Bob made no reply, but looked thoughtful, and his uncle went quietly from the room, thinking it well to leave the lad to his own reflections. Passing the door of the room where Harold lay, he was about to enter, but perceiving that the boy and his mother were in earnest conversation, he moved on, leaving them undisturbed. "Mamma," Harold was saying, "I have been thinking much of sudden death since my very narrow escape from it. You know, mamma, it comes sometimes without a moment's warning; and as we all sin continually in thought and feeling, if not in word and deed, as our very best deeds and services are so stained with sin that they need to be repented of and forgiven, how is it that even a true Christian can get to heaven if called away so suddenly?" "Because when one comes to Jesus Christ and accepts His offered salvation, _all_ his sins, future as well as past and present, are forgiven. 'The blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanseth us from all sin.' "Jesus said, 'He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.' 'I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.'" "But oh, mamma, I find myself so weak and sinful, so ready to yield to temptation, that I sometimes fear I shall never be able to hold out to the end!" "My dear boy, let that fear lead you to cling all the closer to the Master, who is able to save unto the uttermost. If our holding out depended upon ourselves, our own weak wills, we might well be in despair; but 'He will keep the feet of His saints.' "'Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, according to His abundant mercy, hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you, who are kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation.' Can they be in danger who are _kept by the power of God_?" CHAPTER XIV. "My Father's house on high, Home of my soul, how near At times to Faith's discerning eye Thy pearly gates appear." Harold and his cousins had scarcely more than fully recovered from the effects of their almost drowning when Captain Raymond again received orders to join his ship, and it was decided that the time had come for all to leave the island. Bob and Betty received letters from their brother and sister in Louisiana, giving them a cordial invitation to their homes, Dick proposing that Bob should study medicine with him, with a view to becoming his partner, and Molly giving Betty a cordial invitation from herself and husband to take up her residence at Magnolia Hall. With the approval of their uncle and other relatives, these kind offers were promptly accepted. Letters came about the same time from Lansdale, Ohio, inviting the Dinsmores, Travillas, and Raymonds to attend the celebration of Miss Stanhope's one hundredth birthday, which was now near at hand. Mr. Harry Duncan wrote for her, saying that she had a great longing to see her nephews and nieces once more, and to make the acquaintance of Violet's husband and his children. The captain could not go, but it was decided that all the others should. The necessary arrangements were quickly made, and the whole party left the island together, not without some regret and a resolution to return at some future day to enjoy its refreshing breezes and other delights during the hot season. On reaching New York they parted with the captain, whose vessel lay in that harbor. Bob and Betty left them farther on in the journey, and the remainder of the little company travelled on to Lansdale, arriving the day before the important occasion which called them there. Mrs. Dinsmore's brother, Richard Allison, who, my readers may remember, had married Elsie's old friend, Lottie King, shortly after the close of the war of the rebellion, had taken up his abode in Lansdale years ago. Both he and his sister May's husband, Harry Duncan, had prospered greatly. Each had a large, handsome dwelling adjacent to Miss Stanhope's cottage, in which she still kept house, having never yet seen the time when she could bring herself to give up the comfort of living in a home of her own. She had attached and capable servants, and amid her multitude of nieces and grand-nieces, there was almost always one or more who was willing--nay, glad, to relieve her of the care and labor of housekeeping, taking pleasure in making life's pathway smooth and easy to the aged feet, and her last days bright and happy. She still had possession of all her faculties, was very active for one of her age, and felt unabated interest in the welfare of kindred and friends. She had by no means outlived her usefulness or grown querulous with age, but was ever the same bright, cheerful, happy Christian that she had been in earlier years. The birthday party was to be held under her own roof, and a numerous company of near and dear relatives were gathering there and at the houses of the Duncans and Allisons. Richard and Lottie, Harry and May were at the depot to meet the train on which our travellers arrived. It was an altogether joyous meeting, after years of separation. The whole party repaired at once to Miss Stanhope's cottage, to greet and chat a little with her and others who had come before to the gathering; prominently among them Mr. and Mrs. Keith from Pleasant Plains, Indiana, with their daughters, Mrs. Landreth, Mrs. Ormsby, and Annis, who was still unmarried. Very glad indeed were Mrs. Keith and Mr. Dinsmore, Rose and Mildred, Elsie and Annis to meet and renew the old intimacies of former days. Time had wrought many changes since we first saw them together, more than thirty years ago. Mr. and Mrs. Keith were now old and infirm, yet bright and cheery, looking hopefully forward to that better country, that Celestial City, toward which they were fast hastening, and with no unwilling steps. Dr. and Mrs. Landreth and Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore had changed from youthful married couples into elderly people, while Elsie and Annis had left childhood far behind, and were now--the one a cheery, happy maiden lady, whom aged parents leaned upon as their stay and staff, brothers and sisters dearly loved, and nieces and nephews doated upon; the other a mother whom her children blessed for her faithful love and care, and delighted to honor. This renewal of intercourse, and the reminiscences of early days which it called up, were very delightful to both. The gathering of relatives and friends of course formed far too large a company for all to lodge in one house, but the three--Aunt Wealthy's and those of the Duncans and Allisons--accommodated them comfortably for the few days of their stay, or rather the nights, for during the day they were very apt to assemble in the parlors and porches of the cottage. It was there Elsie and her younger children and Violet and hers took up their quarters, by invitation, for the time of the visit. "But where is the captain, your husband?" inquired Aunt Wealthy of Violet on giving her a welcoming embrace. "I wanted particularly to see him, and he should not have neglected the invitation of a woman a hundred years old." "Dear auntie, I assure you he did so only by compulsion; he would have come gladly if Uncle Sam had not ordered him off in another direction," Violet answered, with pretty playfulness of look and tone. "Ah, then, we must excuse him. But you brought the children, I hope. I want to see them." "Yes; this is his son," Violet said, motioning Max to approach; "and here are the little girls," drawing Lulu and Grace forward. The old lady shook hands with and kissed them, saying, "It will be something for you to remember, dears, that you have seen a woman who has lived a hundred years in this world, and can testify that goodness and mercy have followed her all the days of her life. Trust in the Lord, my children, and you, even if you should live as long as I have, will be able to bear the same testimony that He is faithful to His promises. "I say the same to you, too, Rosie and Walter, my Elsie's children," she added, turning to them with a tenderly affectionate look and smile. They gazed upon her with awe for a moment; then Rosie said, "You don't look so very old, Aunt Wealthy; not older than some ladies of eighty that I've seen." "Perhaps not older than I did when I was only eighty, my dear; but I am glad to know that I am a good deal nearer home now than I was then," Miss Stanhope responded, her face growing bright with joyous anticipation. "Are you really glad to know you must die before very long?" asked Max, in wonder and surprise. "Wouldn't it be strange if I were not?" she asked; "heaven is my home. "'There my best friends, my kindred dwell, There God my Saviour reigns.' "I live in daily, hourly longing expectation of the call." "And yet you are not weary of life? you are happy here, are you not, dear Aunt Wealthy?" asked Mrs. Keith. "Yes, Marcia; I am happy among my kind relatives and friends; and entirely willing to stay till the Master sees fit to call me home, for I know that His will is always best. Oh, the sweet peace and joy of trusting in Him and leaving all to His care and direction! Who that has experienced it could ever again want to choose for him or herself?" "And you have been long in His service, Aunt Wealthy?" Mr. Dinsmore said, half in assertion, half inquiringly. "Since I was ten years old, Horace; and that is ninety years; and let me bear testimony now, before you all, that I have ever found Him faithful to His promises, and His service growing constantly sweeter and sweeter. And so it shall be to all eternity. 'My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.'" Then turning to Mrs. Keith, "How is it with you, Marcia?" she asked; "you have attained to your four-score years, and have been in the service since early childhood. What have you to say for your Master now?" "Just what you have said, dear aunt; never have I had cause to repent of choosing His service; it has been a blessed service to me, full of joy and consolation--joy that even abounds more and more as I draw nearer and nearer to my journey's end. "I know it is the same with my husband," she added, giving him a look of wifely affection; "and I doubt not with my cousins--Horace, Rose, Elsie--with all here present who have had experience as soldiers and servants of Jesus Christ." "In that you are entirely right, Marcia," responded Mr. Dinsmore; "I can speak for myself, my wife, and daughter." Both ladies gave an unqualified confirmation of his words, while their happy countenances testified to the truth of the assertion. "And, Milly dear, you and your husband, your brothers and sisters, can all say the same," remarked Miss Stanhope, laying her withered hand affectionately upon Mrs. Landreth's arm as she sat in a low seat by her side. "We can indeed," Mildred said, with feeling. "What blessed people we are! all knowing and loving the dear Master, and looking forward to an eternity of bliss together at His right hand." The interview between the aged saint and her long-absent relatives was continued for a few moments more; then she dismissed them, with the remark that doubtless they would all like to retire to their rooms for a little, and she must take a short rest in order to be fresh for the evening, when she hoped they would all gather about her again. "I want you all to feel at home and to enjoy yourselves as much as you can," she said, in conclusion. "Play about the grounds, children, whenever you like." Her cottage stood between the houses of the Duncans and Allisons; the grounds of all three were extensive, highly cultivated, and adorned with beautiful trees, shrubbery, and flowers, and there were no separating fences or hedges, so that they seemed to form one large park or garden. Rosie and Walter Travilla, and the young Raymonds were delighted with the permission to roam at will about these lovely grounds, and hastened to avail themselves of it as soon as the removal of the dust of travel and a change of attire rendered them fit. They found a Dutch gardener busied here and there, and presently opened a conversation with him, quite winning his heart by unstinted praises of the beauty of his plants and flowers. "It must be a great deal of work to keep those large gardens in such perfect order," remarked Rose. "Dat it ish, miss," he said; "but I vorks pretty hard mineself, and my son Shakey, he gifs me von leetle lift ven he ton't pees too much in school." "Do you live here?" asked little Grace. "Here in dis garten? no, miss; I lifs oud boud t'ree mile in de country." "That's a long walk for you, isn't it?" said Lulu. "Nein; I don't valks, miss; ven I ish god dings to pring--abbles or botatoes or some dings else--I say to mine Shakey, 'Just hitch de harness on de horse and hang him to de stable door;' or if I got nodings to pring I tells de poy, 'Hitch him up a horseback;' den I comes in to mine vork and I tash! I don't hafs to valk--nod a shtep." "How funny he talks," whispered Grace to Lulu; "I can hardly understand him." "It's because he's Dutch," returned Lulu, in the same low tone. "But I can tell almost all he says. His son's name must be Jakey; the short for Jacob." "What is your name?" asked Max. "Hencle--Shon Hencle. I dinks you all pees come to see Miss Stanhope pe von huntred years olt; ishn't you?" "Yes," said Rosie. "It seems very wonderful to think that she has lived so long." The children, weary with their journey, were sent to bed early that night. Lulu and Grace found they were to sleep together in a small room opening into a larger one, where two beds had been placed for the time to meet the unusual demand for sleeping quarters. These were to be occupied by Grandma Elsie, Violet, Rosie, and Walter. Timid little Grace heard, with great satisfaction, that all these were to be so near; and Lulu, though not at all cowardly, was well pleased with the arrangement. Yet she little thought how severely her courage was to be tested that night. She and Grace had scarcely laid their heads upon their pillows ere they fell into profound slumber. Lulu did not know how long she had slept, but all was darkness and silence within and without the house, when something, she could not have told what, suddenly roused her completely. She lay still, trying to recall the events of the past day and remember where she was; and just as she succeeded in doing so a strange sound, as of restless movements and the clanking of chains, came from beneath the bed. Her heart seemed to stand still with fear; she had never before, in all her short life, felt so terrified and helpless. "What can it be?" she asked herself. "An escaped criminal--a murderer--or a maniac from an insane asylum, I suppose; for who else would wear a clanking chain? and what can he want here but to kill Gracie and me? I suppose he got in the house before they shut the doors for the night, and hid under the bed till everybody should be fast asleep, meaning to begin then to murder and rob. Oh, I do wish I'd looked under the bed while all the gentlemen were about to catch him and keep him from hurting us! But now what shall I do? If I try to get out of the bed, he'll catch hold of my foot and kill me before anybody can come; and if I scream for help, he'll do the same. The best plan is to lie as quiet as I can, so he'll think I'm still asleep; for maybe he only means to rob, and not murder, if nobody wakes up to see what he's about and tell of him. Oh, I do hope Gracie won't wake! for she could never help screaming; and then he'd jump out and kill us both." So with heroic courage she lay there, perfectly quiet and hardly moving a muscle for what seemed to her an age of suffering, every moment expecting the creature under the bed to spring out upon her, and in constant fear that Grace would awake and precipitate the calamity by a scream of affright. All was quiet again for some time, she lying there, straining her ears for a repetition of the dreaded sounds; then, as they came again louder than before, she had great difficulty in restraining herself from springing from the bed and shrieking aloud, in a paroxysm of panic terror. But she did control herself, lay perfectly still, and allowed not the slightest sound to escape her lips. That last clanking noise had awakened Elsie, and she too now lay wide awake, silent and still, while intently listening for a repetition of it. She hardly knew whence the sound had come, or what it was; but when repeated, as it was in a moment or two, she was satisfied that it issued from the room where Lulu and Grace were, and her conjectures in regard to its origin coincided with Lulu's. She, too, was greatly alarmed, but did not lose her presence of mind. Hoping the little girls were still asleep, and judging from the silence that they were, she lay for a few minutes without moving, indeed scarcely breathing, while she tried to decide upon the wisest course to pursue, asking guidance and help from on high, as she always did in every emergency. Her resolution was quickly taken; slipping softly out of bed, she stole noiselessly from the room and into another, on the opposite side of the hall, occupied by Edward and Zoe. "Edward," she said, speaking in a whisper close to his ear, "wake, my son; I am in need of help." "What is it, mother?" he asked, starting up. "Softly," she whispered; "make no noise, but come with me. Somebody or something is in the room where Lulu and Gracie sleep. I distinctly heard the clanking of a chain." "Mother!" he cried, but hardly above his breath, "an escaped lunatic, probably! Stay here and let me encounter him alone. I have loaded pistols--" "Oh, don't use them if you can help it!" she cried. "I shall not," he assured her, "unless it is absolutely necessary." He snatched the weapons from beneath his pillow as he spoke, and went from the room, she closely following. At the instant that they entered hers a low growl came from the inner room, and simultaneously they exclaimed, "A dog!" "Somewhat less to be feared than a lunatic, unless he should be mad, which is not likely," added Edward, striking a light. Lulu sprang up with a low cry of intense relief. "O Grandma Elsie, it's only a dog, and I thought it a crazy man or a wicked murderer!" As she spoke the animal emerged from his hiding-place and walked into the outer room, dragging his chain after him. Edward at once recognized him as a large mastiff Harry Duncan had shown him the previous afternoon. "It's Mr. Duncan's dog," he said; "he must have broken his chain and come in unobserved before the house was closed for the night. Here, Nero, good fellow, this way! You've done mischief enough for one night, and we'll send you home." He led the way to the outer door, the dog following quite peaceably, while Elsie, hearing sobs coming from the other room, hastened in to comfort and relieve the frightened children. Grace still slept on in blessed unconsciousness; but she found Lulu crying hysterically, quite unable to continue her efforts at self-control, now that the necessity for it was past. "Poor child!" Elsie said, folding her in her kind arms, "you have had a terrible fright, have you not?" "Yes, Grandma Elsie; oh, I've been lying here so long, _so long_, thinking a murderer or crazy man was under the bed, just ready to jump out and kill Gracie and me!" she sobbed, clinging convulsively about Elsie's neck. "And did not scream for help! What a brave little girl you are!" "I wanted to, and, oh, I could hardly keep from it! But I thought if I did it would wake Gracie and scare her to death, and the man would be sure to jump out and kill us at once." "Dear child," Elsie said, "you have shown yourself thoughtful, brave, and unselfish; how proud your father will be of his eldest daughter when he hears it!" "O Grandma Elsie, do you think he will? How glad that would make me! It would pay for all the dreadful fright I have had," Lulu said, her tones tremulous with joy, as, but a moment ago, they had been with nervousness and fright. "I am quite sure of it," Elsie answered, smoothing the little girl's hair with caressing hand, "quite sure; because I know he loves you very dearly, and that he admires such courage, unselfishness, and presence of mind as you have shown to-night." These kind words did much to turn Lulu's thoughts into a new channel and thus relieve the bad effects of her fright. But Elsie continued for some time longer her efforts to soothe her into calmness and forgetfulness, using tender, caressing words and endearments; then she left her, with an injunction to try to go immediately to sleep. Lulu promised compliance, and, attempting it, succeeded far sooner than she had thought possible. The whole occurrence seemed like a troubled dream when she awoke in the morning. It was a delicious day in early October, and as soon as dressed she went into the garden, where she found John Hencle already at work, industriously weeding and watering his plants and flowers. "Goot-morning, mine leetle mees," he said, catching sight of her, "Was it so goot a night mit you?" "No," she said, and went on to tell the story of her fright. "Dot ish lige me," he remarked, phlegmatically, at the conclusion of her tale. "Von nighd I hears somedings what make me scare. I know notings what he ish; I shust hears a noise, an' I shumpt de bed out, and ran de shtairs down, and looked de window out, and it wasn't notings but a leetle tog going 'Bow wow.'" "I don't think it was very much like my fright," remarked Lulu, in disgust; "it couldn't have been half so bad." "Vell, maype not; but dat Nero ish a goot, kind tog; he bide dramps, but nefer dose nice leetle girl. Dis ish de great day when dose nice old lady pees von huntred years old. What you dinks? a fery long dime to live?" "Yes; very long," returned Lulu, emphatically. "I wish I knew papa would live to be that old, for then he'd be at home with us almost forty years after he retires from the navy." "Somebody ish call you, I dinks," said John, and at the same moment Grace's clear, bird-like voice came floating on the morning breeze, "Lulu, Lulu!" as her dainty little figure danced gayly down the garden path in search of her missing sister. "Oh, there you are!" she exclaimed, catching sight of Lulu. "Come into Aunt Wealthy's house and see the pretty presents everybody has given her for her hundredth birthday. She hasn't seen them yet, but she is going to when she comes down to eat her breakfast." "Oh, I'd like to see them!" exclaimed Lulu, and she and Grace tripped back to the house together, and on into the sitting-room, where, on a large table, the gifts were displayed. They were many, and some of them costly, for the old lady was very dear to the hearts of these relatives, and they were able as well as willing to show their affection in this substantial way. There were fine paintings and engravings to adorn her walls; fine china, and glittering cut glass, silver and gold ware for her tables; vases for her mantels; richly-bound and illustrated books, whose literary contents were worthy of the costly adornment, and various other things calculated to give her pleasure or add to her ease and comfort. She was not anticipating any such demonstration of affection--not expecting such substantial evidences of the love and esteem in which she was held--and when brought face to face with them was almost overcome, so that tears of joy and gratitude streamed from her aged eyes, They were soon wiped away, however, and she was again her own bright, cheery self, full of thought and care for others--the kindest and most genial of hostesses. She took the head of the breakfast-table herself, and poured the coffee for her guests with her own hands, entertaining them the while with cheerful chat, and causing many a merry laugh with the old-time tripping of her tongue--a laugh in which she always joined with hearty relish. "There is too much butter in this salt," she remarked. "It is some John Hencle brought in this morning. I must see him after breakfast and bid him caution his wife to use less." But as they rose from the table John came in unsummoned, and carrying a fine large goose under each arm. Bowing low: "I ish come to pring two gooses to de von hundredth birthday," he announced; "dey pees goot, peaceable pirds: I ish know dem for twenty years, and dey nefer makes no droubles." A smile went round the little circle, but Miss Stanhope said, with a very pleased look, "Thank you, John; they shall be well fed, and I hope they will like their new quarters. How is Jake doing? I haven't seen him for some time." "No; Shakey is go to school most days. I vants Shakey to knows somedings." "Yes, indeed; I hope Jakey is going to have a good education. But what do you mean to do with him after he is done going to school?" "Vy, I dinks I prings mine Shakey to town and hangs him on to Sheneral Shmicdt and makes a brinting-office out of him." "A printer, John? Well, that might be a very good thing if you don't need him to help you about the farm, or our grounds. I should think you would, though." "Nein, nein," said John, shaking his head; "'tis not so long as I vants Shakey to makes mit me a fence; put I tash! Miss Stanhope, he say he ton't can know how to do it; and I says, 'I tash! Shakey, you peen goin' to school all your life, and you don't know de vay to makes a fence yet.'" "Not so very strange," remarked Edward, with unmoved countenance, "for they don't teach fence-making in ordinary schools." "Vell, den, de more's de bity," returned John, taking his departure. But turning back at the door to say to Miss Stanhope, "I vill put dose gooses in von safe place." "Any place where they can do no mischief, John," she answered, good-humoredly. "Now, Aunt Wealthy," said Annis, "what can we do to make this wonderful day pass most happily to you?" "Whatever will be most enjoyable to my guests," was the smiling reply. "An old body like me can ask nothing better than to sit and look on and listen." "Ah, but we would have you talk, too, auntie, when you don't find it wearisome!" "What are you going to do with all your new treasures, Aunt Wealthy?" asked Edward; "don't you want your pictures hung and a place found for each vase and other household ornament?" "Certainly," she said, with a pleased look, "and this is the very time, while I have you all here to give your opinions and advice." "And help," added Edward, "if you will accept it. As I am tall and strong, I volunteer to hang the pictures after the place for each has been duly considered and decided upon." His offer was promptly accepted, and the work entered upon in a spirit of fun and frolic, which made it enjoyable to all. Whatever the others decided upon met with Miss Stanhope's approval; she watched their proceedings with keen interest, and was greatly delighted with the effect of their labors. "My dears," she said, "you have made my house so beautiful! and whenever I look at these lovely things my thoughts will be full of the dear givers. I shall not be here long, but while I stay my happiness will be the greater because of your kindness," "And the remembrance of these words of yours, dear aunt, will add to ours," said Mr. Keith, with feeling. "But old as you are, Aunt Wealthy," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, "it is quite possible that some of us may reach home before you. It matters little, however, as we are all travelling the same road to the same happy country, being children of one Father, servants of the same blessed Master." "And He shall choose all our changes for us," she said, "calling each one home at such time as He sees best. Ah, it is sweet to leave all our interests in His dear hands, and have Him choose our inheritance for us!" There was a pause in the conversation, while Miss Stanhope seemed lost in thought. Then Mrs. Keith remarked: "You look weary, dear Aunt Wealthy; will you not lie down and rest for a little?" "Yes," she said, "I shall take it as the privilege of age, leaving you all to entertain yourselves and each other for a time." At that Mr. Dinsmore hastened to give her his arm and support her to her bedroom, his wife and Mrs. Keith following to see her comfortably established upon a couch, where they left her to take her rest. The others scattered in various directions, as inclination dictated. Elsie and Annis sought the grounds, and, taking possession of a rustic seat beneath a spreading tree, had a long, quiet talk, recalling incidents of other days, and exchanging mutual confidences. "What changes we have passed through since our first acquaintance !" exclaimed Annis. "What careless, happy children we were then!" "And what happy women we are now!" added Elsie, with a joyous smile. "Yes; and you a grandmother! I hardly know how to believe it! You seem wonderfully young for that." "Do I?" laughed Elsie. "I acknowledge that I feel young--that I have never yet been able to reason myself into feeling old." "Don't try; keep young as long as ever you can," was Annis's advice. "It is what you seem to be doing," said Elsie, sportively, and with an admiring look at her cousin. "Dear Annis, may I ask why it is you have never married? It must certainly have been your own fault." "Really, I hardly know what reply to make to that last remark," returned Annis, in her sprightly way. "But I have not the slightest objection to answering your question. I will tell 'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.' I have had friends and admirers among the members of the other sex, but have never yet seen the man for love of whom I could for a moment think of leaving father and mother." "How fortunate for them!" Elsie said, with earnest sincerity. "I know they must esteem it a great blessing that they have been able to keep one dear daughter in the old home." "And I esteem myself blest indeed in having had my dear father and mother spared to me all these years," Annis said, with feeling. "What a privilege it is, Elsie, to be permitted to smooth, some of the roughnesses from their pathway now in their declining years; to make life even a trifle easier and happier than it might otherwise be to them--the dear parents who so tenderly watched over me in infancy and youth! I know you can appreciate it--you who love your father so devotedly. "But Cousin Horace is still a comparatively young man, hale and hearty, and to all appearance likely to live many years, while my parents are aged and infirm, and I cannot hope to keep them long." Her voice was husky with emotion as she concluded. "Dear Annis," Elsie said, pressing tenderly the hand she held in hers, "you are never to lose them. They may be called home before you, but the separation will be short and the reunion for eternity--an eternity of unspeakable joy, unclouded bliss at the right hand of Him whom you all love better than you love each other." "That is true," Annis responded, struggling with her tears, "and there is very great comfort in the thought; yet one cannot help dreading the parting, and feeling that death is a thing to be feared for one's dear ones and one's self. Death is a terrible thing, Elsie." "Not half so much so to me as it once was, dear cousin," Elsie said, in a tenderly sympathizing tone. "I have thought much lately on that sweet text, 'Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints;' and that other, 'He shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied,' and the contemplation has shown me so much of the love of Jesus for the souls He has bought with His own precious blood and the joyful reception He gives them, as one by one they are gathered home, that it seems to me the death of a Christian should hardly bring sorrow to any heart. Oh, it has comforted me much in my separation from the dear husband of my youth, and made me at times look almost eagerly forward to the day when my dear Lord shall call me home and I shall see His face!" "O Elsie," cried Annis, "I trust that day may be far distant, for many hearts would be like to break at parting with you! But there is consolation for the bereaved in the thoughts you suggest; and I shall try to cherish them and forget the gloom of the grave and the dread, for myself and for those I love, of the parting." They were silent for a moment; then Elsie said, as if struck by a sudden thought, "Annis, why should not you and your father and mother go home with us and spend the fall and winter at Ion and Viamede?" "I cannot think of anything more delightful!" exclaimed Annis, her face lighting up with pleasure; "and I believe it would be for their health to escape the winter in our severer climate, for they are both subject to colds and rheumatism at that season." "Then you will persuade them?" "If I can, Elsie. How kind in you to give the invitation!" "Not at all, Annis; for in so doing I seek my own gratification as well as theirs and yours," Elsie answered, with earnest sincerity. "We purpose going from here to Ion, and from there to Viamede, perhaps two months later, to spend the remainder of the winter. And you and your father and mother will find plenty of room and a warm welcome in both places." "I know it, Elsie," Annis said; "I know you would not say so if it were not entirely true, and I feel certain of a great deal of enjoyment in your loved society, if father and mother accept your kind invitation." While these two conversed together thus in the grounds, a grand banquet was in course of preparation in Miss Stanhope's house, under the supervision of our old friends, May and Lottie. To it Elsie and Annis were presently summoned, in common with the other guests. When the feasting was concluded, and all were again gathered in the parlors, Elsie renewed her invitation already made to Annis, this time addressing herself to Mr. and Mrs. Keith. They heard it with evident pleasure, and after some consideration accepted. Edward and Zoe returned to Ion the following day, Herbert and Harold leaving at the same time for college. The rest of the Travillas, the Dinsmores, and the Raymonds lingered a week or two longer with Miss Stanhope, who was very loath to part with them, Elsie in especial; then bade farewell, scarce expecting to see her again on earth, and turned their faces homeward, rejoicing in the promise of Mr. and Mrs. Keith that they and Annis would soon follow, should nothing happen to prevent. 
18153	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 18153-h.htm or 18153-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/1/5/18153/18153-h/18153-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/1/5/18153/18153-h.zip) The Aimwell Stories OSCAR: Or The Boy Who Had His Own Way. by WALTER AIMWELL, Author of "Clinton," "Boy's Own Guide," Etc. With Illustrations. [Frontispiece: Winter Scene on Boston Common.] [Title-Page: Vignette.] Boston: Gould and Lincoln, 69 Washington Street. New York: Sheldon and Company. Cincinnati: Geo. S. Blanchard. 1861. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by Gould and Lincoln, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court, of the District of Massachusetts PREFACE. In the story of OSCAR is portrayed the career of a bright but somewhat headstrong boy, who was over-indulged by his parents, and who usually managed to "have his own way," by hook or by crook. The book is designed to exhibit some of the bad consequences of acquiring a wayward and lawless spirit, and of falling into indolent, untruthful, and disobedient habits. These are its main lessons, intermingled with which are a variety of others, of scarcely less importance to the young. _Winchester, Mass._ ADVERTISEMENT. "PRECEPTS MAY LEAD BUT EXAMPLES DRAW." "THE AIMWELL STORIES" are designed to portray some of the leading phases of juvenile character, and to point out their tendencies to future good and evil. This they undertake to do by describing the quiet, natural scenes and incidents of everyday life, in city and country, at home and abroad, at school and upon the play-ground, rather than by resorting to romantic adventures and startling effects. While their main object is to persuade the young to lay well the foundations of their characters, to win them to the ways of virtue, and to incite them to good deeds and noble aims, the attempt is also made to mingle amusing, curious, and useful information with the moral lessons conveyed. It is hoped that the volumes will thus be made attractive and agreeable, as well as instructive, to the youthful reader. Each volume of the "Aimwell Stories" will be complete and independent of itself, although a connecting thread will run through the whole series. The order of the volumes, so far as completed, is as follows:-- I. OSCAR; OR, THE BOY WHO HAD HIS OWN WAY. II. CLINTON; OR, BOY-LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. III. ELLA; OR, TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF. IV. WHISTLER; OR, THE MANLY BOY. V. MARCUS; OR, THE BOY-TAMER. VI. JESSIE; OR, TRYING TO BE SOMEBODY. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. A KITCHEN SCENE. Bridget and her little realm--A troop of rude intruders--An imperious demand--A flat refusal--Prying investigations--Biddy's displeasure aroused--Why Oscar could not find the pie--Another squabble, and its consequences--Studying under difficulties--Shooting peas--Ralph and George provoked--A piece of Bridget's mind--Mrs. Preston--George's complaint--Oscar rebuked--A tell-tale--Oscar's brothers and sisters--His father and mother. CHAPTER II. OSCAR IN SCHOOL. Oscar's school--The divisions and classes--Lively and pleasant sights--Playing schoolmaster--Carrying the joke too far to be agreeable--Oscar's indolence in school--Gazing at the blackboard--A release from study, and an unexpected privilege--Whiling away an hour--Doing nothing harder work than studying--A half-learned lesson--A habit of Oscar's--A ridiculous blunder--Absurd mistakes of the British government about the great lakes--Oscar less pardonable than they--Another blunder--Difference between guessing and knowing--Oscar detained after school--His recitation--Good advice--Remembering the blackboard--Willie Davenport--A pounding promised. CHAPTER III. PAYING OFF A GRUDGE. Whistler--Why Ralph liked him--Why Oscar disliked him--A caution--A sudden attack--An unexpected rescue--The stranger's advice--A brave and manly answer--Whistler refuses to expose Oscar's name--The boys separate--George's report of the scene, and Ralph's explanation--Oscar's return--His sister's rebuke--His mother's inquiries--Misrepresentations--Willie exonerated--Forgiving enemies--An unpleasant promise called to mind--Mr. Preston's action in the matter--Oscar refuses to punish himself--The chamber--A surprise--Falsehood--Exposure--The account settled--Silence--Late rising and a cold breakfast--What Mrs. Preston said--Its effect upon Oscar--Concealed emotion--Mistaken notions of manliness--Good impressions made--George's narrow escape. CHAPTER IV. THE HOTEL. Alfred Walton--His home--Hotel acquaintances--Coarse stories and jokes--Andy--His peculiarities--Tobacco--A spelling lesson--The disappointment--Anger--Bright and her family--Fun and mischief--The owner of the pups--A promise--A ride to the depôt--A walk about the building--Examining wheels--The tracks--An arrival--A swarm of passengers--Two young travellers taken in tow--Their story--Arrival at the hotel--A walk--Purchase of deadly weapons--A heavy bill--Gifts to Alfred and Oscar--A brave speech for a little fellow--Going home. CHAPTER V. THE YOUNG TRAVELLERS The Sabbath--Uneasiness--Monday morning--A pressing invitation to play truant--Hesitation--The decision--Oscar's misgivings--Manners of the two travellers--A small theft--Flight--A narrow escape--A costly cake of sugar--The bridge to Charlestown--The monument--The navy yard--Objects of interest--Incidents of Joseph's life--A slight test of his courage--Oscar's plans--Going to dinner--A grand "take in"--Alfred's disclosures--Real character of the young travellers--Their tough stories--A mutual difficulty--Confessing what cannot be concealed--Good advice and mild reproof--The teacher's leniency explained. CHAPTER VI. WORK. A command--Passing it along--Reluctant obedience--A poor excuse--A bad habit--Employment for vacation--Oscar's opposition to the plan--Frank the errand-boy--Thanksgiving week--A busy time--Oscar's experience as store-boy--Learning to sweep--Doing work well--A tempting invitation--Its acceptance--A ride--Driving horses--The errand--The return--Oscar at the store--Sent off "with a flea in his ear"--The matter brought up again--Oscar's excuse unsatisfactory--Ralph's services rewarded--Difference between the two boys. CHAPTER VII. THANKSGIVING DAY. Grandmother's arrival--Surprises--Presents--Oscar at a shooting-match--Bad company--Cruel sport--Home again--Prevarication--A remonstrance--Impudence, and a silent rebuke--The dinner--A stormy afternoon--A disappointment--Evening in the parlor--A call for stories--How the Indians punished bad boys--What Oscar thought of it--An Indian story--The hostile party--The alarm--The stratagem--The onset--The retreat--The victory--Laplot River--Widow Storey's retreat--Misfortunes of her husband--Her enterprise and industry--Fleeing from the British--The subterranean abode--Precautions to prevent discovery--Uncle James--The fellow who was caught in his own trap--Old Zigzag--His oddities--His tragic end--How the town of Barre, Vt., got its name--A well-spent evening. CHAPTER VIII. GRANDMOTHER LEE. One of her habits--Ella's complaint--Alice's reproof--Ella's rude reply to her grandmother--A mild rebuke--A sterner reproof--Shame and repentance--Popping corn--George's selfishness--A fruitless search for the corn-bag--Bad Temper--An ineffectual reproof--George's obstinacy--How he became selfish--Difficulty of breaking up a bad habit--What he lost by his selfishness--Oscar's dog--He is named "Tiger"--His portrait--His roguishness--Oscar's trick upon his grandmother--Unfortunate ending--Tiger's destructiveness--A mystery, and its probable solution--Oscar's falsehood--Tiger's banishment decreed, but not carried out--Grandmother Lee's remonstrance with Oscar--Bridget's onset--Oscar's excuse--Moral principle wanting--Mrs. Lee's departure. CHAPTER IX. WINTER SPORTS. Coasting--Oscar's sled--Borrowing and lending--A merry scene on the Common--Various sleds and characters--A collision--Damage to Ralph and the "Clipper"--Not accidental--The guilty parties called to account--No satisfaction obtained--Ralph's trouble--Oscar's anger--His revenge--A fight--His termination--Skating--Tiger on the ice--His plunge into an air-hole--His alarm and escape--Going home--Unfounded fears awakened--Tiger's shame--A talk about air-holes--What they are for, and how they are made--Skaters should be cautious--A change in Tiger's habits--A great snow-storm--Appearance of the streets--Fun for the boys--A job for Oscar--He is wiser than his father--Nullification of a command--The command repeated--Icy sidewalks--Laziness and its excuses--A wise suggestion--Duty neglected--Oscar called to account--His excuses--Unpleasant consequences of his negligence--The command repeated, with a "snapper" at the end--The dreaded task completed. CHAPTER X. APPEARANCES. A compulsory ride--Merited retribution--A sad plight for a proud boy--Laughter and ridicule--Oscar's neatness and love of dress--The patched jacket--Oscar's objections to it--Benny Wright, the boy of many patches--His character--The jacket question peremptorily settled--A significant shake of the head--A watch wanted--Why boys carry watches--Punctuality--Oscar's tardiness at school--The real cause of it--Thinking too much of outside appearances--Character of more consequence than cloth--An offer--The conditions--A hard question--How to accomplish an object--Oscar's waywardness--Boarding-school discipline--The High School--An anticipated novelty. CHAPTER XI. THE MORAL LESSON. Oscar's shrewdness--His reputation for integrity--A new want--Perplexity--A chance for speculation--A dishonest device--Its success--Secrecy--The fraud discovered--Oscar's defence--Restitution refused--Indignation--The Monday morning lesson in morals--Dishonesty--Rectifying mistakes--The principle unfolded--Restoring lost articles--A case for Oscar to decide--His reluctant decision--Taking advantage of another's ignorance--Duty of restitution--Other forms of dishonesty--Better to be cheated than to cheat--Effect of the lesson upon Oscar. CHAPTER XII. SICKNESS. Wet feet--A command disobeyed--Dabbling in the water--Playing on the ice--An unexpected adventure--Afloat on an ice-cake--A consultation--Danger and alarm--Spectators--A call for help--A critical situation--The rescue--Effects of the adventure--Feverish dreams--Strange feelings--The doctor's visit--Lung fever--The Latin prescription--Oscar's removal--He grows worse--Peevishness--Passing the crisis--Improved behavior--Getting better--General rejoicings--Further improvement--Return of a bad habit--Fretfulness and impatience--A dispute--First attempt to sit up--Its failure--First day in an easy chair--The sweets of convalescence--Danger of a relapse. CHAPTER XIII. GETTING WELL. Hunger--An evil suggestion--First visit down stairs--Midnight supper--Weakness and exhaustion--An ill turn--The doctor's visit--The mystery explained--Contents of a sick boy's stomach--The doctor's abrupt farewell--His recall--Promise of obedience--Punishment for imprudence--Directions--Effects of the relapse--Slow recovery--The menagerie procession--A wet morning--Disobedience--Exposure, and its consequences--Reading--The borrowed book--The curious letter--Puzzles, with illustrations--Guessing riddles--Oscar's treatment of Benjamin--His present feelings towards him--Ella's copy of the letter--Oscar's growing impatience--An arrival--Uncle John--The loggers--Cousins never seen--A journey decided upon--Solution of riddles, conundrums, &c. CHAPTER XIV. THE JOURNEY. Setting out--A long and wearisome ride--Portland--The hotel--Going to bed--The queer little lamp--Lonesomeness--The evening prayer--Morning--Breakfast--The railroad depôt--Oscar's partiality for stage-coaches and good horses--Eighty miles by steam--Dinner--The stage-coach--An outside seat--The team and the roads--Villages--Mail bags--Forests and rivers--End of the stage ride--Jerry--An Introduction--A ride in a wagon--Bashfulness--An invisible village--The journey's end--Mrs. Preston--More shy cousins--Supper--Evening employments--Attempting to "scrape acquaintance"--Mary tells Oscar his name--More questions--The tables turned--Getting acquainted in bed. CHAPTER XV. BROOKDALE. A dull morning--New acquaintances--Inquiries about Jerry's school-time--A long vacation--Work--Playmates--Rain--A fine sunrise--The distant pond--A call to breakfast--Preliminary operations--Jerry's uncombed head--Oscar's neatness--Jerry sent from the table--Bad manners--Bathing in the pond--An anticipated pleasure interdicted--The river--A walk--The pond--Map of Brookdale--Going to ride--The Cross-Roads--Billy's speed discussed--The variety store--All sorts of things--Oscar's purchase--Returning home--Short evenings--A nap--A queer dream--Oscar's smartness at dreaming--Making fun of a country store--Mary's question--Crying babies--Teasing--Walking backwards--A trip and a fall--A real crying baby--Mary comforted--Jerry cuffed--Mortification. CHAPTER XVI. IN THE WOODS. Forgotten medicine and renewed health--An excursion planned--A gun wanted, but denied--Setting out on a long tramp--Swamps--Upland--Brooks--How Brookdale got its name--Cutting canes--Birch and beech--How to crook the handle of a cane--The philosophy of it explained--The cigars--Fine groves--Stopping to rest--The forest described--Birds and guns--Other game--Jim Oakley's strange animal--Moose--The man who met a bear--A race--Mysterious disappearance of the bear--The probable cause of his visit--The boy who killed two bears--Oscar's courage--Prospect Rock--A fine view--The rabbit--The woodchuck's hole--Crossing a swamp--Mosquitoes--The pond--The hermit's hut--Some account of "Old Staples"--Buried treasures--Making a fire--Baking potatoes and toasting cheese--Drinking pond water--Dinner--Hunting for the hermit's money--What they meant to do with it--A bath proposed--Smoothing over the matter--Going Into water--Drying their hair--Going home--Lost In the woods--Arrival home--One kind of punishment for wrong-doing. CHAPTER XVII. CLINTON. The missing cap--Splitting wood--Jerry and Emily--A quarrel begun--The cap found--A drink of buttermilk--Oscar's opinion of it--Jerry's love for it--Another delay--Feeding the fowls--A mysterious letter--The Shanghae rooster's complaint--Curiosity excited--The suspected author--Clinton's education--Keeping dark about the letter--Who Clinton was--Where he lived--Killing caterpillars--How caterpillars breed--The young turkeys--The brood of chickens--The hen-coop--Clinton's management of the poultry--His profits--Success the result of effort, not of luck--The "rooster's letter" not alluded to--The piggery--The barn--"The horse's prayer"--A new-comer--Her name--A discovery--Relationship of Clinton to Whistler--Mrs. Davenport--Oscar conceals his dislike of Whistler--The shop--Specimens of Clinton's work--Going home. CHAPTER XVIII. THE LETTER. A forgotten duty called to mind--Letter writing--A mysterious allusion--The private room--No backing out--Making a beginning--Getting stuck--Idling away time--Prying into letters--A commotion among the swallows--Teaching the young ones how to fly--A good lesson lost--Mary and her book--Her talk about the pictures--A pretty picture--A wasted hour--Making another attempt--His success--Effects of being in earnest--A copy of Oscar's letter--Emily's inquisitiveness--A rebuke--The message she wanted to send--The meadow lot--Mulching for trees--Going to the old wood lot--Cutting birch twigs-Forgetting to be lazy--The load--A ride to the Cross-Roads--Mailing the letter--Paying the postage in advance. CHAPTER XIX. THE RECALL. Hankerings after a gun--A plan--Jim Oakley's gun--A dispute--An open rupture--The broken gun--Going home mad--A call from Clinton--The toiler--Summons home--Disappointment--Bad feeling between Oscar and Jerry--How they slept--Remarks about their appearance at the breakfast table--Borrowing trouble--Another visit proposed--Jerry's explosion of anger--His imprudence--Confinement down cellar--An unhappy day--"Making up" at night--A duty neglected--Inquiries about the gun--Starting for home--A pleasant drive--The stage-coach--The cars--Luncheon--Half an hour in Portland--The Boston train--A spark in the eye--Pain and inflammation--Boston--Ralph's surprise--Welcome home--The eye-stone--The intruder removed. CHAPTER XX. DOWNWARD PROGRESS. Oscar's dread of going to school--Unsuccessful pleas--Oscar at school--His indifference to his studies--A "talent for missing"--A reproof--Kicking a cap--Whistler's generosity--Benny Wright--Oscar's bad conduct--Regarded as incorrigible--The tobacco spittle--Oscar's denial--Betrayed by his breath--A successful search--The teacher's rebuke--The new copy--Its effect--A note for Oscar's father--What it led to--Concealment of real feelings--Bridget's complaint--The puddle on the kitchen floor--Oscar's story--Conflicting reports--A new flare-up--The truth of the matter--Bridget's departure--Examination day--The medals--The certificate for the High School--A refusal--Bitter fruits of misconduct. CHAPTER XXI. NED MIXER. Vacation--Associates--Edward Mixer--His character--Loitering around railroad depôts--An excursion into the country--The railroad bridge--Fruit--A fine garden--Getting over the fence--Looking for birds' nests--Disappearance of Edward and Alfred--A chase--Escape of the boys--Hailing each other--Edward's account of the adventure--A grand speculation--Pluck--Secrecy--Curiosity not gratified--Arrival of Oscar's uncle--The officer's interview with Mr. Preston--The real character and history of Ned--Timely warning--Oscar's astonishment--What he knew concerning Ned--A hint about forming new acquaintances--Oscar's removal from city temptations decided on--A caution and precaution--Departure--Ned's arrest and sentence--The "grand speculation" never divulged. Illustrations. WINTER SCENE ON BOSTON COMMON . . . . . . FRONTISPIECE VIGNETTE . . . . . . . . . TITLE-PAGE PLAYING SCHOOLMASTER. THE ASSAULT. BRIGHT AND HER FAMILY. THANKSGIVING MARKET SCENE. TIGER'S COUNTENANCE. THE OVERTURN. AFLOAT ON THE ICE. A QUEER NAME. THE DOUBLE FACE. THE CAT-ERECT. MAP OF BROOKDALE. THE DINNER IN THE WOODS. MARY AND THE PICTURE-BOOK. THE STAGE-COACH. HUNTING FOR BIRDS' NESTS. OSCAR. CHAPTER I. A KITCHEN SCENE. Bridget, the Irish servant girl, had finished the house-work for the day, and sat down to do a little mending with her needle. The fire in the range, which for hours had sent forth such scorching blasts, was now burning dim; for it was early in October, and the weather was mild and pleasant. The floor was swept, and the various articles belonging in the room were arranged in their proper places, for the night. The mistress of the kitchen,--for Bridget claimed this as her rank, if not her title,--was humming a queer medley of tunes known only to herself, as her clumsy fingers were trying to coax the needle to perform some dextrous feat that it did not seem inclined to do in her hands. What she was thinking about, is none of our business; but whatever it was, her revery was suddenly disturbed, and the good nature that beamed from her face dispelled, by the noisy clattering of more than one pair of little boots on the stairs. In a moment, the door opened with a jerk and a push, and in bounded three boys, with as little display of manners or propriety as so many savages might exhibit. The oldest directed his steps to the closet, singing, as he peered round among the eatables: "Eggs, cheese, butter, bread,-- Stick, stock, stone-dead." "Biddy," he continued, "I 'm hungry--give me something to eat, quick." Bridget paid no attention to this demand, but only twitched her needle with a little more energy. "I say, Biddy," continued the boy, "what did you have for supper? Come, give me some, I 'm half starved." "And why did n't ye come when the supper was ready, if ye wanted any?" said Bridget. "If ye won't ate with the rest, it's not me that will wait upon ye, Master Oscar." "Well," continued Oscar, "if you won't help me, I guess I can help myself. Ralph, what did you have for supper?" The boy addressed named over several articles, among which were cake and mince-pie, neither of which could Oscar find in the closet. "Where did you put the pie, Biddy?" he inquired. "It 's where ye won't find it," replied Bridget, "that's jist where it is." "I bet I _will_ find it, come now," said Oscar, with a determined air; and he commenced the search in earnest, prying into every covered dish, opening every drawer and bucket, and overhauling and disarranging every part of the closet. Bridget was just then in too irritable a mood to bear this provoking invasion of her realm with patience. In an angry tone, she ordered the intruder to leave the closet, but he took no notice of the command. She repeated the order, making it more emphatic by calling him a "plague" and a "torment," but he did not heed it. Then she threatened to tell his parents of his misconduct, but this had no effect. Oscar continued his search for some minutes, but without success; and he finally concluded to make his supper of bread and butter, since he could find nothing more tempting to his appetite. The fact was, Oscar was getting in the habit of being absent from his meals, and calling for food at unseasonable hours, much to the annoyance of Bridget. She had complained of this to his mother several times, without effect; and now she thought she would try a little expedient of her own. So, when she cleared away the supper-table that evening, before Oscar came home, she hid away the cake and pies with which the others had been served, and left only bread and butter in the closet. She gained her end, but the boy, in rummaging for the hidden articles, had made her half an hour's extra work, in putting things to rights again. As Oscar stepped out of the closet, after his solitary supper, he moved towards the youngest of the other boys, saying: "Here, George, open your mouth and shut your eyes, and I 'll give you something to make you wise." George declined the gift, but Oscar insisted, and tried to force it upon him. A struggle ensued, and both rolled upon the floor, the one crying and screaming with anger, and the other laughing as though he considered it good fun. George shut his teeth firmly together, but Oscar succeeded in rubbing enough of the mysterious article upon his lips to enable him to tell what it was. It proved to be a piece of pepper, a plate of which Oscar had found in the closet. This little experiment, however, did not leave George in a very pleasant frame of mind. It was some time before he got over his blubbering and pouting. Oscar called him a "cry-baby," for making such a fuss about a little bit of pepper, which epithet did not aid him much in forgetting the injury he had received. After awhile, quiet and harmony were in a measure restored. Ralph and George got their school-books, and began to look over the lessons they were to recite in the morning; but Oscar not only remained idle, himself, but seemed to try to interrupt them as much as possible, by his remarks. By-and-bye, finding they did not take much notice of his observations, he took from his jacket pocket a small tin tube, and commenced blowing peas through it, aiming them at his brothers, at Bridget, and at the lamp. Ralph, after two or three had taken effect on his face, got up in a pet, and took his book up stairs to the sitting-room. George scowled and scolded, as the annoying pellets flew around his head, but he did not mean to be driven away by such small shot. Bridget, too, soon lost her patience, as the peas rattled upon the newly-swept floor. "Git away with yer pays, Oscar," said she; "don't ye be clutterin' up the clane floor with 'em, that's a good b'y." "They aint 'pays,' they are _peas_," replied Oscar; "can't you say peas, Biddy?" "I don't care what ye call 'em," said Bridget; "only kape the things in yer pocket, and don't bother me with 'em." "Who 's bothering you?" said Oscar; "me 'pays' don't make any dirt--they 're just as clean as your floor." "Ye 're a sassy b'y, that's jist what ye are." "Well, what are you going to do about it?" "Faith, if it was me that had the doin' of it, I bet I 'd larn ye better manners, ye great, impudent good-for-nothin', if I had to bate yer tin times a day." "You would n't, though, would you?" said Oscar; and he continued the shower of peas until he had exhausted his stock, and then picked most of them up again, to serve for some future occasion. He had hardly finished this last operation, when his mother, who had been out, returned home. As soon as she entered the kitchen, George began to pour out his complaints to her. "Mother," he said, "Oscar 's been plaguing us like everything, all the evening. He got me down on the floor, and rubbed a hot pepper on my mouth, and tried to make me eat it. And he's been rummaging all round the kitchen, trying to find some pie. And then he went to shooting peas at us, and he got Bridget real mad, and Ralph had to clear out, to study his lesson. I told him--" "There, there, George, that will do," replied his mother; "I am sick of hearing these complaints. Oscar, why is it that I can't stir out of the house, when you are at home, without your making trouble with Bridget or the children? I do wish you would try to behave yourself properly. You are getting the ill-will of everybody in the house, by your bad conduct. I really believe your brothers and sisters will begin to hate you, before long, if you keep on in this way. For your own sake, if for nothing more, I should think you would try to do better. If I were in your place, I would try to keep on good terms with my brothers and sisters, if I quarrelled with everybody else." Oscar made no reply to this, and the subject was soon dropped. His mother was too much accustomed to such complaints of his misconduct, to think very seriously of them; and he was himself so used to such mild rebukes as the foregoing, that they made little impression upon his mind. The boys, who all slept in one chamber, soon retired for the night; but Oscar took no further notice of the occurrences of the evening, except to apply the nickname of "mammy's little tell-tale" to George--a title of contempt by which he often addressed his little brother. I am afraid that the title of "tell-tale" was not wholly undeserved by George. True, he often had just cause of complaint; but he was too ready to bring whining accusations against his brothers and sisters, for every trifling thing. He complained so much that his mother could not always tell when censure was deserved. It had become a habit with him, and a dozen times a day he would go to her, with the complaint that Oscar had been plaguing him, or Ella had got something that belonged to him, or Ralph would not do this or that. George, who was the youngest of the children, was at this time seven years old; Ralph was two years and half older, and Oscar, who was the oldest son, was about half way between thirteen and fourteen. They had two sisters. Alice, the oldest, was fifteen years of age, and Eleanor, or Ella, as she was commonly called, was about eleven. The father of these boys and girls was a shop-keeper in Boston. His business required so much of his attention, that he was seldom with his family, except at meal-times and nights. Even in the evening he was usually at the shop; but when it so happened that he could remain at home after tea, it was his delight to settle himself comfortably down in the big rocking chair, in the well-lighted sitting-room, and to muse and doze, while Alice sang, and played upon the piano-forte. He had so many other cares, that he did not like to be troubled with bad reports of his children's conduct, This was so well understood by all the family, that even George seldom ventured to go to him with a complaint. The management of domestic affairs was thus left almost entirely with Mrs. Preston, and she consulted her husband in regard to these matters only when grave troubles arose. I have thus briefly introduced to my readers the family, one of whose members is to form the principal subject of the following pages. CHAPTER II. OSCAR IN SCHOOL. The school which Oscar attended was held in a large and lofty brick building, a short distance from the street on which he lived. His brothers attended the same school, but his sisters did not, it being only for boys. The pupils numbered four or five hundred--a good many boys to be together in one building. But though belonging to one school, and under the control of one head master, they did not often meet together in one assembly. They were divided into eight or ten branches, of about fifty scholars each, and each branch had its own separate room and teacher. There were however, only four classes in the whole school; and a this time Oscar was a member of the first, or highest class. There was a large hall in the upper story of the building, in which the entire school assembled on exhibition days, and when they met for the practice of singing or declamation. There were lively and merry times in the vicinity of the school-house, I can assure you, for half an hour before the opening of school, and for about the same length of time after the exercises closed. Four hundred boys cannot well be brought together, without making some stir. Every morning and afternoon, as the pupils went to and from school, the streets in the neighborhood would for a few minutes seem to swarm with boys, of every imaginable size, shape, manners, dress, and appearance. Usually, they went back and forth in little knots; and with their books and slates under their arms, their bright, happy faces, their joyous laugh, and their animated movements, they presented a most pleasing sight,--"a sight for sore eyes," as a Scotchman might say. If anybody disputes this, he must be a sour and crabbed fellow. Oscar, although not the most prompt and punctual of scholars, used occasionally to go to school in season to have a little fun with his mates, before the exercises commenced. One day, entering the school-room a little before the time, he put on an old coat which his teacher wore in-doors, stuck a quill behind his ear, and made a pair of spectacles from some pasteboard, which he perched upon his nose. Arranged, in this fantastical manner, he seated himself with great dignity in the teacher's chair, and began to "play school-master," to the amusement of several other boys. It so happened that the teacher arrived earlier than usual that day, and he was not a little amused, as he suddenly entered the room, and witnessed the farce that was going on. Oscar jumped from his seat, but the master made him take it again, and remain in it just as he caught him, with his great-coat, pasteboard spectacles and quill, until all the scholars had assembled, and it was time to commence the studies of the day. This afforded fine sport to the other boys, but Oscar did not much relish the fun, and he never attempted to amuse himself in that way again. [Illustration: Playing Schoolmaster] I am sorry that this harmless piece of roguery is not the most serious charge that candor obliges me to bring against Oscar. But to tell the truth, he was not noted either for his studious habits or his correct deportment; and there was very little prospect that he would be considered a candidate for the "Franklin medals," which were to be distributed to the most deserving members of his class, when they graduated, the ensuing July. And yet Oscar was naturally a bright and intelligent boy. He was quick to learn, when he applied himself; but he was indolent, and did not like to take the trouble of studying his lessons. Whenever he could be made to take hold of a lesson in earnest, he soon mastered it; but the consciousness of this power often led him to put off his lessons to the last minute, and then perhaps something would happen to prevent his preparing himself at all. A day or two after the "kitchen scene" described in the preceding chapter, Oscar was sitting at his desk in the school-room, with an open book before him, but with his eyes idly staring at a blackboard affixed to one of the walls. The teacher watched him a moment, and then spoke to him. "Oscar," he said, "what do you find so very fascinating about that blackboard? You have been looking at it very intently for several minutes--what do you see that interests you so!" Oscar hung his head, but made no reply. "Are you ready to recite your geography lesson?" continued the master. "No, sir." "Why do you not study it, then'" "I don't feel like studying," replied Oscar. "Very well," said the teacher, quite pleasantly; "if you don't feel like it, you need n't study. You may come here." Oscar stepped out to the platform on which the teacher's desk was placed. "There," continued the master, pointing to a blackboard facing the school, "you may stand there and look at that board just as long as you please. But you must not look at anything else, and I would advise you not to let me catch your eyes turning either to the right or the left. Now mind and keep your eyes on the board, and when you feel like studying let me know." Oscar took the position pointed out to him, with his back towards the boys, and with his face so near the blackboard, that he could see nothing else without turning his head--an operation that would be sure to attract the attention of the master. At first he thought it would be good fun to stand there, and for awhile the novelty of the thing did amuse him a little. When he began to grow weary, he contrived to interest himself by tracing out the faint chalk-marks of long-forgotten problems, that had not been entirely obliterated from the blackboard. This afforded employment for his mind for a time; but by-and-bye he began to grow tired and uneasy. His eyes longed to see something else, and his legs were weary of standing so long in one position. He wondered, too, whether the boys were looking at him, and whether they smiled at his strange employment. At last, after doing penance about an hour, his exhaustion got the better of his stubbornness, and on informing the master that he thought ho could study now, he was permitted to take his seat. After returning to his desk, Oscar had but little time to finish learning his geography lesson, before the class was called out to recite. As was too often the case, he was but half prepared. The subject of the lesson was New York State. Several of the questions put to Oscar were answered wrong, either wholly or in part. When asked what great lakes bordered on New York, he replied: "Lake Erie and Lake Superior." When the question was given to another, and correctly answered, Oscar exclaimed: "That's what I meant--Erie and Ontario; but I was n't thinking what I said." This was somewhat of a habit with Oscar. When he "missed" a question, he was very apt to say, after the next boy had answered it, "I knew, only I could n't think," or, "I was just going to say so." Another question put to him was, whether the water of the great New York lakes was fresh or salt. Oscar replied that it was salt. It is but justice to add, how ever, that nothing was said in the lesson of the day, on this point, although the question had occurred in a previous lesson. Noticing that several of the boys laughed at Oscar's blunder, the teacher remarked: "That was a very foolish answer, Oscar, but you are not the first nor the wisest person that has made the same mistake. When the British went to war with us, in 1812, it is said that all their war vessels intended to navigate the lakes, were furnished with tanks and casks for carrying a full supply of freshwater; and I have been told that an apparatus is still in existence in one of the Canadian navy yards, which the English government sent over, some years ago, for distilling fresh water from Lake Erie. But an American school-boy of your age ought to know better than this, if an English lord of the admiralty does not. These great lakes are among the remarkable features of our own country, and every American child should know something about them. I should suppose," continued the teacher, "that a boy who could afford to look steadily at nothing for an hour, might take a little pains to inform himself about so common a matter as this, so as not to appear so ridiculous, when a simple question is asked him." Before the lesson was concluded, Oscar made still another mistake. There was an allusion in the lesson to the great fire of 1885, by which an immense amount of property in New York city was destroyed. When the teacher asked him how many buildings were said to have been consumed, he replied: "Three hundred and fifty--five hundred and thirty--no, three hundred and fifty." "Which number do you mean?" inquired the master. "I aint sure which it is," replied Oscar, after a moment's hesitation; "it's one or the other, I don't know which." "You are about as definite," said the teacher, "as the Irish recruit, who said his height was five feet ten or ten feet five, he was n't certain which. But are you _sure_ that the number of buildings burnt was either three hundred and fifty, or five hundred and thirty?" "Why--yes--I--believe--it was one or the other," replied Oscar, hesitatingly. "You _believe_ it was, do you? Well, I believe you know just nothing about the lesson. You may go to your seat, and study it until you can answer every question; and after school I will hear you recite it, and remember, you will not go home until you _can_ recite it." The class continued their recitation, and Oscar returned to his seat, and commenced studying the lesson anew. It was already late in the afternoon, and as he did not like the idea of stopping after school, he gave pretty close attention to his book during the rest of the session. About fifteen minutes after the school was dismissed, he told the teacher he was prepared to recite, and he succeeded in getting through the lesson with tolerable accuracy. When he had finished, the teacher talked with him very plainly about his indolent habits in school, and the consequences that would hereafter result from them. "I would advise you," he said, "to do one of two things,--either commit your lessons perfectly, hereafter, or else give up study entirely, and ask your father to take you from school and put you to some business. You can learn as fast as any boy in school, if you will only give your attention to it; but I despise this half-way system that you have fallen into. It is only wasting time to half learn a thing, as you did your geography lesson this afternoon. You studied it just enough to get a few indistinct impressions, and what little you did learn you were not sure of. It would be better for you to master but one single question a day, and then _know_ that you know it, than to fill your head with a thousand half-learned, indefinite, and uncertain ideas. I have told you all this before, but you do not seem to pay any attention to it. I am sorry that it is so, for you might easily stand at the head of the school, if you would try." Oscar _had_ received such advice before, but, as his teacher intimated, he had not profited much by it. If anything, he had grown more indolent and negligent, within a few months. On going home that night, Ralph accosted him with the inquiry: "What did you think of the blackboard, Oscar? Do you suppose you should know it again, if you should happen to see it?" "What do you mean?" he inquired, feigning ignorance. "O, you 've forgotten it a'ready, have you?" continued Ralph. "You don't remember seeing anything of a blackboard this afternoon, do you?" "But who told you about it?" inquired Oscar; for though both attended the same school, their places were in different rooms. "O, I know what's going on," said Ralph; "you need n't try to be so secret about it." "Well, I know who told you about it--'t was Bill Davenport, was n't it?" inquired Oscar. Willie and Ralph were such great cronies, that Oscar's supposition was a very natural one. Indeed, Ralph could not deny it without telling a falsehood, and so he made no reply. Oscar, perceiving he had guessed right, added, in a contemptuous tone: "The little, sneaking tell-tale--I 'll give him a good pounding for that, the first time I catch him." "You 're too bad, Oscar," interposed his brother; "Willie did n't suppose you cared anything about standing before the blackboard--he only spoke of it because he thought it was something queer." Seeing Oscar was in so unamiable a mood, Ralph said nothing more about the subject, at that time. CHAPTER III. PAYING OFF A GRUDGE. The morning after the events just related, as Ralph was on his way to school, he fell in with Willie Davenport, or "Whistler," as he was often sportively called, by his playmates, in allusion to his fondness for a species of music to which most boys are more or less addicted. And I may as well say here, that he was a very good whistler, and came honestly by the title by which he was distinguished among his fellows. His quick ear caught all the new and popular melodies of the day, before they became threadbare, which gave his whistling an air of freshness and novelty that few could rival. It was to this circumstance--the quality of his whistling, rather than the quantity--that he was chiefly indebted for the name of Whistler. Nor was he ashamed of his nickname, as he certainly had no need to be; for it was not applied to him in derision, but playfully and good-naturedly. Whistler and Ralph were good friends. There was a difference of between two and three years in their ages, Whistler being about twelve years old; but their dispositions harmonized together well, and quite a strong friendship had grown up between them. A very different feeling, however, had for some time existed between Oscar and Whistler. They were in the same class at school; but Whistler studied hard, and thus, though much younger than Oscar, he stood far before him as a scholar. This awakened some feeling of resentment in Oscar, and he never let slip any opportunity for annoying or mortifying his more industrious and successful class-mate. On their way to school, on the morning in question, Ralph told Whistler of Oscar's threat, and advised him to avoid his brother as much as possible, for a day or two, until the affair of the blackboard should pass from his mind. Whistler heeded this caution, and was careful not to put himself in the way of his enemy. He succeeded in eluding him through the day, and was on his way home from school in the afternoon, when Oscar, who he thought had gone off in another direction, suddenly appeared at his side. "You little tell-tale, you," cried Oscar, "what did you tell Ralph about the blackboard for! I 'll learn you to mind your own business, next time, you mean, sneaking meddler. Take that--and that," he continued, giving Whistler several hard blows with his fist. The latter attempted to dodge the blows, but did not return them, for this he knew would only increase the anger of Oscar, who was so much his superior in size and strength, as well as in the art of fisticuffs, that he could do just about as he pleased with him. The affray, however, was soon brought to an unexpected end, by a gentleman who happened to witness it. Seizing Oscar by the collar of his jacket, he exclaimed: "Here, here, sir! what are you doing to that little fellow? Don't you know enough, you great lubber, to take a boy of your own size, if you want to fight? Now run, my little man, and get out of his way," continued the stranger, turning to Whistler, and still holding Oscar by the collar. [Illustration: The Assault.] Whistler hesitated for a moment between the contending impulses of obedience and manliness; and then, drawing himself up to his full stature, he said, with a respectful but decided air: "No, sir, I have n't injured him, and I won't run away from him." "Well said, well said--you are a brave little fellow," continued the gentleman, somewhat surprised at the turn the affair was taking. "What is your name, sir?" "William Davenport." "And what is this boy's name?" "Oscar," replied Willie, and there he stopped, as if unwilling to expose further the name of his abuser. "Well you may go now, Oscar," said the gentleman, relinquishing his hold; "but if you lay your hands on William again, I shall complain of you." The two boys walked off in opposite directions, the gentleman keeping an eye upon Oscar until Whistler was out of his reach. A little knot of boys was drawn together by the circumstance just related, among whom was George, Oscar's youngest brother. He witnessed the attack, but knew nothing of its cause. As he went directly home, while Oscar did not, he had an opportunity to report to his mother and Ralph the scene he had just beheld. Ralph now related to his mother the incident of the preceding day, which led to the assault; for, seeing Oscar's unwillingness to have anything said about it, he had not mentioned the matter to any one at home. Ralph was a generous-hearted boy, and in this case was actuated by a regard for Oscar's feelings, rather than by fear. Oscar did not come home that night until after dark. As he entered the sitting-room, Alice, who was seated at the piano-forte, broke short off the piece she was playing, and said, looking at him as sternly as she could, "You great ugly boy!" "Why, what's the matter now?" inquired Oscar, who hardly knew whether this rough salutation was designed to be in fun or in earnest; "don't I look as well as usual?" "You looked well beating little Willie Davenport, don't you think you did?" continued his sister, with the same stern look. "I 'm perfectly ashamed of you--I declare, I did n't know you could do such a mean thing as that." "I don't care," replied Oscar, "I 'll lick him again, if he does n't mind his own business." As Oscar did not know that George witnessed the assault, he was at a loss to know how Alice heard of it. She refused to tell him, and he finally concluded that Whistler or his mother must have called there, to enter a complaint against him. Pretty soon Mrs. Preston entered the room, and sat down, to await the arrival of Oscar's father to tea. She at once introduced the topic which was uppermost in her mind, by the inquiry: "Oscar, what is the trouble between you and Willie Davenport?" "Why," replied Oscar, "he 's been telling stories about me." "Do you mean false stories?" "Yes--no--not exactly false, but it was n't true, neither." "It must have been a singular story, to have been either false nor true. And as it appears there was but one story, I should like to know what it was." "He told Ralph I had to stand up and look at a blackboard an hour." "Was that false?" "Yes," said Oscar, for in replying to his mother, of late, he had usually omitted the "ma'am" (madam) which no well-bred boy will fail to place after the yes or no addressed to a mother; "yes, it was a lie, for I need n't have stood there five minutes, if I had n't wanted to." "Did you stand before the blackboard because you wanted to, or was it intended as a punishment for not attending to your lesson!" "Why, I suppose it was meant for a punishment, but the master told me I might go to my seat, whenever I wanted to study." "Then," said Mrs. Preston, "after all your quibbling, I don't see that Willie told any falsehood. And, in fact, I don't believe he had any idea of injuring you, when he told Ralph of the affair. He only spoke of it as a little matter of news. But even if he had told a lie about you, or had related the occurrence out of ill-will towards you, would that be any excuse for your conduct, in beating him as you did this afternoon! Do you remember the subject of your last Sabbath-school lesson?" Oscar could not recall it, and shook his head in the negative. "I have not forgotten it," continued his mother; "it was on forgiving our enemies, and it is a lesson that you very much need to learn. 'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses,'--that was one of the verses of the lesson. It is noble to forgive, but it is mean to retaliate. You must learn to conquer your resentful spirit, or you will be in trouble all the time. I shall report this matter to your father when he comes. I suppose you remember what he promised you, when you had your fight with Sam Oliver?" Oscar remembered it very distinctly. On that occasion, his father reprimanded him with much severity, and assured him that any repetition of the fault would not go unpunished. Mr. Preston soon came in, and as the family sat at the tea-table, he was informed of Oscar's misconduct. After scolding the culprit with much sharpness, for his attack upon Willie, he concluded by ordering him immediately to bed. Although it yet lacked two hours of his usual bed-time, Oscar did not consider his punishment very severe, but retired to his chamber, feeling delighted that he had got off so much easier than he anticipated. Indeed, so little did he think of his father's command, that he felt in no hurry to obey it. Instead of going to bed, he sat awhile at the window, listening to the music of a flute which some one in the neighborhood was playing upon. Presently Ralph and George, who slept in the same chamber with him, came up to keep him company. They amused themselves together for some time, and Oscar quite forgot that he had been sent to bed, until the door suddenly opened, and his father, whose attention had been attracted by the noise, stood before him. "Did n't I tell you to go to bed an hour ago, Oscar?" he inquired. "Yes, sir." "Why have n't you obeyed me, then?" "Because," said Oscar, "I 've got a lesson to get to-night, and I have n't studied it yet." "If you 've got a lesson to learn, where is your book?" inquired his father. "It 's down stairs; I was afraid to go after it, and so I was trying to coax Ralph to get it for me." "O, what a story!" cried George; "why, father, he has n't said one word about his book." This was true. Oscar, in his extremity, had hastily framed a falsehood, trusting that his assurance would enable him to carry it through. And he would probably have succeeded but for George; as Ralph, in his well-meant but very mistaken kindness for Oscar, would not have been very likely to expose him. But the lie was nailed, and Oscar's bold and wicked push had only placed him in a far worse position than he occupied before. His father, for a moment, could scarcely believe his ears; but this feeling of astonishment soon gave way to a frown, before which Oscar cowered like a sheep before a lion. Mr. Preston was a man of strong passions, but of few words. Having set forth briefly but in vivid colors the aggravated nature of Oscar's three-fold offence,--his attack upon Willie, his disobedience when ordered to bed, and the falsehood with which he attempted to cover up his disobedience,--he proceeded to inflict summary and severe chastisement upon the offender. It was very rarely that he resorted to this means of discipline, but this he deemed a case where it was imperatively demanded. Silence reigned in the boys' chamber the rest of the night. Oscar was too sullen to speak; Ralph silently pitied his brother, not less for the sins into which he had fallen than for the pain he had suffered; and George was too much taken up with thinking about the probable after-clap of this storm, to notice anything else. Oscar was fond of his bed, and was usually the last one of the family to rise, especially in cool weather. On the morning after the occurrences above related, he laid abed later than usual even with him. His father had gone to the store, and the children were out-doors at play, before he made his appearance at the breakfast-table. He sat down to the deserted table, and was helping himself to the cold remnants of the meal, when his mother entered the room. Oscar noticed that she looked unusually sad and dejected. After sitting in silence a few moments, she remarked: "You see how I look, this morning, Oscar. I did not sleep half an hour last night, and now I am not fit to be up from my bed--and all on your account. I am afraid your misconduct will be the death of me, yet. I used to love to think how much comfort I should take in you, when you should grow up into a tall, manly youth; but I have been sadly disappointed, so far. The older you grow, the worse you behave, and the more trouble you make me. Do you intend always to go on in this way?" Oscar nervously spread the slice of bread before him, but made no reply. His mother continued her reproofs, in the same sad but affectionate tone. She appealed to his sense of right, to his gratitude, and to his hopes of future success and respectability in life. She described the sad end to which these beginnings of wrong-doing would inevitably lead him, and earnestly besought him to try to do better, before his bad habits should become confirmed. Her earnest manner, and her pale, haggard cheeks, down which tears were slowly stealing, touched the feelings of Oscar. Moisture began to gather in his eyes, in spite of himself. He tried to appear very much interested in the food he was eating, and to look as though he was indifferent to what his mother was saying. And, in a measure, he did succeed in choking down those good feelings which were beginning to stir in his heart, and which, mistaken boy! he thought it would be unmanly to betray. Yes, he was mistaken--sadly mistaken. Unmanly to be touched by a mother's grief, and to be moved by a mother's tender entreaties! Unmanly to acknowledge that we have done wrong, or to express sorrow for the wrong act! Unmanly to resolve to resist temptation in the future! Where is this monstrous law of manliness to be found? If anywhere, it must be only in the code of pirates and desperadoes, who have renounced all human laws and ties. The school hour was at hand, and Oscar was obliged to start as soon as he had finished his breakfast. Had he not stifled the better promptings of his heart, and thus done violence to his nature, he would not have left his mother without assuring her that he felt sorry for his misconduct; for he _did_ feel some degree of regret, although he was too proud to acknowledge it. His mother, however, saw some tokens of feeling which he could not wholly conceal, and she left him with a sad heart, but with the hope that at least some faint impression had been made upon him. And, indeed, some impression was made upon Oscar's heart. The feeling of sullenness with which he awoke, had subsided into something resembling "low spirits." Nor was this all the effect his mother's conversation had upon him. As he lay awake in the morning, he had planned the secret destruction of a beautiful sled which had been given to George, the winter previous, and which was very precious in the eyes of the owner; but now he relinquished this mean and revengeful design. Little George thus escaped the dreaded "after-clap," but he never knew what a blow it would have been, nor how near he came to feeling its full force. CHAPTER IV. THE HOTEL. One of Oscar's most intimate companions was a boy of about his own age, named Alfred Walton, who attended the same school with him. Alfred's father was dead; but he had a step-father, whom he called father, and with whom he lived. His home was to Oscar a very attractive one; for it was a public house, and had large stables and a stage-office attached, and was usually full of company. Alfred's step-father was the landlord of the hotel, and of course he and his young friends were privileged characters about the premises. Oscar and Alfred were together a great deal of the time, when out of school, and quite a warm friendship existed between them. On Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, and during the other play hours of the week, Oscar might generally be found about the hotel premises, or riding on the coaches with Alfred. He only regretted that he could not stay there altogether; for he thought it must be a fine thing to live in such a place, where he could do pretty much as he pleased, without anybody's interference. Such, at least, seemed to be the privilege of Alfred; for everybody, from his step-father down to the humblest servants, appeared to have too much other business on their hands to give much attention to his boyish movements. Oscar made many acquaintances at the hotel, not a few of which were anything but desirable for a boy of his age and character. He was on chatty terms with all the stage-drivers, hostlers, and servants about the premises, and also got acquainted with many strangers who stopped there for a season. He was very fond of listening to the stories of the drivers and other frequenters of the stage-office, and he would sit by the hour, inhaling the smoke of their cigars, admiring their long yarns, and laughing at the jokes they cracked. Much of this conversation was coarse and even vulgar, such as a pure mind could not listen to without suffering contamination, or at least a blunting of its delicate sensibilities. It is a serious misfortune for a youth to be exposed to such influences, but Oscar did not know it, or did not believe it. Among the hangers about the stable, was a queer fellow who went by the name of Andy. His real name was Anderson. He was weak-minded and childish, his lack of intellect taking the form of silliness rather than of stupidity. Indeed, he was bright and quick in his way, but it was a very foolish and nonsensical way. He was famous among all the boys of the neighborhood, for using strange and amusing words, and especially for a system of spelling on which he prided himself, and which is not laid down in any of the dictionaries. He afforded much sport to the boys, who would gather around him, and give him words by the dozen to spell. The readiness and ingenuity with which he would mis-spell the most simple words, was quite amusing to them. He never hesitated, nor stopped to think, but always spelt the given word in his peculiar way, just as promptly as though he did it according to a rule which he perfectly understood. One Saturday afternoon, as Oscar and Alfred were looking about the stable, Andy suddenly made his appearance, and asked them for a bit of tobacco. Both of the boys, by the way, wished to be considered tobacco-chewers, and usually carried a good-sized piece of the vile weed in their pockets, though it must be confessed that the little they consumed was rather for appearance sake, than because they liked it. They also smoked occasionally, for the same reason. "You must spell us a word or two, first," said Alfred, in reply to Andy's request. "No, I can't stop--got important business to negotiate," replied Andy. "Yes, you must," continued Alfred; "spell fun." "P-h-u-g-n," said Andy. "Spell hotel," continued Alfred. "H-o-e-t-e-l-l-e." "Spell calculate," said Oscar. "K-a-l-k-e-w-l-a-i-g-h-t--there, that 'll do," continued Andy. "No, spell one more word--spell tobacco, and you shall have it," added Alfred. "T-o-e-b-a-c-k-k-o-u-g-h--now hand over the 'baccy.'" "I have n't got any--have you, Oscar?" said Alfred Oscar fumbled in his pockets, but there was none to be found. "You mean, contemptible scalliwags!" exclaimed Andy, "why did n't you tell me that before? You catch me in that trap again, if you can!" and he walked off in a passion, amid the laughter of Oscar and Alfred. "Let's go and see the pups, Alf," said Oscar, after they had got done laughing over the joke they had played upon Andy. Alfred's step-father had a fine dog of the hound species, with a litter of cunning little pups. A bed had been made for her and the little ones in a corner of the yard, adjoining the stable, with a rough covering to shelter them from wind and storms. The pups were now several weeks old. There were five of them, and a fat and frolicksome set they were too. As the boys approached them, they were frisking and capering as usual; tumbling and rolling over one another, climbing upon the back of their mother, and pulling and barking at the straw. Their mother, whose name was Bright, sat watching their gambols with a very affectionate but sedate look. Perhaps she was wondering whether _she_ was ever so mischievous and frisky as these little fellows were. When the pups looked up and saw the boys, they stopped their fun for a time, for they were not yet much accustomed to company. Bright, however, knew both Alfred and Oscar; and as she was a dog of good education and accomplished manners, she did not allow herself to be disconcerted in the least by their presence. "You did n't know father had given all the pups but one to me, did you, Oscar?" inquired Alfred. "No,--has he, though?" asked Oscar. "Yes, he has. I knew I could make him say yes, and so I teased him till he did. He 's going to pick out one, to keep, and I 'm to have all the rest." "That's first-rate," said Oscar; "and you 'll give me one, won't you?" "Yes, you may have one," replied Alfred; "but don't tell the boys I gave it to you, for I mean to sell the others." "Then I 'll pay you for mine," continued Oscar; "I can get the money out of father, I guess." "No, you shan't pay for it, for I meant you should have one of them, if you wanted it," replied Alfred. "Thank you," said Oscar, "I should like one very much." After looking at the dogs awhile, and canvassing their respective merits, they happened to notice that one of the drivers was about starting off with his coach. "Halloo, Mack!" cried Alfred, "where are you going!" "To the depôt," replied the driver. "Let's go, Oscar," said Alfred; and both boys ran for the coach, the driver stopping until they had climbed up to his seat. A ride of five minutes brought them to the depôt, where the driver reined up, to await the arrival of a train, which was nearly due. Many other carriages, of various kinds, were standing around the depôt, for the same purpose. Oscar and Alfred rambled about the building and adjoining grounds, watching the operations that were going on; for though they had witnessed the same operations many times before, there is something quite attractive about such scenes, even to older heads than theirs. On one track, within the depôt, were six or eight cars, beneath which a man was crawling along, carefully examining the running gear, and giving each wheel two or three smart raps with a hammer, to see if it had a clear and natural ring. These cars had lately arrived from a distant city, and must undergo a careful scrutiny before they are again used. If any break or flaw is discovered, the car is sent out to the repair-shop. On another track, the men were making up the next outward train. The particular baggage and passenger cars that were to be used, had to be separated from the others, and arranged in their proper order. Another track was kept clear, for the train that was soon to arrive. Two or three locomotives, outside of the depôt, were fizzing and hissing, occasionally moving back or forward, with a loud coughing noise, or changing from one track to another. The bell of the looked-for train was at length heard. The engine, as it approached, was switched upon a side-track, but the cars, from which it had been detached, kept on their course until the brakes brought them to a stand in the depôt. The passengers now swarmed forth by hundreds--a curious and motley crowd of men, women, and children; good-looking people, and ill-looking ones; the fine lady in silk, and the rough backwoods-man in homespun; the middle-aged woman in black, with three trunks and four bandboxes, and the smooth-faced dandy, whose sole baggage was a slender cane. The cars were at length emptied of their living freight, and most of the passengers had secured their baggage. Those who wished to ride, had mostly engaged seats in the various hacks and coaches, whose drivers accosted every passenger, as he got out of the cars, with their invitations to "ride up." Alfred and Oscar now started to look after the stage-coach in which they rode to the depôt. They found it loaded with passengers and baggage, and the driver was talking with two small lads, of from twelve to thirteen years of age. "Here, Alf," said the driver, "you are just the fellow I want, but I thought you had gone. These boys want to go to the hotel, but I have n't room to take them. They say they had just as lief walk, and if you 'll let them go with you, I 'll take their trunk along." This was readily agreed to. The driver made room for the trunk on the top of the coach, and the young strangers started for the hotel, in company with Alfred and Oscar. As they walked along, they grew quite sociable. The two new-comers,--who, by the way, were quite respectable in their appearance,--stated that they belonged in one of the cities of Maine, and had never been in Boston before. They were brothers; and both their parents being dead, they said they were on their way to the west, where they had an uncle, who had sent for them to come and live with him. They had a good many questions to ask about Boston, and said they meant to look around the city some the next day, as they must resume their journey on Monday. Alfred said he would go with them, and show them the principal sights; and Oscar, too, would have gladly volunteered, were it not that his father required him to go to church and the Sabbath-school on that day, and to stay in the house when not thus engaged. The boys had now reached the hotel, where the trunk had already arrived. A room was appropriated to the young guests, and Alfred and Oscar conducted them to it, and remained awhile in conversation with them. By-and-bye, the oldest of the strangers asked Alfred if he would go and show them where they could buy some good pistols. Alfred readily agreed to this, and the four boys started off towards the shops where such articles are sold. On their way through the crowded streets, the new-comers found much to attract their attention. They seemed inclined to stop at every shop window, to admire some object, and it was nearly dark when they reached the place where they were to make their purchase. Here, amid the variety of pistols that were exhibited to them, they were for a time unable to decide which to choose. At length, however, aided by the advice of Alfred and Oscar, they picked out two that they concluded to buy. They also purchased a quantity of powder and balls, and then desired to look at some dirks, two of which they decided to take. Some fine pocket-knives next arrested their attention, which were examined, and greatly admired by all the boys. The oldest of the strangers, who did all the business, concluded to take four of these, and then settled for all the articles purchased. The bill was not very small, but his pocket-book was evidently well supplied, and he paid it with out any difficulty. After they had left the store, the oldest boy gave Oscar and Alfred, each, one of the pocket-knives, to pay them for their trouble, as he expressed it. They were much pleased with their present, and felt very well satisfied with their afternoon's adventure. They were a little surprised, however, that their new friends should think it necessary to invest so largely in weapons of defence; and on their hinting this surprise, the boy who purchased the articles said, with a careless, business-like air: "O, we 've got to travel a good many hundred miles, and there 's no knowing what rough fellows we may fall in with. But give me a good revolver and dirk, and I bet I will take care of myself, anywhere." The seriousness with which this brave language was uttered by a boy scarcely yet in his teens, would have made even Alfred and Oscar smile, but for the consciousness of the new knives in their pockets. It was now quite dark, and on coming to a street which led more directly towards his home, Oscar left the other boys, with the promise of seeing them again Monday morning. CHAPTER V. THE YOUNG TRAVELLERS. The Sabbath came, and a fine autumnal day it was. Oscar's thoughts were with Alfred, and the boys whose acquaintance he had made the afternoon previous; but there was little chance for him to join them in their walks on that day. He could not absent himself from church or the Sunday-school, without his parents' knowledge; and Mr. Preston had always decidedly objected to letting the children stroll about the streets on the Sabbath. Oscar felt so uneasy, however, that in the afternoon, a little while before meeting-time, he left the house slyly, while his father was upstairs, and walked around to Alfred's. But he saw nothing of the boys, and was in his accustomed seat in the church when the afternoon services commenced. The next morning, Oscar rose earlier than usual, and as soon as he could despatch his breakfast, he hurried over to the hotel. The travellers had concluded to defer their journey one day longer, that they might have a better opportunity to see Boston; and when Oscar approached them, they were trying to persuade Alfred to stay away from school, and accompany them in their rambles. They immediately extended the same invitation to Oscar. Both he and Alfred felt very much inclined to accede to their proposition, but they were pretty sure that it would be useless to ask their parents' consent to absent themselves from school for such a purpose. The point to be settled was, whether it would be safe to play truant for the day. Seeing that they hesitated, the oldest boy, whose name was Joseph, began to urge the matter still more earnestly. "What are you afraid of?" he said; "come along, it's no killing affair to stay away from school just for one day. You can manage so that nobody will know it; and if they should find it out, it won't make any difference a hundred years hence. Come, now, I 'll tell you what I 'll do; if you two will go around with us to-day, I 'll give you a quarter of a dollar apiece." Oscar and Alfred, after some little hesitation, yielded to their request, and the four boys started on their tramp. It was not without many misgivings, however, that Oscar decided to accompany them. With him, the chances of detection were much greater than with Alfred. No brothers of the latter attended school, to notice and report his absence. With Oscar, the case was different, and he did not see exactly how his truancy was to be concealed from his parents and teachers. But as Alfred was going with the boys, he finally concluded that he, too, would run the risk for at least half a day, and trust to luck to escape punishment. It was decided to go over to the neighboring city of Charlestown, first, and visit the Monument and Navy-Yard, both of which the young strangers were quite anxious to see. Joseph, the oldest and most forward, began to be on quite intimate terms with Oscar and Alfred. He threw off every restraint, and laughed and talked with them just as if they were old acquaintances. One thing very noticeable about him, was his profanity. Neither Alfred nor Oscar, I am sorry to say, was entirely free from this wicked and disgusting habit; but they had made so little advance in this vice, compared with their new friend, that even they were slightly shocked by the frequent and often startling oaths of Joseph. The younger lad, whose name was Stephen, appeared to be quite unlike his brother. Though sociable, he was less gay and more reserved than Joseph, but he seemed to be much interested in the novel sights that met his eye at every step. On their way, the boys came to a cellar which was occupied by a dealer in fruits and other refreshments. Around the entrance were arranged numerous boxes of oranges, apples, nuts, candy, and similar articles, to tempt the passer-by to stop and purchase. The owner was not in sight, and Joseph, as he passed along, boldly helped himself from one of the boxes, taking a good hand-full of walnuts. On looking around, a moment after, he saw a man running up the cellar steps, and concluded that he, too, had better quicken his pace. He accordingly started on a brisk run, the other boys joining in his flight. The man, who happened to witness the theft from the back part of the cellar, soon saw that pursuit would be useless, and contented himself with shaking his fist, and uttering some anathemas which were inaudible to those for whom they were intended. "That was a pretty narrow escape, was n't it?" said Joseph, after they had got a safe distance from the man. "It was so," replied Alfred; "and it was lucky for you that he did n't catch you." "Why, what do you suppose he would have done?" "He would have taken you up for stealing, I guess, for he looked mad enough to do anything," said Alfred. "Stealing? Pooh, a man must be a fool to make such a fuss about a cent's-worth of nuts," replied Joseph. "I knew a boy," said Oscar, "who stole a cake of maple sugar from one of these stands, and his father had to pay two or three dollars to get him out of the scrape." "I would n't have done it," said Joseph; "I 'd have gone to jail first--that 's just my pluck." "But the boy did n't do it--it was his father that paid the money," added Oscar. "O, then, I suppose the boy was n't to blame," said Joseph, with all seriousness; as though he really believed that somebody was to blame, not for stealing the maple sugar, but for satisfying the man who had been injured by the theft. They were now upon one of the bridges which cross Charles River, and connect the cities of Boston and Charlestown. After passing half-way over, they stopped a few minutes to gaze at the scene spread out around them. Oscar and Alfred pointed out to the strangers the various objects of interest, and they then continued their walk without interruption until they reached the Monument grounds, on Bunker Hill. After examining the noble granite shaft which commemorates the first great battle of the American Revolution, they threw themselves down upon the grass, to contemplate at their leisure the fine panorama which this hill affords on a clear day. After lingering half an hour around the Monument, they turned their steps towards the Navy-Yard. On reaching it, they found a soldier slowly pacing back and forth, in front of the gate-way; but he made no objection to their entering. Joseph and Stephen, who had never before visited an establishment of this kind, were first struck by the extent of the yard, and the air of order and neatness which seemed everywhere to prevail. They gazed with curiosity upon the long rows of iron cannons interspersed with pyramids of cannon-balls, piled up in exact order, which were spread out upon the parks. Then their wonder was excited by the dry-dock, with its smooth granite walls, its massive gates, and its capacious area, sufficient to float the largest frigate. The lofty ship-houses in which vessels are constructed, and the long stone rope-walk, with its curious machinery, also attracted their attention. So interested were they in these things, that nearly two hours elapsed before they started for home. On their way back to the hotel, Joseph entertained Alfred and Oscar with some incidents of his life. His mother, he said, died when he was quite young. His father went to sea as the captain of a ship, two years before, and had never been heard from. He had rich relatives, who wanted him to go to West Point and be a cadet, but he did not like to study, and had persuaded them to let him and Stephen go and live with their uncle at the west, who had no boys of his own, and wanted somebody to help him to manage his immense farm. Such, in brief, was Joseph's story. On their return route, the boys were careful to avoid passing by the cellar from which Joseph had stolen the nuts. With all his pluck and bravery, he did not care about meeting the man whose displeasure he had excited a few hours before. It was twelve o'clock before the boys reached the hotel. Oscar, during the latter part of the walk, had been unusually silent. He was thinking how he should manage to conceal his truancy, but he could not hit upon any satisfactory plan. The more he reflected upon the matter, the more he was troubled and perplexed about it. He might possibly hide his mis-spent forenoon from his parents, but how should he explain his absence to his teachers? He could not tell. He decided, however, to see his brothers before they should get home from school, and, if they had noticed his absence, to prevail upon them to say nothing about it. "You 'll be back again after dinner, Oscar?" said Alfred, as his friend started for home. "Yes," replied Oscar, with some hesitation; "I 'll see you before school-time." "School-time? You don't intend to go to school this afternoon, do you?" inquired Alfred. Oscar did not reply, but hastened homeward. He soon found Ralph and George, but as neither of them spoke of his absence from school, he concluded that they were ignorant of it, and he therefore made no allusion to the subject. After dinner, Oscar had about half an hour to spend with Alfred; for he felt so uneasy in his mind, that he had decided not to absent himself from school in the afternoon. He had gone but a short distance when he met his comrade, who had started in pursuit of him. "Well," said Alfred, "we 've been taken in nicely, that's a fact." "Taken in--what do you mean?" inquired Oscar. "Why, by those young scamps that we 've been showing around town." "I thought they told great stories," said Oscar; "but what have you found out about them?" "I 've found out that they are the greatest liars I ever came across--or at least that the oldest fellow is," replied Alfred; and he then went on to relate what transpired immediately after Oscar left them, on their return from Charlestown. The landlord, it seems, requested the two strange boys to step into one of the parlors; and Alfred, not understanding the order, accompanied them. They found two men seated there, the sight of whom seemed anything but pleasant to Joseph and Stephen. These men were their fathers--for the boys were not brothers, and Joseph's account of their past life and future prospects was entirely false. They had run away from home, and the money which they had so profusely spent, Joseph stole from his father. The men, who had been put to much trouble in hunting up their wayward sons, did not greet them very cordially. They looked stern and offended, but said little. Joseph was obliged to deliver up his money to his father, and they immediately made preparations for returning home by the afternoon train. "Well," said Oscar, when Alfred had concluded his story, "I did n't believe all that boy said, at the time, but I thought I would n't say so." "Nor I, neither," said Alfred. "I guess he did n't expect his father's ship would arrive so suddenly, when he tried to stuff us up so." "Did your father know you went off with them in the forenoon?" inquired Oscar. "Yes, but he did n't care much about it. He told me I must go to school this afternoon, and not stay away again without leave." The rules of the school required a written note of excuse from the parents, in case of absence. Neither of the boys was furnished with such an excuse, and after a little consultation, they concluded that their chances of escaping punishment would be greatest, if they should frankly confess how they had been duped and led astray by the young rogues whose acquaintance they had so suddenly and imprudently formed. They supposed that the peculiar circumstances of the case, coupled with a voluntary confession, might excite some degree of sympathy, rather than displeasure, towards them. To make the matter doubly sure, it was arranged that Alfred should speak to the master about the matter before school commenced. When the boys reached the school-room, they found the master already at his desk. He listened with interest to Alfred's story of the runaways, and was evidently pleased that he had so frankly confessed his fault. As the hour for commencing the afternoon session had arrived, he told Alfred and Oscar they might stop after school, and he would take their case into consideration. The afternoon passed away, without any unusual occurrence. When school was dismissed, the teacher called Alfred and Oscar to his desk, and gave them some excellent advice in regard to forming acquaintances, and yielding to the solicitations of evil associates. He told them that the deception which had been practiced upon them, should serve as a lesson to them hereafter. They should not form sudden acquaintances with strange and unknown boys, but should choose their associates from among those whom they knew to be of good habits. He also earnestly cautioned them against yielding to the enticements of those who would persuade them to do wrong. He told them that whenever they laid the blame of their faults upon others, they made a sad confession of their own moral weakness. They must often encounter temptations, and evil examples and influences, even if they took pains to avoid them; but they were not obliged to yield to these influences. They must learn to resist temptation, or they would speedily be swept away before it. Having faithfully pointed out their error and danger, the teacher dismissed the boys. They listened respectfully to his advice, and, when they were beyond his hearing, chuckled over their escape from a species of admonition that might have proved far more feeling and affecting, if not more salutary, than the kindly-meant reproof which had been administered to them. The leniency of the teacher, however, must be attributed to his not fully understanding the character of their offence; for Alfred had so artfully represented the facts of the case, as to make their truancy appear in a milder light than it deserved to be regarded. CHAPTER VI. WORK. "Oscar, go down cellar and get some coal," said Mrs. Preston one evening, when the fire was getting low. "I 'm reading--you go and get it, Ralph," said Oscar, without looking up from the newspaper in his hand. "No, I shan't," replied Ralph; "I 've done all your chores to-day, and I won't do any more." "Tell Bridget to bring it up, then," added Oscar, his eyes still fastened upon his paper. "Oscar," said Mrs. Preston, sharply, "I told you to get it, and do you obey me, this minute. Bridget has worked hard all day, and Ralph has already had to do several errands and jobs that you ought to have done, and that is the reason why I did not ask them to get the coal. You have done nothing but play, when you were out of school, since morning, and now, when I ask you to do a trifling thing, you try to shirk it upon somebody else. I do wish you would break yourself of your laziness, and have a little consideration for other people." Oscar reluctantly obeyed his mother's order. Indeed, it was seldom that he was very prompt to obey, when any kind of labor was required of him. He had a peculiar knack of getting rid of work. If he was directed to do a thing, he was almost sure to try to coax Alice, or Ella, or Ralph, or Bridget, or somebody else, to do it for him. He never taxed his own legs, or hands, or muscles, when he could make use of other people's. This lazy habit was a source of no small anxiety to his mother, and was a constant annoyance to all the family. "Well, you did make out to get it," said Mrs. Preston, in a pleasant tone, when Oscar returned with the coal. "I hope it did n't hurt you much." "I was n't afraid of its hurting me," said Oscar "but I was reading, and did n't want to stop." "I am afraid that is only an excuse," replied his mother. "It has really got to be a habit with you to call upon somebody else, whenever you are told to do a thing. We have all noticed it, a hundred times, and you alone seem to be blind to it. In a year or two, when you are old enough to leave school, and go to a place, what do you suppose you will be good for, if you keep on in this way? Why, the man who should take you into his employ, would have to hire another boy on purpose to wait upon you." "It is just as mother says, Oscar," added his eldest sister, Alice. "It was only this morning that Bridget was scolding, because you wanted to be waited upon so much. She says you make her more trouble than all the rest of us together." Oscar could not deny these charges, and so he said nothing, but appeared to be reading his newspaper very intently. Mr. Preston came in soon after, and the family sat down to tea. "Oscar," said Mr. Preston, "next week is vacation, is it not?" "Yes, sir," replied Oscar. "Well, I shall want you in the store a part of the time," continued his father. "Frank is going home to spend Thanksgiving, and as it will be a busy week with us, we must have somebody to take his place." "Why can't Henry do the errands while Frank is away?" inquired Oscar. "Because Henry will have as much other work as he can attend to," replied Mr. Preston. "I don't see why you let Frank go off at such a time," said Oscar, pettishly. "It is not necessary that you should see," replied his father. "I can manage my business without any advice from you, and I don't want you to call me to account for what I do. I have given Frank a vacation, and I shall expect assistance from you--that is all it is necessary for you to know about it." Frank was the errand-boy in Mr. Preston's shop. Henry, upon whom Oscar wished to lay the burden occasioned by Frank's absence, was a young clerk, who had formerly served as chore-boy, but was now quite useful as a salesman. It was evident, from Oscar's looks, that he did not much relish the idea of taking Frank's place for a week. His mother, noticing this, said: "Why, Oscar, I thought you and Frank were good friends, and I should suppose you would be willing to relieve him a few days. The poor boy has been away from his mother nearly a year, and it is natural that he should want to go home and spend Thanksgiving. If you were in his place, and he in yours, don't you think you should like the arrangement your father proposes?" "I suppose I should," replied Oscar; "but it's hard for me to lose my vacation, for the sake of letting him have one." "You will not lose all your vacation," said his father "If you are lively, you can do all I shall want you to do in four or five hours, and have the rest of the day to yourself." "And I 'll help you, too," said Ralph, who was always ready to offer his assistance in such a case as this. "Thanksgiving week" soon arrived, and the busy note of preparation for the approaching festival was heard throughout the house. Bridget was invested with a new dignity, in the eyes of the children, as she bustled about among the mince-meat and the pie-crust, the eggs and the milk, the fruit and the spices, that were to be compounded into all sorts of good things. The house was filled with savory odors from the oven, and long rows of pies began to fill up every vacant space in the closet. Mrs. Preston was busy, superintending the operations of the household; while Alice and Ella rendered such assistance as they could, in the chopping of pie-meat, the paring of apples, the picking of raisins, &c. The boys, for their share, had an unusual number of errands to run, to keep the busy hands inside supplied with working materials. Oscar, however, was released for the week from all home chores, in consideration of his engagements at the store. Oscar did not find his duties as temporary store-boy quite so irksome or disagreeable as he anticipated. The work was light, and the novelty of it served to offset the confinement, which he had dreaded more than anything else. With some assistance from Ralph, he managed to do all that was required of him, and still have several hours each day for play. He also had an opportunity to learn some useful lessons during the week. One morning, his father sent him up-stairs to sweep out a room which was devoted to a certain branch of the business. Happening to go into it an hour or two after, Mr. Preston observed that it was in a dirty state, and called to Oscar to get a broom and sprinkler, and come up. "I told you to sweep this room out," said he, as Oscar made his appearance; "did you forget it?" "I _have_ swept it," said Oscar, in a tone of surprise. "You have?" exclaimed Mr. Preston, with an air of incredulity; "I guess you are mistaken. You may have shaken the broom at it, but I don't think you swept it. See there--and there--and there,"--and he pointed out numerous little heaps of dirt, and scraps of paper, which had escaped Oscar's broom. "Now," he continued, "let me show you how to sweep. In the first place, always sprinkle the floor a little, to prevent the dust flying, as I told you a day or two ago. You omitted that this morning, did n't you?" "Yes, sir," replied Oscar. "Well, just remember it hereafter, for the dust injures the goods. There 's water enough, now pass me the broom, and I 'll show you how to handle it. Look, now--that 's the way to sweep--get all the dirt out from the corners and crevices, and along the edges, and under the counters. Use the broom as though you meant to do something, and were not afraid of it. There, that 's the way to sweep clean--so--and so," and Mr. Preston continued his explanations and illustrations, until he had swept the entire floor. "There, now, does n't that look better?" he added, after he had finished sweeping. "If a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well--that's the true doctrine, Oscar. I hope you won't get in the habit of making half-way work with whatever you undertake. If I never expected to do anything but sweep chimneys or dig clams for a living, I would do it thoroughly and faithfully. Of all things, I despise a lazy, slovenly workman." It was a very common thing with Oscar to slight his work, when he could not get rid of it entirely. This was partly the result of a want of interest in it, and partly the result of habit. The child who performs a task reluctantly, will not be very likely to do it well. The day before Thanksgiving, as Oscar was on his way to the store, after dinner, he met Alfred Walton. "You 're just the chap I 'm after, Oscar," said Alfred; "I'm going out to Cambridge, all alone in a wagon, and I want you to go with me. Come, jump in and go, won't you?" This was a tempting invitation to Oscar, but he did not see how he could accept it. He was needed at the store more than ever, that afternoon, but it was too bad to lose such a fine chance to enjoy himself. Alfred was in a hurry, and could not stop long for him to consider the matter. So he concluded to run home, and ask his father's permission, while Alfred went and got the horse ready. But when he got home, his father had left. He found Ralph, however, who readily agreed to take his place at the store, for the afternoon; and on the strength of this arrangement, he hurried to the hotel and rode off with Alfred. It was a mild, pleasant afternoon, and the boys had a fine ride. Alfred had been among horses so much, that he understood their management pretty well, and was a very good driver. He prided himself on his ability to turn a neat corner, and to steer through the narrowest and most crooked passage-ways, such as abound in the contracted and crowded streets of a city. When they reached the broad avenues of Cambridge, he allowed Oscar to take the reins awhile, at his request. Alfred's step-father had been out to Cambridge, in the forenoon of the same day, and had purchased a horse at the cattle-market which is held weekly at that place. As he was obliged to return home by the cars, he left word that he would send out for the horse, in the afternoon. This was Alfred's errand. After several inquiries, the boys found the man who sold the horse. Having examined the new purchase, and freely expressed their opinions of the animal's "points," they hitched his halter to the wagon, and set out for home. The sun was rapidly descending, when the boys reached the hotel stable. Oscar, who felt somewhat uneasy about his absence from the store, turned his steps in that direction, soon after he alighted from the wagon. He found all hands very busy, and for a long time no one appeared to notice him. At length his father happened to come to the part of the shop where he was, and asked him where he had been all the afternoon. Oscar proceeded to explain the cause of his absence, but Mr. Preston was in too much of a hurry to listen to his long excuses, and so he cut him short, and told him, in not very pleasant tones, that Ralph had done the work, and he (Oscar) might go home again, just as soon as he pleased--a privilege of which he quickly availed himself. At the tea-table, that evening, Mr. Preston expressed his displeasure with Oscar's conduct in very pointed terms. Oscar now explained the circumstances of his going away--his attempt to get his father's consent, and the promise of Ralph to supply his place. But the explanation did not satisfy Mr. Preston. He said Oscar knew he was needed that afternoon, and he ought not to have asked to go away, or even to have thought of it. Even if Ralph was willing to do his work, he did not like his putting so much upon his younger and weaker brother. He then complimented Ralph for his industry, and his willingness to make himself useful, and held him up to Oscar as a pattern he would do well to imitate. He concluded his lecture to the latter, by drawing from his pocket a quarter of a dollar, and presenting it to Ralph, as a reward for his services. This touched Oscar's feelings rather more than his father's reproofs. He thought to himself that he had performed as much work in the store as Ralph, to say the least, and was therefore as much entitled to a reward as he. There was this difference, however, which he entirely overlooked: Oscar did his share of the work reluctantly and from compulsion; Ralph did his cheerfully and voluntarily, and solely for the purpose of making himself useful. CHAPTER VII. THANKSGIVING-DAY. Thanksgiving-Day had come. Among the multitude of good things it brought with it, not the least important, in the eyes of the children, was a visit from their grandmother, Mrs. Lee, who arrived the evening previous. She was the mother of Mrs. Preston, and lived in a distant town in Vermont. She had not visited the family for several years, and the children and their parents were all very glad to see her once more. She was much surprised to find how the young folks had grown since she last saw them. Alice had shot up into a young lady, Oscar, who she remembered as "a little bit of a fellow," was a tall boy, Ella, too, was quite a miss, and Georgie, "the baby," had long since exchanged his frock for the jacket, trowsers, and boots, of boyhood. All these changes had happened since their grandmother's last visit; and yet she was just the same pleasant, talkative old lady that she was years ago. The children could not discover that time had left so much as one new wrinkle on her well-remembered face. [Illustration: Thanksgiving Market Scene.] After breakfast, their grandmother proceeded to unpack her trunk. From its capacious depths she drew forth sundry articles,--specimens of her own handiwork,--which she distributed among the children, as gifts. They were all articles of utility, such as warm, "country-knit" mittens and socks for the boys, and tippets and stockings for the girls. A large bag filled with nuts, and another of pop-corn, were also among the contents of the trunk, and were handed to the children to be divided among them. In accordance with an agreement made the day before, Oscar soon left the house, and went in search of Alfred. Having found him, they set out for South Boston, in company with two or three boys, to witness a shooting-match got up by a man who worked about the stable. The spot selected for the sport was a retired field, where there was little danger of being interrupted. On reaching the ground, the boys found a small collection of young men and lads already engaged in the cruel amusement; for the mark was a live fowl, tied to a stake. The company assembled were of a decidedly low order, and Oscar at first felt almost ashamed to be seen among them. Smoking, swearing, betting, and quarrelling, were all going on at once, interspersed with occasional shouts of laughter at some vulgar joke, or at the fluttering and cries of a wounded fowl. Sometimes a poor chicken would receive several shots, before its misery would be terminated by a fatal one. When one fowl was killed, a fresh one was brought forth. Each man who fired at the mark, paid a trifling sum for the privilege, and was entitled to the fowl, if he killed it. Oscar and his young companions lingered around the grounds for an hour or two, familiarizing themselves with scenes of shameful cruelty, and breathing an atmosphere loaded with pollution and moral death. The repugnance which Oscar at first felt to the party and its doings was so far overcome, that before he left he himself fired one or two shots, with a rifle which was lent to him. Oscar reached home before the hour for dinner. As he entered the sitting-room, his mother, who had missed him, inquired where he had been all the forenoon. "I 've been with Alf," he replied. His mother did not notice this evasion of her question, but added: "Why do you want to be with Alfred so much? It seems to me you might find better company. I 'm afraid he is not so good a boy as he might be. I don't like his looks very much." "Why, mother," said Oscar, "Alf is n't a bad boy, and I never heard anybody say he was. I like him first-rate--he 's a real clever fellow." "He may be clever enough, but I do not think he is a very good associate for you," replied Mrs. Preston. "Who ought to know best about that, you or I?" said Oscar, with a pertness for which he was becoming a little too notorious. "I see Alf every day, but you don't know hardly anything about him. At my rate, I 'll risk his hurting me." Oscar's grandmother looked at him with astonishment, as he uttered these words. He felt the silent rebuke, and turned his head from her. "Well," added Mrs. Preston, "if Alfred is not a bad boy himself, I do not believe that the kind of people you spend so much of your time with, around the hotel-stable, will do either you or him any good. The lessons a boy learns among tavern loungers do not generally make him any better, to say the least. I wish you would keep away from such places--I should feel a good deal easier if you would." The subject was dropped, and dinner,--the event of Thanksgiving-day, in every New England home,--soon began to engross the attention of the household. It was a pleasant feast, to old and young. The children forgot all their little, fanciful troubles, and the traces of care were chased from their parents' brows for the hour. The afternoon was stormy, and the children amused themselves with in-door sports. After tea, however, Oscar asked his father for some money, to buy a ticket to an entertainment that was to take place in the evening. But both his parents thought he had better stay at home, with the rest of the family, and he reluctantly yielded to their wishes, coupled with the promise of a story or two from his grandmother, about old times. A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, when the family returned to the parlor, from the tea-table. The lamps were not yet lit, although the gray twilight was fast settling down, and the ruddy coals began to reflect themselves from the polished furniture. Mrs. Preston was about to light the lamps, when Ella exclaimed: "No, no, mother, don't light the lamps--let's sit in the dark awhile, and then grandmother's stories will seem twice as romantic. You don't want a light, do you, grandmother?" "No," said the grandmother, "I can talk just as well in the dark. But I don't know as I can tell you any very interesting stories. I can't think of anything now but what you have already heard. That's just the way when I want to tell a story. If I was all alone, I should think of lots of things to tell you." "Can't you tell us something about the Indians?--I like to hear about them," said Oscar. "You would like to know how they served naughty boys, would n't you?" inquired his grandmother; and if the room had not been quite so dark, Oscar would have seen something like a roguish twinkle in her sober gray eye, as she spoke. "O yes, grandmother," interrupted Ella, "that will suit him, I know. At any rate, it ought to interest him--so please to tell us what they did to their bad boys, and perhaps we shall learn how to serve Oscar." "And while you are about it, grandmother," said Oscar, "tell us what they did to naughty girls, too." "I don't know how they punished girls," said the old lady; "but I have heard it said that when they wished to punish a boy very severely, they made him lie down on the ground, upon his back. They then put their knees on his arms, and held his head back, while they took into their mouth some very bitter stuff, made from the roots of a certain plant, and squirted it into the boy's nose. They kept repeating the dose, till the poor fellow was almost strangled, and I suppose by that time he was cured of his fault." "Pooh, was that all?" said Oscar; "I thought something terrible was coming." "I guess you would not like to try the Indian remedy more than once," replied his mother; "but if you think it is so pleasant to take, perhaps your father will give you a taste of it, one of these days, if you do not behave better than you have done of late." "Did you ever get frightened by the Indians, grandmother?" inquired Ralph. "No," replied the old lady; "there were plenty of them around, when I was a little girl, but they had got to be quite civil, and we were not afraid of them. I wish I could remember all the stories my mother used to tell me about them--they were plenty and troublesome, too, in her day. I recollect one fight that took place in our neighborhood, when she was young. One evening, a man who was returning from another settlement, happened to discover a party of Indians, making their way very quietly up the river in their canoes, towards our little village. He watched their movements as narrowly as possible, but was careful not to let them see or hear him. When they got within about half a mile of the settlement, they pulled their canoes ashore, and concealed them among the bushes. They meant to creep along very slowly and slily, the rest of the way, and then fall suddenly upon the whites, and murder and plunder them before they could know what the matter was. But the man who discovered them hurried on to the settlement, and gave the alarm. Ten men was all he could muster, for there were but a few families in the town. These men armed themselves, and by the time they were ready for action, the Indians had already begun their work of plunder. "But the Indians were not cunning enough for the white folks, that time. The settlers formed themselves into two parties--one of seven and one of three men. The three men went down very cautiously to the Indian's landing-place, and after cutting slits in their bark canoes, they hid themselves, and awaited the result. While they were doing this, the other party made such a furious and sudden attack upon the enemy, that the Indians thought they were assailed by a force far superior to their own, and so they fled as fast as they could. When they reached the landing-place, they jumped pell-mell into their canoes, and pushed out into the stream. Now they thought they would soon be out of the reach of harm; but, to their astonishment, the canoes began to fill with water, and were entirely unmanageable. The three men in ambush now began to attack them, and pretty soon the other seven came to their aid, and in a little while the Indians were all shot or drowned, and not one of the party escaped, to inform their kindred what had befallen them. The stream on which this happened is called Laplot River. Laplot, they say, means 'the plot,' and a good many people think the river got its name from the stratagem of the settlers, but I don't know how that is." After musing awhile in silence, Ralph called for another story. "Let me see," said his grandmother; "did I ever tell you about Widow Storey's retreat, in the Revolution!" "No ma'am," said Oscar; "I've read about General Burgoyne's retreat; but I never heard of Widow Storey before: who was she?" "O, it was n't that kind of a retreat that I meant," said his grandmother; "but I will tell you who she was. She lived in Salisbury, some twenty or thirty miles from where I belong. Her husband was the first man who settled in Salisbury, but he was very unfortunate. After he had worked hard, and got a log cabin ready for his family, it took fire, and was destroyed; and he himself was killed by the fall of a tree, soon after. But his widow was a very smart woman; and though she had eight or ten small children, she moved on to the place her husband had selected; and the proprietors of the township gave her a hundred acres of land to encourage and reward her. She worked just like a man, and didn't mind chopping down trees, and cultivating the soil, with her own hands. But by-and-bye the Revolution broke out, and as there were British soldiers in the neighborhood, she was afraid they would make her a visit. She fled several times to another town, where there was less danger; but after awhile a new idea entered her head, and she proceeded to carry it out, with the aid of a man who lived near her. The idea was, to construct a hiding-place, where the British could not find them, if they should pay her a visit. They selected a spot on Otter Creek, and dug a hole right into the bank, horizontally. The hole was a little above the water, and was just large enough for a person to crawl into. It was so covered up by bushes that hung from the bank, that a stranger would not notice it. This passage led to a large lodging-room, the bottom of which was covered with straw. Good comfortable beds were prepared, and here the families found a secure retreat, until the danger was past." "That was complete," said Oscar; "but I should think the British might have tracked them to their retreat, for it's likely they had to go home pretty often, to get food, and look after things." "Yes," added his grandmother; "but they reached their retreat by a canoe, so that no footsteps could be seen leading to it; and they were careful not to go out or in during the day-time. I have heard my brother James tell about it. I believe he saw the very hole once, where they went in." "Uncle James was a famous hand for telling stories," remarked Mrs. Preston. "I shall never forget what a treat it was to me, when I was a child, to have him come to our house. I used to run out and meet him, when I saw him coming, and coax him to tell me a good lot of stories before he went off. I can remember some of them even now. He used to tell a story of a crabbed old fellow, who was very much annoyed by the boys stealing his apples. So, after awhile, he got a spring-trap, and set it under the trees, to catch the young rogues. But the boys got wind of the affair, and the first night he set it, they picked it up, and very quietly put it on his door-step, and then went back to the orchard, and began to bellow as though they were in great distress. The old man heard the uproar, and started out, in high glee at the idea of catching his tormentors; but he hardly put his foot out of the door, before he began to roar himself, and he was laid up a month with a sore leg." "That was old Zigzag," said the grandmother; "I knew him very well." "Old Zigzag!--what a funny name!" exclaimed Ralph. "That was n't his name, although he always went by it," added the old lady. "He was a very odd character, and one of his peculiarities was, that he never walked directly towards any place or object he wished to reach, but went in a 'criss-cross,' zigzag way, like a ship beating and tacking before a head-wind. He was a hard drinker, and was almost continually under the influence of liquor, and perhaps that was the cause of his singular habit. He was a terribly ugly fellow, when he was mad, and the boys used to tease him in every possible way; but wo to them if he got hold of them. He lived all alone, for he never had any wife or children; and he would not allow anybody to enter his house, on any account, but always kept the door locked. If his neighbors had business to transact with him, he would step into the yard and attend to them; but even in the severest weather, he would not let them cross his threshold. He never would speak to or look at a woman, and would always avoid meeting them, if possible. Poor fellow, he had a dreadful end. He was missing for several days, and at last some of the town's-people broke into his house, and found him dead, with his head badly burned. They supposed he was intoxicated, and fell, striking his head upon the andiron, which stunned him; and while he lay helpless, he was so badly burned that he soon died. And that was the last of poor old Zigzag." "There was another story Uncle James used to tell, about the naming of Barre, in Vermont; do you recollect it, mother?" inquired Mrs. Preston. "Yes, indeed, and I 've heard old Dr. Paddock tell it many a time. He was there, and saw it all. The people did n't like the name of their town, which was Wildersburgh, and determined to have a new one, and so they met together in town-meeting, to talk the matter over. One of the leading men came from Barre, Massachusetts, and he wanted the town to take that name. Another prominent citizen came from Holden, Massachusetts, and he insisted that the town should be called Holden. The people liked both of these names well enough, and it was finally determined that the question should be decided by a game of boxing, between these two men. So the meeting adjourned to a new barn, with a rough hemlock plank floor, and the contest commenced. After boxing awhile, one of them threw the other upon the floor, and sprang upon him at full length; but the one who was underneath dealt his blows so skilfully, that his opponent soon gave in; and rolling the Holden man out of the way, he jumped up and shouted, 'There, the name is Barre!' and Barre it hasten, to this day. The next day, the man who won this victory had to call on the doctor to extract from his back the hemlock splinters he had received while struggling on the barn floor." Thus the evening was beguiled with stories, mingled with a few songs by Alice and Ella, and a few favorite airs upon the piano-forte. Before the hour of retiring arrived, even Oscar was quite reconciled to the loss of the evening's entertainment away from home which he had promised himself. CHAPTER VIII. GRANDMOTHER LEE. Mrs. Lee, the grandmother of the Preston children, remained with the family for several weeks, after Thanksgiving. Her visit was, on the whole, a pleasant one, though there were some shadows thoughtlessly cast over it by the children. Age had somewhat impaired her sense of hearing, but yet she always wanted to understand everything that was said in her presence. Often, when the children were talking to each other in a low tone, she would ask them what they were saying. Ella did not like these interruptions, and was the first to complain of them. "O dear," said she, one day, "I do wonder what makes grandmother so inquisitive. I really believe she thinks we are talking about her all the time. I can't open my mouth, but she wants to know what I said. Don't you think she is getting childish, Alice?" "Why, Ella!" exclaimed Alice, in astonishment, "I should think you would be ashamed to speak so of your poor old grandmother. What do you think mother would say if she knew what you said!" "I can't help it," replied Ella; "I don't see why grandmother need be so curious about every little thing that's said. I mean to ask her some time when I have a good chance." "I should think you had better, Miss Impudence," said Alice; "perhaps she would like to have you give her some lessons in good behavior." Alice did not for a moment suppose that her sister meant to speak to their grandmother upon this subject. But she had miscalculated the pertness of Ella. A day or two after this, as several of the children were talking among themselves, the attention of the old lady was arrested. She could not hear distinctly what they said, but Oscar took a prominent part in the conversation; and a moment after, on his leaving the room, she asked Ella what he wanted. "O, it was n't anything that you care about, grandma'am," replied Ella. "Is that the way your mother teaches you to answer questions, Ella?" inquired Mrs. Lee, in a mild, reproachful tone. "No, no, grandmother," replied Alice, with considerable earnestness; "I shall tell mother how impudently she spoke to you. A boy has given a little dog to Oscar, and that was what he was telling us about, just before he went out." "Why, grandmother," added Ella, "I did n't mean to be impudent; but I 've noticed that you always want to hear what everybody says, even when they are not talking to you, and mother says that is n't polite." "I am much obliged to you, my dear," replied her grandmother, very meekly; "after I have taken a few more lessons from you, perhaps I shall know how to behave." The feelings of the old lady were more hurt by the rudeness of Ella, than her mild rebukes indicated. Alice felt bound to inform her mother of what had taken place; and Mrs. Preston was greatly mortified, on learning that her little daughter had spoken so impudently to her aged mother. She apologized for Ella, as well as she could, by saying that she was naturally forward and impulsive. At noon, when the children returned from school, she called Ella into a room by herself, and talked with her about her conduct. At first, Ella tried to justify herself; but after awhile her better nature triumphed, and she felt heartily ashamed of her treatment of her grandmother. To think that she, a girl eleven years old, should have attempted to teach her aged grandmother politeness, and in such an uncivil way, too! No wonder she hung her head in shame. To be candid, perhaps Ella's grandmother was a little too inquisitive to know what was going on around her. But this was one of the infirmities of old age which were slowly stealing upon her, and which the young should regard with pity and forbearance, but never with a censorious spirit. Ella was really a good-hearted girl, when her generous feelings were aroused. From that day, she treated her grandmother with marked kindness and respect; and her unfortunate attempt to rebuke the venerable woman was never alluded to again. Among the articles which Mrs. Lee brought from the country, for the children, was a small bag of corn for popping. One evening, George happened to think of this corn, which none of them had yet tried; and partly filling one of his pockets from the bag, he slipped quietly into the kitchen, and commenced popping it by Bridget's fire. There was no person in the kitchen but himself, and putting a handfull of corn in the wire popper, it soon began to snap and jump about, the hard, yellow kernels bursting forth into light and beautiful milk-white balls. But by-and-bye the savory odor of the corn found its way up stairs, and Ella and Ralph ran down to get their share of the treat. George had put the corn upon the table to cool, as fast as it was popped; but when he heard footsteps approaching, he scrambled it into his pocket as quick as possible. "Halloo, popped corn! Give me some, Georgie, won't you?" said Ralph. "And me, too," added Ella. "No I shan't, either," said George; "I popped it for myself." "You're real stingy," replied Ella; "but no matter, Ralph and I will pop some for ourselves. Where is the bag?" "You must find it for yourselves--I had to," was George's selfish reply, as he gathered the last of his popped corn into his pocket, badly burning his fingers, in his anxiety lest his brother or sister should get hold of a kernel or two. Ella and Ralph commenced searching for the bag of corn, but they could not find it. They looked in every place where they supposed it might be, but in vain. Their mother had gone to bed with a sick headache, or they would have ascertained where it was from her. At length they gave up the search, and returned to the sitting-room, in no very pleasant frame of mind. "I do declare, George," said Ella, "you are the meanest boy I ever heard of." "Why, what is the matter with George?" inquired his grandmother. "He 's been popping some of the corn you gave us," replied Ella; "and he won't give us a kernel of it, nor tell us where the bag is, so that we can pop some for ourselves." "Why, George," said Mrs. Lee, "that is too bad; I would tell them where the corn is, for I intended it as much for them as for you." "I don't care," said George; "they've called me mean and stingy, and now they may find it for themselves." "We did n't call you mean and stingy till you refused to tell us where it was," added Ella. "If I could find it, I guess you would n't get another kernel of it," said Ralph, addressing George; "I'd burn it all up first." "No, no, Ralph, that is wrong," replied his grandmother. "The corn is n't worth quarrelling about. If George wants to be selfish, and keep it all to himself, I 'll send down some more for the rest of you, when I go home. But I guess Georgie does n't mean to be selfish," she added, coaxingly; "he only wants to plague you a little, that's all. He 'll tell you where he found the corn, pretty soon." George, who was growing uneasy under this combined attack, now retreated to bed, leaving his grandmother more astonished than ever at his obstinacy. "There," said Alice, "it's of no use to try to drive or coax him out of his selfishness. Mother says he 'll outgrow it by-and-bye, but I don't see as there is any prospect of it. You know what made him so selfish, don't you, grandmother?" "I am afraid he has been humored too much," replied Mrs. Lee. "Well, he has been," added Alice; "but you know when he was little, he was very sick for a whole year, and the doctor said he must n't be crossed any more than we could help, for crying and fretting were very bad for him. So he had his own way in everything, and if we children had anything he wanted, we had to give it to him, and let him break it to pieces, for he would scream as loud as he could, if we refused him. This was the way he got to be so selfish; and now he thinks we must humor him just as we did when he was sick." "There is some little excuse for him, if he fell into the habit when he was very young and sick," observed Mrs. Lee; "but he is old enough and well enough now to know better, and ought to be broken of the fault." "Father and mother have tried to break him of it," replied Alice, "but they have not succeeded very well yet. They have talked to him a good deal about it, but it does no good." The next day, the children found the bag of corn, and their mother told George she should punish him for his selfishness by not letting him have any more of it. The corn was accordingly divided among the other children, and thus George, in trying to get more than his share, actually got less than the others did. It was about this time that Oscar came into possession of the pup which Alfred Walton had promised him two or three weeks before. He at first had some difficulty in obtaining the consent of his mother to bring it home. She thought it would be troublesome, and tried to dissuade him from taking it; but Oscar's heart was so strongly set upon the dog, that she at length reluctantly assented to its being admitted as an inmate of the family. Fastening a string to the neck of the dog, Oscar led him to his new home, where he received every attention from the younger members of the family. Quite a grave discussion at once ensued, as to what the name of the new-comer should be. Each of the children had a favorite name to propose, but Oscar rejected them all, and said the dog should be called "Tiger;" and so that became his name, but it was usually abbreviated to "Tige." [Illustration: Tiger's Countenance.] Tiger had grown very rapidly, and was now about twice as large as he was when Alfred promised Oscar one of his litter of pups. He was a handsome fellow, especially about the head, as you may see by his portrait. At times, he looked as old and grave as his mother; but for all that, he was a great rogue, and there was very little dignity or soberness about him. He was brim-full of fun, and would play with anybody or anything that would allow him to take that liberty. He would amuse himself for hours with an old shoe or rag that he had found in the street, and it seemed as if he never would get tired of shaking, and tearing, and biting it. This disposition sometimes led him into mischief, in the house; but he was always so happy, so good-natured and so affectionate, that it was difficult to blame him very hard for his misconduct. If Oscar's grandmother happened to drop her ball of yarn, when Tige was about, he would seize it in an instant, and she would have to work hard to get it away from him. She kept her work in a bag, which she usually hung upon the back of a chair; but one day, the little rogue pulled the bag down upon the floor, and had its various contents scattered all about the room, before the old lady noticed what he was doing. These mischievous pranks were very amusing to Oscar, and he set all the more by Tiger, on account of this trait in his character. The other members of the family, too, seemed to enjoy the sport he made; and it was easy to see that even old Mrs. Lee, though she pretended to be angry with the dog for his mischievousness, was in reality pleased with the attentions he bestowed upon her and her knitting-work. Oscar's grandmother usually retired to her chamber, soon after dinner, to take a short nap. One noon, after she had been scolding, with assumed gravity, about the dog's mischievousness, Oscar thought he would play a joke upon the old lady; so, on rising from the dinner-table, he carried Tiger up to her bed-room, and shut him in. He wanted to conceal himself somewhere, and witness the surprise of his grandmother, when she should open the door, and the dog should spring upon her; but it was time to go to school, and he could not wait. It so happened that Mrs. Lee did not take her nap so early as usual that day. When she did go to her chamber, Tiger, impatient of his long confinement, sprang out so quickly, that she did not observe him. But such a scene as met her gaze on entering the chamber! The first thing that caught her eye, was her best black bonnet lying upon the floor, all crumpled up and torn into shreds, looking as though it had been used for a football by a parcel of boys. She entered the room, and found a dress upon the floor, with numerous marks of rough handling upon it; while towels and other articles were scattered about in confusion. The cloth upon the dressing-table had been pulled off, and the articles that were kept upon it were lying upon the floor, including a handsome vase, which, in the fall, had been shattered to pieces. There was in the chamber a stuffed easy-chair, the covering of which was of worsted-work, wrought by Mrs. Preston when she was a young girl. This chair, which was highly valued as a relic of the past, was also badly injured. A part of the needle-work, which had cost so many hours of patient toil, was torn in every direction, and some of the hair, with which the cushion was stuffed, was pulled out, and scattered about the floor. As soon as Mrs. Lee had fully comprehended the extent of the mischief, she went to the stair-way, and called her daughter. A glance satisfied Mrs. Preston that Tiger must have been there; and she was confirmed in this belief by Bridget, who remembered that the dog came down into the kitchen, just after Mrs. Lee went up. But they could not tell how the little rogue got shut into the room. They concluded, however, that some of the children did it by accident, or that the dog slipped in unperceived when Mrs. Lee came out from the chamber before dinner. Oscar did not go directly home from school, but as soon as he entered the house, he learned what Tiger had done, from the other children. He felt sorry that what he intended as a harmless joke, should end in so serious a matter; but he determined that no one should know he had a hand in it, if he could prevent it. He regretted the destruction of property, but this feeling did not cause him so much uneasiness as his fear of losing his dog in consequence of this bad afternoon's work. His mother, as soon as she saw him, inquired if he had been to his grandmother's chamber that noon. He replied that he had not. She inquired if he let Tiger into it, and he answered in the negative. His mother questioned him still further, but he denied all knowledge of the matter. It was not very hard work for Oscar to tell a lie, now, for practice makes easy. He could do it, too, in such a plausible and seemingly innocent way, that it was difficult to believe he was deceiving you. His falsehoods, in this instance, were readily believed; and as all the other children denied having any knowledge of the affair, it was the general conclusion that Tiger must have obtained admittance to the chamber accidentally and unperceived. When Mr. Preston came home to tea, and saw what the dog had done, he was very angry with poor Tiger, and told Oscar he must sell him or give him away, for he would not have such a mischievous animal about the house another day. A day or two after, Mrs. Preston replaced the articles belonging to her mother that had been injured, and the excitement about the dog soon died away. Oscar did not try to get rid of his pet; but he was careful not to let him stay in the house much of the time especially when his father was at home. "Oscar," said his grandmother a day or two after as he came into the kitchen with Tiger, "I thought your father told you he would n't have that dog around here any more." "O, he did n't mean so," replied Oscar; "he was mad when he said that, but he 's got over it now. Besides, I don't let Tige stay in the house much." "A good dale ye cares for what yer father says," remarked Bridget, who was never backward about putting in a word, when Oscar's delinquencies were the subject of conversation. "You shut up, Bridget,--nobody spoke to you," replied Oscar. "Shet up, did ye say? Faith, if ye don't git shet up yerself where ye won't git out in a hurry, afore ye 're many years older, it 'll be because ye don't git yer desarts. Ye 're a bad b'y, that ye are, an'--" "There, there, Biddy," interrupted Mrs. Lee, "I would n't say anything more--it only aggravates him, and does no good. But, Oscar," she added, "I 'm sorry you don't pay more attention to what your father says. It's a bad habit to get into. I knew a disobedient boy, once, who came to the gallows; and I 've known several others who made very bad men." "But you don't call me disobedient, do you, grandma'am?" inquired Oscar. "I don't know what else to call it," she replied, "if your father tells you to do a thing, and you take no notice of it." "But father does n't want me to give Tige away--I don't believe he 's thought of it again since that night." "Then, if I were you," replied his grandmother, "I would ask his consent to keep the dog. If he did n't mean what he said, that night, you will be safe enough in asking him." But this was a kind of reasoning that Oscar could not appreciate. If he could carry his point just as well without his father's formal consent, he thought it was useless to ask any such favor. As long as he could keep his dog, it was all the same to him whether his father withdrew his command, or silently acquiesced in his disobedience of it. But grandmother Lee's visit was drawing to a close, and early one bright, cool morning, in the latter part of December, the coach called, to take her to the railroad depôt; and after a few kisses, and words of affectionate advice, and lingering good-byes, she departed on her homeward journey. Of those she left behind, next to her own daughter, the saddest of the group was little Ella, who, for many days, missed the pleasant face of her good old grandmother. CHAPTER IX. WINTER SPORTS. It was now mid-winter, and a few inches of snow lay upon the frozen ground, sufficient to make pretty fair sleighing for a few days, and to afford good coasting for the boys on the hill-sides. The favorite place for this amusement, among the boys in Oscar's neighborhood, was the Common. Here they always found good, long, smooth coasting-places, when there was any snow on the ground; and there was no danger of tripping up foot passengers, or getting under the heels of the horses, or being tapped on the shoulder by a policeman, which often happened to boys who coasted down the steep streets of the city,--a practice, by the way, prohibited by a city law. Oscar had a handsome new sled, which was a new year's present from his father. It was long and narrow, the two steel-shod runners projecting forward far beyond the top or seat, and ending in sharp points. It was painted light blue, and varnished. Upon the sides, in gilt letters, was its name--CLIPPER; and upon its top it bore the initial of Oscar's name, with an ornamental device. It had what a sailor would call a decidedly rakish look, and was really a fast as well as a stylish "team," to use the term by which Oscar usually spoke of it. It even eclipsed George's small but elegant sled, which, the winter previous, had been regarded as the _ne plus ultra_ of sled architecture. Ralph's sled, by the side of these, presented a very cheap and antiquated appearance, and it was seldom that he took it with him to the Common. He often borrowed Oscar's, however, when it was not in use for his elder brother, with all his faults, was not selfish boy, but was willing to lend his property to others, when he was not using it himself. One pleasant Wednesday afternoon, a portion of the week always devoted to recreation by the Boston school children, Ralph obtained leave to take the "Clipper" with him to the Common. George also went with him with his sled. The coasting is very good, and some hundreds of boys are enjoying it. Long lines of sleds, freighted with from one to three or four juveniles, are dashing down in various directions from the Beacon Street mall; and an odd collection of juveniles and sleds it is, too. There comes a chubby, red-faced lad, with his exact counterpart, on a smaller scale, clinging on behind him with one hand, and swinging his cap with the other. Their sled is called the "Post-Boy," and it seems to "carry the males" very expeditiously. Close at their heels is a pale, poetic youth, lightly skimming over the inclined plane upon a delicate craft that looks like himself, and which he calls the "Mystery." Here comes a rude, unpainted sled, with two rough but merry youngsters lying prone upon it, one over the other, and their heels working up and down in the air in a most lively manner. Anon goes by an aristocratic-looking craft, bearing upon it a sleek and well-dressed boy, whose appearance speaks of wealth, indulgence, and ease. His sled is appropriately named the "Pet;" but in gliding down the icy track it strikes a tree, and its pampered owner is sent sprawling upon his back, in a very undignified way, while his "Pet" gives him the slip and soon finds the bottom of the hill. Poor fellow! we wonder if this is an omen of what is to befall him in sliding down the hill of life. And here comes the "Clipper" itself, with our Ralph seated proudly upon it, and apparently enjoying the fleet and beautiful sled as much as though it were really his own. And there, too, comes George, with his pretty "Snow Flake;" and close behind him are the "Tempest," and the "Yankee Doodle," and the "Screamer," and the "Snow ball," and the "Nelly," and the "Racer," and a host of other craft, of every imaginable appearance, and strided by all sorts of boys. Ralph and George spent an hour or two upon the Common. Nothing occurred to mar their pleasure till just before they started for home, when Ralph met with an adventure that sadly ruffled his temper. He was descending the hill upon his sled, when another craft, having two boys upon it larger than himself, managed to run into him. The "Clipper" being lightly loaded, the other sled descended with greater impetus; and the force of the collision, together with a vigorous kick from the stout boots of one of the boys, overturned Ralph upon the steepest part of the hill. He quickly picked himself up, and, forgetful of self, his first care was to see whether Oscar's sled had sustained any damage. When he beheld the marks of the rough encounter, in the form of sundry ugly scratches upon the polished sides of the "Clipper," the tears came in his eyes; and it was some time before he noticed that he himself bore upon his hands and knees several unmistakable tokens of the collision. Ralph knew very well that the collision was not accidental. The kick of the boy who guided the sled, and the hearty laugh of both its occupants, when Ralph was overturned, satisfied him that he had been run down purposely. He did not know the names of the boys, having only met them occasionally on the Common. They soon came along again, on their way up the hill, and Ralph asked the owner of the sled why he run him down. "Because you got in our way," replied the boy. "No, I did n't," said Ralph; "there was room enough for you to go by, but you steered out of your course, and gave my sled a kick, too." "Don't you tell me I lie, you little snipper-snapper," answered the boy "or I 'll put you in my pocket, and carry you off." "See what you did," continued Ralph, pointing to the scratches on the "Clipper;" "I should n't care anything about it, but the sled is n't mine. I borrowed it of my brother, and it had n't a scratch on it when I took it." "Pooh," said the other boy, "that does n't hurt it any. I 'll be bound it will be scratched worse than that, before the winter 's over. If you get in my way with it again, I shall serve it worse than I did this time." The boys passed on their way, and Ralph and George, whose "fun" had been thus suddenly and unjustly spoiled by their insolent and domineering companions, concluded to return home. Poor Ralph dreaded to meet Oscar; but yet he hunted him up, as soon as he got home, and told him what had befallen the beautiful sled. Oscar was very angry when he heard the story, but he generously acquitted his brother of all blame in the matter, and declared that he would pay back the boy who had thus taken advantage of his weakness. He knew the offender, from Ralph's description, and from the name of his sled, which was the "Corsair." He even proposed to go directly to the Common, and settle the account at once; but Ralph, in whose heart revenge held a very small place, persuaded him out of the notion. But Oscar, unlike Ralph, was not the boy to forget or forgive an injury. A day or two after the occurrence just related, while coasting on the Common, he fell in with the boy who run into his brother. Keeping his eye upon him until he could catch him a little aside from the other boys, when the favorable moment came, he suddenly dealt him a severe blow, which nearly knocked him over, accompanying it with the remark: "There, take that for running down my little brother, when he was coasting with my sled, the other day." The other boy, without saying a word, sprang at Oscar, and, for a moment or two, blows and kicks were freely exchanged. But though they were about of a size, it was evident that Oscar was the stronger or most resolute of the two, and his antagonist soon gave up the contest, but not until he had been pretty roughly handled. Other boys soon came flocking around, to whom Oscar explained the cause of the assault; but his antagonist denied all knowledge of the affair for which Oscar had attacked him. An angry war of words ensued, but the excitement finally subsided without any further resort to blows, and Oscar returned home, well pleased with his adventure. One of Oscar's favorite winter amusements was skating. Early in winter, as soon as the little pond on the Common was frozen over, he might be seen gliding over the smooth ice; but later in the season, when there was good skating on "Back Bay," he preferred that locality, because of its greater extent. Tiger usually accompanied him in his skating excursions, and seemed to enjoy the sport as much as his master did. It was amusing to see him try to make a short turn, in running upon the ice. He would slide some distance before he could change his course. Oscar would often plague him, when he was in full chase after his master, by suddenly turning upon his skates, and taking a contrary direction, leaving Tiger to get back as he could. But an event happened, one day, that almost wholly cured Tiger of his fondness for this kind of sport. He was gaily tripping over the ice, by the side of his young master, when the latter suddenly turned about, and Tiger, in his haste to follow him, slid directly into an air-hole. This was probably the first time he had enjoyed so extensive a cold bath; and as he was not a water-dog, it is not surprising that he was terribly frightened. His piteous cries brought Oscar to his relief, who could not help laughing at the sorry plight in which he found his half-drowned canine friend. He was floundering and paddling about in the water, now lifting himself almost out, upon the edge of the ice, and now slipping off again, and plumping over-head in the uncomfortable element; his intelligent countenance, in the meantime, wearing the impress of despair. But Oscar soon helped him from his disagreeable position. Finding himself on his legs again, he did not resume his sport; but, shivering with cold, and dripping with water, almost at the freezing point, and with his head hanging downward, and his tail drooping between his legs, he started towards home--a wiser and a sadder dog. When Oscar got home, he found the family some what alarmed for his own safety. Tiger had arrived some time before, and as it was evident that he had been overboard, and as he was known to have gone off with his master, Mrs. Preston felt some anxiety, not knowing but that both Oscar and the dog had broken through the ice. But his arrival dispelled all fears, and his account of Tiger's misfortune served to amuse the children for the rest of the day. As for Tiger himself, he seemed heartily ashamed of the part he had played, and could hardly be persuaded to leave the chimney-corner for a moment, or even to look up, when the children inquired for his health. "I don't see what good air-holes do. I wonder if anybody knows what they are for," exclaimed Ralph, as the children and their mother were seated around the sitting-room table in the evening. "They are traps set to catch skaters, I suppose," said Oscar. "And dogs," added Ella. "But don't you know what they are for, Alice?" continued Ralph. "Yes," replied Alice, who had studied natural philosophy at school, "they are the breathing holes of the fishes. Fishes can't live without air, any better than we can; and a pond or river frozen over solid, without any air-holes, would be as bad for them as a room from which all fresh air was shut out would be to us. You can sometimes catch fish very easily by cutting a hole in the ice, for if they feel the need of air, they will rush right up to the opening." "But how are the air-holes made?" inquired Ralph. "I believe," replied Alice, "that they are generally made by springs that bubble up from the bottom. These springs come from the earth, and the water is so warm that it gradually thaws the ice over them. The fish often finish the process by jumping up through the ice before it has entirely melted. When the cold is very intense, and these springs have frozen up, some of the water is absorbed by the earth, which leaves a vacuum or empty space between the ice and the water; and then the ice gives way under the weight of the atmosphere, and air is admitted into the water beneath." "Well, I 'm glad air-holes are good for something," said Oscar; "they 're troublesome enough to skaters. Jim Anderson skated right into one the other day, and came pretty near getting drowned. But I always keep my eyes open for them. I never got into one yet." "You cannot be too careful when you are on the ice," remarked Mrs. Preston. "I felt so uneasy, that I was just going to send Ralph in search of you, when you got home." After that day it required considerable coaxing to induce Tiger to go upon the boys' skating-ground. He manifested a decided preference to remain upon the shore, and look on; and when he did venture to accompany his master, he kept close by his side, and travelled over the treacherous ice with a degree of circumspection, which said very plainly, "You won't catch me in that scrape again, master Oscar!" But there was nothing that the boys enjoyed more at this season of the year, than a real good snowstorm. Such a storm they were favored with during this month. It came on in the evening, and the next morning, when they arose, their basement windows were more than half buried up in snow, and the drifts, in some places, were higher than Oscar's head. The streets were deserted and almost impassable. Thick crusts of snow hung over the roofs of the long blocks of houses; while the blinds, windows, doors and balustrades were heavily trimmed with the same delicate material. The huge banks which stretched themselves along the street and sidewalk, were as yet undisturbed; for the few passers-by had been glad to pick their way through the valleys. The wind roared and piped among the chimneys and house-tops, and whisked through narrow passage-ways, and whistled through the smallest cracks and crevices, in its merriest and busiest mood. Now it would scoop up a cloud of snow from the street, and bear it up far above the house-tops, and then it would repay the debt by gathering a fleecy wreath from some neighboring roof, and sweeping it into the street beneath. The storm still continued with unabated severity, and the air was so full of snow, that one could hardly see the length of the street. After a hasty breakfast, the boys tucked the bottoms of their trowsers into their boots, and sallied forth, to explore the half-buried streets. And now the light snow-balls began to fly thick and fast, and every few moments, one and another would measure his full length in some deep drift, which for a moment almost buried him from sight. Tiger, who accompanied them, entered fully into the sport, and very good-naturedly received his share of the snowballs and snow-baths. But their exercise was too violent to be continued a great while. They soon returned home, coated with snow from head to heel, and the cheeks of the boys glowing with health and enjoyment. "After you get rested, Oscar," said Mr. Preston, who was just leaving for the store, "I want you to shovel a path in front of the house." "What is the use?" inquired Oscar. "The storm is n't over yet, and if I make a path, it will fill right up again." "No it won't," replied his father. "I don't think it will storm much longer; and the snow is so light, now, that you can shovel it easily, but if you leave it till noon, it maybe trodden down hard. You need not clean off the whole side-walk now; only make a comfortable passage-way, and perhaps I will help you finish the job at night." Oscar still thought it would be a waste of labor to shovel a path then, and he did not evince any haste in obeying his father's order. After loitering about the house a long time, he took the shovel, and worked lazily at the path for awhile. Although he only undertook to cut a narrow passage-way through the drift in front of the house, he worked with so little spirit, that when the time came for him to get ready for school, he had not half completed the task. He asked permission to stay at home and finish his path, but his mother did not think this necessary, and refused her consent. So he went to school, and in the meantime the storm died away, and the clouds dispersed. Towards noon the door-bell rang, and on Bridget going to answer it, a little printed paper was handed to her, directing the occupant of the house to have the snow removed from his sidewalk within a given number of hours. After school, Oscar thought no more of his path, but went off with Alfred Walton, and did not go home until dinner-time. He had but little time now to shovel snow; but his father told him to be sure and come home directly from school, in the afternoon, and not to play or do anything else until the sidewalk was cleared off. Oscar accordingly went home after school, and resumed his work. He found that the snow was trodden into such a solid icy mass, that an axe was necessary to cut it up in some places. He was not the boy to hurt himself with hard labor, and although he kept his shovel at work in a leisurely way, he did not accomplish much, except the removal of a little snow that had not got trodden down. Wearied at length with his feeble and fruitless efforts, he returned into the house, saying to his mother: "There, I can't get the snow off the sidewalk, and it's of no use to try. It's trodden down just as hard as ice. Besides, if I should shovel it all off, there will be an avalanche from the top of the house to-night, that will bury the sidewalk all up again. The snow is sliding off the roofs, all around here;--have n't you heard it, mother?" "Yes, I thought I heard it," replied Mrs. Preston; "but if you can't get the snow off the sidewalk, you had better speak to your father about it, when he comes home, and perhaps he will help you, or hire somebody to do it for you. It must be got off as soon as possible, for the police have notified us to attend to it." In spite of this advice, Oscar neglected to speak to his father in regard to the matter, and no one else happening to think of it, nothing was said about it. The next morning, he chopped away upon the ice a little while, but getting tired of it, he soon abandoned the job, and went to play. When Mr. Preston came home to dinner, an unusual cloud was on his brow; and as soon as Oscar came in, the cause was explained. "Oscar," he said, "why did you not shovel the snow from the sidewalk, as I told you to, yesterday morning?" "I tried to," replied Oscar; "but it was trodden down so hard, I could n't get it off." "But you should have done it before it got hardened. I told you to clear a passage-way, yesterday morning. That would have saved the rest from getting trod down, and at noon you could have finished the job. Why did you not do as I told you to?" "I did begin to make a path," replied Oscar; "but I did n't have time to finish it, and when I got home from school, the snow was all trodden down hard." "Did n't have time?" said his father; "what do you tell me such a story as that for? You could have made all the path that was necessary in fifteen or twenty minutes, if you had been disposed to do it. By neglecting to obey me, you have got me into a pretty scrape. I have had to go before the Police Court, this forenoon, and pay a fine and costs, amounting to over five dollars, for your negligence and disobedience. And now," he added, "you may try once more, and see if you can do as I tell you to. As soon at you have done dinner, take the hatchet and shovel, and go to work upon the sidewalk; and don't you leave it until the ice is all cleared off. As sure as you do, I will dust your jacket for you when I come home to-night, so that you will not forget it for one while." Oscar thought it best to obey his father this time. It being Saturday, school did not keep, in the afternoon, and he had ample time to complete the task, although it was time which he intended to spend in a different way. Ralph, however, volunteered his assistance, and before the middle of the afternoon, the task was finished. CHAPTER X. APPEARANCES. Those who impose upon the weak, sometimes get punished for their meanness in an unexpected manner. This truth was very effectually impressed upon Oscar, one March morning, as he was going to school. The streets were in a very bad condition, being several inches deep with a compound of snow, water, and mud, familiarly known as "slosh." Just before reaching the school-house, he overtook two little boys with a sled, and throwing himself upon it, he compelled them to drag him along. It was hard sledding, and the boys naturally objected to drawing such a heavy load; but Oscar kept his seat, and compelled them to go on. For a few minutes, he rode along very quietly, although his span of youngsters, who were continually muttering to themselves, did not seem to enjoy the sport as well as he did. But, by a dexterous movement, they soon balanced the debtor and creditor account. Giving the sled a sudden jerk and lurch, in one of the sloppiest places they had met with, their lazy passenger was thrown backward into the mud, and imprinted a full length picture of himself in the yielding material. The incident happened almost in front of the school-house, and as Oscar rose from the mud, he was greeted by the shouts and laughter of a hundred boys who witnessed the scene. Several men, also, who were passing at the time, joined in the laughing chorus; and one, who had observed the whole affair from the beginning, told Oscar the boys had served him just right. [Illustration: The Overturn.] Ralph came to the relief of his brother, and having wiped off as much of the mud and water from his back as he could, with a handkerchief, Oscar started for home, wet to his skin. He was keenly sensitive to any mortification of this kind, and it was a bitter pill for him to appear in the crowded streets in such a plight. He imagined everybody he met or overtook was staring at him, and laughing at the figure he cut, and he wanted to hide his face from their sight. He never went home from school so fast before; but when he had changed his dress, and washed the dirt from his hands and face, it was too late to return. In the afternoon, when he made his appearance at school, he was quite generally greeted with the significant nickname of "Stick-in-the-mud," and had to stand a most remorseless fire of wit, pleasantry, and ridicule the rest of the day, both at home and in the street. Oscar thought quite as much as was proper of outward appearances. He was commendably neat in his personal habits, and was seldom caught with dirty hands and face, or uncombed hair, or soiled and ragged dress. He loved to dress well, too, and no amount of persuasion could induce him to wear a garment, if he fancied it did not set right, or was much out of fashion, or had an old and patched-up look. In such a case, nothing but the stern arm of authority was sufficient to overcome his prejudices. "There," said his mother one evening, after spending some time over one of his jackets, which had become a little worn at the elbows; "there, that will last you a spell longer, and look almost as well as it ever did, too." Oscar examined the garment. It was neatly mended, and looked very well; but his eye rested upon a slight patch upon one of the elbows, which entirely spoilt it for him, although it had previously been a favorite garment. "It's too small for me," he said; "why can't you keep it for Ralph?" "No, you needn't keep it for Ralph," quickly replied the owner of that name; "I haven't had anything but your old clothes to wear for a year or two, and I should think it was my turn to have some of the new ones, now. Make him wear that out, mother, won't you?" "Yes, I intend he shall wear it awhile longer," replied Mrs. Preston. "It looks well enough for any body." "But see that detestable patch," said Oscar; "I don't want to wear _that_ to school; folks will think I have borrowed one of Ben. Wright's old jackets." Ben Wright was one of Oscar's schoolmates. He was the son of a poor widow, and was the most be-patched boy in Oscar's class, at the head of which he stood. As he had nothing to recommend him but fine scholarship, exemplary deportment, and a good character, in school and out, he was a boy of little consequence in the eyes of Oscar. "I wish you were _worthy_ to wear one of Benny's old jackets," replied Mrs. Preston. "If you were half as good a boy as he is, I would not complain. But you need not be afraid that anybody will mistake you for him, even if you _do_ wear a patched garment." "I believe you think Ben. Wright is a little angel," said Oscar, who never liked to hear his humble but diligent classmate praised. "I think he has some traits that you would do well to imitate," replied his mother. "I shall think I am imitating him, when I get that thing on," added Oscar, in a contemptuous manner, alluding to the jacket. "There, that will do, Oscar," replied Mrs. Preston, "You've said enough about the jacket; don't let me hear another word of complaint. I took a great deal of pains to mend it neatly, and it looks well enough for you or any other boy. You may put it on to-morrow morning, and don't you leave off wearing it till I tell you to." Oscar nodded his head in a way that seemed to say, "You 'll see how long I wear it;" but his mother did not observe the motion. He had a short and easy way of getting rid of garments that he disliked. Somehow other they were sure to waste away in a much faster manner than those he had a fancy for; or, perhaps they would be rendered suddenly useless, by some mysterious accident. But he would never admit that their period of usefulness had been purposely shortened, though suspicions of this kind were occasionally hinted. Soon after this, Mr. Preston entered the room, and took a seat by the fire He pulled out his watch to wind it up, as was his custom just before bed-time, when Oscar said: "Father, I wish you would buy me a watch. Frank King, and Bill Andrews, and Charlie Grant, and almost all the large boys that I know, have got watches, and I should think I might have one too; why can't I, father?" "What do they do with watches?" inquired Mr. Preston. "Why, what does anybody do with them? They carry them to tell the time of day, of course," replied Oscar. "And to make a display of watch-chain," added his father. "No, that isn't it," replied Oscar; "but it's convenient to have a watch with you. You don't know how I 'm plagued to tell what time it is, sometimes. It would make me a good deal more punctual, if I had one. I was late to school this morning, but it was n't my fault, for I did n't know what time it was until I got to the school-house, and found that the boys had all gone in." "When I was of your age," said Mr. Preston, "boys never thought of carrying watches, and yet they were taught to be as punctual as the clock, in their attendance at school. If I had been tardy, and tried to excuse myself by saying that I had no watch, I should have got laughed at by the whole school. But where were you this morning, that you did not know when it was school-time?" "Over to Alf. Walton's." "And couldn't find a time-piece about the premises?" "Why--no--I--forgot--" replied Oscar, somewhat embarrassed by the question. "Just as I supposed," added his father; "you got along with that boy, and forgot all about your school; and it would have been just the same, if you 'd had half a dozen watches in your pocket." "O no, father," said Oscar; "for if I 'd had a watch about me, I should have looked at it." "Well," added Mr. Preston, "if you don't care enough about punctuality to take a little trouble to ascertain what time it is, when you have an engagement, I don't think a watch would help you any in acquiring the habit. You have n't made out a very strong case." "No," remarked Mrs. Preston, "he wants a watch for show, and not punctuality,--that's plain enough. He has just been making a great fuss because I put a little bit of a patch on the elbow of his jacket. He is getting to be quite fastidious, for a gentleman of his size." "If you would think a little less of outside appearances, Oscar," continued his father, "and a little more of inward character, your judgment of men and things would not be quite so much at fault as it is now. If you judge of boys or men by the cloth and watches they wear, and select your companions accordingly, you will soon find that you have got a pretty set of friends. And so, too, if you think you can secure the good opinion and respect of the world, merely by dressing well, you are greatly mistaken. You must learn to judge people by their characters, and not by their dress or appearance. If I could see you trying to form a good character, I should care very little what sort of garments you wore. I would buy you a watch, or anything else in my power, if it would only make you behave better. In fact, I will make you a handsome offer now, if you wish." "Well, what is it?" inquired Oscar. "I will agree to give you a nice watch, in six months from this time, if you will do three things," continued his father. "What are they?" inquired Oscar; "are they things that I can do?" "Certainly," said Mr. Preston; "you can do them if you will only try. The first is, that you render prompt obedience to your parents, during these six months. Is n't that within your power?" "Yes, sir," replied Oscar, somewhat reluctantly. "The second is," continued Mr. Preston, "that you behave toward your playmates and all other people in such a way, that no serious complaint shall be made against you. Can you do that, if you try?" "Yes, sir, I guess so," replied Oscar. "And the last condition is, that you give sufficient attention to your studies to gain admission to the High School, at the end of the term. Is that in your power?" "I suppose it is," said Oscar. "You admit, then, that you _can_ keep these conditions," continued his father; "the question now is, _will_ you do it?" That was a hard question for Oscar to answer. He hesitated, and twisted about in his chair, and at length replied: "Why, I don't suppose I should make out, if I tried." "No, you certainly would not, if that is your spirit," replied his father. "You cannot accomplish anything unless you have some confidence that you can do it, and firmly resolve to try. You just admitted that you could keep these conditions, but it seems you are not willing to make the attempt. You want a watch, but you don't intend to obey your parents, or to conduct yourself properly, or to attend to your lessons, for the sake of getting it--that's what you mean to say, is it not?" Oscar remained silent. "I am sorry," continued his father, "that you will not take up with my offer; for though I do not think it important that you should get the watch, it is important that you should reform some of your habits. You are getting to be altogether too wayward and headstrong, as well as vain." "If I get into the High School next summer, may I have the watch?" inquired Oscar. "No," replied his father, "not unless you comply with the other conditions. But I want you to remember what I told you the other day, that if you don't get into the High School at that time, I shall send you to some boarding-school away from home, where you will be made to study, and to behave yourself too. If strict discipline can do anything for you, you shall have the benefit of it, you may depend upon that." Oscar was now two-thirds of the way through his last year in the school he attended. His parents were anxious that he should go through the High School course of studies, and, indeed, he had applied for admission to that school the summer previous to this, but did not pass the examination. There was still some doubt whether he would succeed any better at the next examination; and in case of his failure, his parents had decided to send him to a boarding-school in the country. But there was nothing very alarming to him in the idea of going into such an establishment, notwithstanding all his father said of the strict discipline to which he would be subjected. There would be a novelty about it, he imagined, that would make it quite pleasant. Consequently, he cared very little whether he was accepted as a High School pupil or not. CHAPTER XI. THE MORAL LESSON. Oscar had the name among his fellows of being a shrewd and sharp boy at a bargain; and, like too many men who have acquired a similar reputation, he was not over-scrupulous in his manner of conducting his business operations. If he could drive a profitable trade, it mattered little _how_ he did it; and if somebody else lost as much as he gained by the bargain, that was not his business; every one must look out for himself. So he reasoned, and so constantly did he act on this principle, that, to tell the truth, his integrity was by no means unimpeachable among his comrades. It was a very general opinion, that in many of their boyish games, such as marbles, he would cheat if he could get a chance; and the notion was equally prevalent, that in a bargain, he was pretty sure to get decidedly the best end. Oscar was very desirous that his dog Tiger should wear a brass collar, by way of ornament and distinction. All other respectable dogs bore upon their necks this badge of ownership, and he thought it highly important that Tiger should be on a good footing with his canine friends. But how to get the collar, was the question that perplexed him. He had asked his father to buy it, and met with a flat refusal. He had even called at several shops, and inquired the price of the coveted article, but it was hopelessly beyond his means. The subject lay heavily upon his mind for several days, for when he took a notion that he wanted a thing, it was hard to reason or drive him out of it. His thoughts and his dreams were of brass dog-collars, and his talk among his companions run upon the same theme. At length, while prosecuting his inquiries, he happened to learn that a little boy who attended his school, owned just such a collar as he wanted, and had no dog to wear it. Here was a chance for a speculation. Oscar lost no time in seeing this boy, and in getting his lowest price for the collar, which was fifty cents. This was much less than the price at the shops, and Oscar thought his father might be induced, by this fact, to let him have the money to purchase it; but Mr. Preston did not think Tiger needed any such appendage, and Oscar's request was again denied. Oscar now set his wits to work to devise a way of buying the collar, without his father's aid. He looked over the little collection of "goods and chattels," which he called his own, to see what there was he could exchange for the article he wanted. His eye soon fell upon a brass finger ring, and his plan was quickly formed. The ring had been tumbled about among his playthings for a year or two, and was now dull and dingy; but he remembered that he once cleaned and polished it, so that it looked very much like gold, so long as the lustre lasted. He subjected it to this process again, and it soon looked as well as the plain gold ring he wore upon his finger, which it somewhat resembled in size and color. Substituting it for the gold ring, he wore it to school that afternoon; and a little negotiation, after school was dismissed, settled the business--the coveted dog-collar was his! Indeed, so craftily did he conduct the bargain, that he made the other boy throw in a pretty ivory pocket-comb to boot! The little boy who was thus cruelly deceived, supposed he was buying the ring that Oscar usually wore; and, in truth, Oscar did give him to understand, in the course of the barter, that it was fine gold, a point on which the other boy did not appear to have much doubt. Oscar did not dare to tell any one what a good bargain he had made, for fear that the other boy would hear of it. Tiger appeared with a handsome collar around his neck the next morning; and all the explanation any one could get from his young master was, that he "traded for it." A week or two elapsed before Oscar's victim discovered the imposition that had been practiced upon him. The ring, which had been proudly worn, at length began to look dim and brassy; and on being submitted to careful inspection, it was pronounced by competent authority to be not worth one cent. The owner was of course indignant, and he went at once to Oscar, and demanded a return of the collar and comb. But Oscar laughed at the proposal. "A bargain is a bargain," said he, "and there can't be any backing out, after it's all settled. You agreed to the trade, and now you must stick to it." "But it was n't a fair bargain," said the other boy; "you told me the ring was gold, and it is nothing but brass." "No, I did n't tell you it was gold," replied Oscar. "You imagined that. And I did n't tell you it was the one I wore either,--you imagined that too. It was my other ring that I said was gold, and I told you it cost two dollars, and so it did. I never told you this ring was gold,--I recollect perfectly about it." "Well, you know I supposed it was gold, or I would n't have traded for it," replied the boy; "and besides, you made me think it was gold, whether you really said it was or not." "That was your look-out," said Oscar. "When a man sells a thing, he is n't obliged to run it down. You must look out for yourself when you make a bargain--that's what I do." "I should think you did," replied the other; "and I guess I shall remember your advice, if I ever trade with you again. There's your old ring: now give me back my collar and comb," he continued, handing the ring to Oscar. "I shan't do any such thing," said Oscar, and he refused to take the ring, and turned upon his heel, leaving the other boy in no very pleasant state of mind. "Then you 're a great cheat and a swindler," cried the victim, gathering courage as Oscar retreated. "And you 're a little greeny," replied Oscar, with a loud laugh. Oscar had prepared his mind for this explosion of indignation, and though he did not care much about it, he was glad it was over with. He regarded the transaction which led to it as a shrewd business operation, to be chuckled over, rather than repented of; and he had no idea of spoiling it all, by undoing the bargain. In Oscar's school, it was customary for the first class (of which he was a member) to devote the first half hour of every Monday morning to a lesson in morals. In these lessons, the duties which we owe to God, to ourselves, and to one another, were explained and enforced. Although a text-book was used, the teacher did not confine himself to it, in the recitations, but mingled oral instruction with that contained in the printed lessons, often taking up incidents that occurred in school, to illustrate the principle he wished to establish. It so happened that on the Monday morning after the occurrence just related, the subject of the moral lesson was dishonesty. The various forms of dishonesty,--theft, robbery, fraud, &c.,--were explained, and the distinction between them pointed out. The teacher then proceeded as follows: "A gentleman was riding in the cars, one evening, when a newsboy passed through the train, and he purchased a paper, giving the boy by mistake a gold eagle instead of a cent. The boy noticed the mistake, but said nothing about it. Albert, you may tell me what you think of that boy's conduct." "It was dishonest," replied Albert; "because he knew that the money did not belong to him, and yet he kept it." "But did not a part of the blame belong to the man who made the mistake?" inquired the teacher. Albert, after thinking a moment, replied: "He was to blame for his carelessness, but not for the boy's dishonesty." "You are right," said the teacher. "The boy was guilty of stealing, just as much as if he had picked the man's pocket, or broken into his house. But suppose, instead of the mistake being to the amount of ten dollars, it had only been a few cents,--how then?" "It would have been just the same," replied the boy. "But what if the man was very rich, and would never feel the loss, while the boy was poor, and needed the money?" "That would have made no difference," replied Albert. "Very good," continued the teacher; "when an honest man discovers a mistake in his own favor, he always hastens to rectify it. He will receive only what he is entitled to. Robert," he added, addressing an other pupil, "how is it with regard to lost articles?" "When we find anything that has been lost," replied the boy addressed, "we should try to ascertain the owner, and return the article to him." "Is there any guilt in neglecting to do this?" "Yes, sir, it is a kind of dishonesty." "You are right," added the teacher; "the courts often punish men for this very offence, for it is a species of theft. And how of borrowing articles, and neglecting to return them,--is that honest?" "It is not," replied Robert. "Oscar," continued the teacher, "you may give your opinion of this case: suppose one of your acquaintances wants a certain article belonging to you, and by way of barter, offers you a finger-ring for it. You take it for granted that the ring is gold, but a week or two after the bargain is concluded, you discover that it is of brass, and of no value what ever. The other boy knew all the while it was brass, and also knew you supposed it was gold. What should you say of such a transaction? Was it honest?" Oscar turned red, and looked confused, as this question was put to him. It was a minute or two before he made any reply, and then he said, in a hesitating manner: "If the other boy did n't _tell_ me it was gold, I don't see as he was to blame." "But we will suppose there was no need of his telling you so," added the master; "we will suppose he managed the bargain so adroitly, that you never suspected he was not dealing fairly with you. In that case, should you think he had acted honestly towards you?" "No, sir," replied Oscar, but it came out with the utmost reluctance. "Certainly not," said the teacher; "it is dishonest to take advantage of another's ignorance, or simplicity, or necessity, in a bargain. Overreaching in trade is often dignified with the name of shrewdness, but, for all that, it is contrary to the rule of honesty. And now I have one more question to ask you: After you have discovered how your comrade has imposed upon you, what should you expect of him?" Oscar made no reply. "Should you not expect him to make full restitution?" "Yes, sir," he replied, in a scarcely audible voice. "Of course you would," continued the master; "and if he refused, he would deserve double punishment." Several other forms of dishonesty were then considered, such as the following;--withholding from another his just dues; contracting debts which we know we cannot pay, or making promises we know we cannot fulfil; wasting or injuring the property of others, &c. In concluding, the teacher remarked, that it was not very pleasant to feel that we had been wronged and cheated; but there was another feeling, a thousand-fold more to be dreaded--the feeling that we have wronged and cheated others. And so ended the moral lesson for that morning. The particular bearing of this lesson upon Oscar, and the pertinency of the "case" he was called to decide upon, were not generally known to the class, though their suspicions might have been somewhat excited by his confusion, and his reluctance to answer the questions put to him. The teacher had been informed of Oscar's dishonest bargain by the boy who suffered from it, and he chose this way to impress upon him the immorality of the transaction. He concluded, however, to give him an opportunity to make a voluntary restitution, and so no further reference was made to the matter. Oscar was wise enough to heed the warning. Before night, the brass dog-collar and the ivory pocket-comb were returned to their rightful owner. CHAPTER XII. SICKNESS. "You have got a bad cold, Oscar," said Mrs. Preston one evening towards the close of winter, as Oscar came in from his play, and was seized with a coughing spell. "And no wonder," she added, on glancing at his feet; "why, do you see how wet the bottoms of your pantaloons are? I should like to know where you have been, to get so wet--it is strange that you will not keep out of the water." "I should like to know how anybody could help getting wet feet this weather, with the slosh up to your knees," said Oscar. "I could walk about the streets all day without going over my shoes," replied his mother, "and so could you, if you tried to. I believe you go through all the mud-puddles you can find, just to see how wet you can get. But it won't do for you to sit down in this condition. Take off your wet boots, and run up stairs and put on a pair of dry pantaloons and some dry stockings, and then you may sit down to the fire and warm yourself." "I don't want to change my pantaloons and stockings," said Oscar; "I 'll take off my boots and dry myself--that will do just as well." "No it won't," replied his mother; "you had better change your clothes, for you've got a real bad cold now, and I don't want you to get any more. Come, do you hear me? Run up to your chamber and put on some dry clothes." Oscar paid no attention to the command, but after removing his wet boots, sat down before the range to dry his feet and legs. Such instances of disobedience were too common in the family to attract any special notice, and Mrs. Preston said nothing more about the matter. Oscar, that afternoon, had been down to the shores of Charles River, near Cambridge Bridge, with Alfred Walton and several other boys. They had been amusing themselves upon the ice that had formed along the edge of the river, and which was now breaking up. They loosened some of the large cakes, and set them floating off upon the current towards the ocean. It was in this way that Oscar got his feet so wet. The next afternoon, when school was dismissed, Oscar, forgetting his wet feet and his cold, went again to the same place, with several of his cronies. Tiger also accompanied the party, for his master seldom went anywhere without him, except to school. The boys amused themselves, as on the previous day, with shoving off large blocks of ice into the stream, and with running rapidly over floating pieces that were not large enough to bear them up. Sometimes they narrowly escaped a ducking, so venturesome were they; and all of them got their feet pretty thoroughly soaked. It happened, after awhile, that a cake of ice upon which the boys were all standing, got disengaged from the shore, unperceived by them, and commenced floating into the river. They were all at work upon another ice-block, trying to push it off, and did not notice that they were going off themselves, until they were several feet from the shore. The distance was too great to leap, and the water was so deep that none of them dared to jump off from their precarious footing. "Well, this is a pretty joke," said one of the boys, with some appearance of alarm. "I should like to know how we are going to get out of this scrape?" "Get out of it?--who wants to get out of it?" replied Oscar. "I don't, for one--we shall have a first-rate sail down into the harbor; shan't we, Alf?" "The tide will take us right under the bridge, and I 'm going to climb up one of the piers," said Alfred, who appeared to be thinking more of a way of escape than of the pleasures of the trip. "Pooh, I shan't get off there," said Oscar. "I 'm in for a sail, and if the rest of you back out, I shan't. You 'll go too, won't you, Tom?" Before Tom could answer, they all began to notice that their ice-cake gave signs that the burden upon it was greater than it could safely bear. The swift current began to whirl it about in a rather uncomfortable manner, and it was gradually settling under water. They all began to be very much alarmed--all but Tiger, who did not quite comprehend the situation of affairs, and who looked up into the boys' faces with an expression of curiosity, as though he wanted to say: "I wonder what mischief these little rogues are up to now?" Several people who were crossing the bridge now noticed the perilous situation of the boys, and stopped to look at them. As soon as Alfred noticed them, he cried out slowly, at the top of his voice: "Halloo, there! send us a boat, will you? we 're sinking!" [Illustration: Afloat on the Ice.] There was some doubt whether the people on the bridge understood the cry, and the other boys repeated it as loud as they could, in the meantime also trying to manifest their want by signs and gestures. Some of the spectators upon the bridge, who were now quite numerous, shouted back in reply; but the boys, being to their windward, could not understand what they said. Their frail support was now moving rapidly along, and whirling about in the eddies more alarmingly than ever. It had sunk so low that they were all standing in the water, and they expected it would shortly break to pieces and precipitate them all into the river. There were four of them upon the cake, besides the dog. The two youngest boys began to cry with fright; but Oscar and Alfred, though they were as much alarmed as the others, did not manifest it in this way, but were looking anxiously towards the bridge and the shore for relief. The boys were not long kept in this dreadful state of suspense; for pretty soon they discovered a boat putting out towards them from the end of the bridge. There were two men in it, each of whom was plying an oar. They called out to the boys not to be frightened, and in a few minutes they were alongside the fugitive ice-cake, whose living freight was safely transferred to the boat. The boatmen then pulled for the wharf from which they came, and the rescued party had the pleasure of standing once more upon firm ground. They were so overjoyed at their escape that they forgot to thank the men who had taken so much trouble to rescue them. They were not ungrateful however; though it would have been better if their words as well as their looks had expressed the sentiment they felt. As soon as they reached the wharf, the men advised them to run home and dry themselves, which they proceeded to do. When Oscar reached home, he was so hoarse, from hallooing, that he could not speak aloud. When his mother heard of his exposure, and saw how wet he was, she was much concerned for him. She wished him to change his damp clothing, but he did not think it necessary, and instead of complying with her desire, he sat down to the fire and dried himself. He had but little appetite for supper; and a headache coming on in the evening, he retired to bed early. Before dong so, however, he took a dose of medicine which his mother had prepared, to "throw off" his cold. After a feverish and restless night--in which, in his troubled dreams, Oscar had floated to sea upon a small piece of ice, and, after a long agony, foundered alone in fathomless waters--he awoke in the morning feeling very strangely. Every few moments a cold chill ran through his body, that made him shiver until the bed trembled beneath him. His head ached badly, and there was also a pain in his back. He tried to raise himself up, but his arms had lost their strength, and he was barely able to support himself a moment upon his elbow. By-and-bye his brothers, who slept in the same room in another bed, got up, and Oscar informed them that he was too weak to get off the bed. They soon called in their father and mother, who, after looking at the sick boy, concluded to send for a physician. After breakfast, Ralph was despatched for the doctor, who soon arrived, and was conducted into Oscar's chamber. Seating himself upon the bedside, he took the sick boy's wrist into his hand, and began to talk with him very pleasantly, asking him various questions about his feelings, the manner in which he took cold, &c. Having ascertained all the facts and symptoms of the case, he told the family he thought Oscar was suffering from an attack of lung fever, and he then gave directions as to the manner in which the disease should be treated. He also wrote a recipe for some medicine, to be procured at the apothecary's. The terms used in it were Latin, and very much abbreviated, besides, so that they were unintelligible to Mrs. Preston; for this is a custom among physicians, that has come down from ancient times. Seeing Mrs. Preston was in some doubt about the prescription, he explained to her what the articles were that composed it, and the effect they would have upon the patient. After the doctor had gone, it was decided to remove Oscar into another chamber, in a lower story, where he would be more comfortable, and where, also, it would be more convenient to wait upon him. Wrapping him up warmly in the bed-clothes, his father took him in his arms, and carried him to the room he was to occupy for the present. In spite of his medicine, Oscar continued to grow worse, through the day. He longed for night to come, that he might go to sleep; but when it came, it did not bring with it the refreshing slumber of health. Short naps and troubled dreams alternated with long, weary hours of wakefulness; and the sun, at its next rising, found him sicker than before. The pains in his head and chest were more severe; his skin was hot and dry; his cheeks were flushed with fever; he breathed with difficulty, and his cough had become quite distressing. He felt cross and fretful, too, and nothing that was done for him seemed to give him satisfaction. He was unwilling that any one should attend upon him, except his mother, and refused to receive his food or medicine from any hand but hers. If she happened to be absent from his room more than a few moments, when he was awake, he would insist upon her being called back. But though Oscar would not allow his mother to leave him, she did not suit him much better than the other members of the family. It was with considerable difficulty that she could coax him to take the medicines the doctor had ordered. Then she was obliged to deny him all forms of nourishment, except a little gum-arabic water,--an arrangement at which he complained a good deal. Oscar's fever continued to run for more than a week, the violence of the disease increasing from day to day. Then a favorable change took place, and the doctor told him the fever had turned, and he was getting better. For a day or two before this, however, he was very ill; so ill, indeed, that he submitted to whatever the doctor ordered, without a word of complaint. He felt that there was danger, and he dare not stand in the way of the means used for his recovery. To this, perhaps, he owed the favorable turn the disease had taken; for had he refused to take his medicines, as he did at the commencement of his sickness, or even had he only engaged in a fruitless but exhausting contest with his mother, the scale might have turned the other way, and the fever ended in death. Getting better! That was the best news Oscar had heard for many a day. He almost wanted to kiss the lips that spoke those encouraging words. He always liked Dr. Liscom, but never so well as at that moment. It was good news to all the household, too, and flew quickly from one to another. In fact, the children grew so jubilant over it, that their mother had to remind them that Oscar was yet too sick to bear any noise in the house. "O dear," said George, "I 've got tired of keeping so still. How long will it be before we can make a real good noise, mother?" "And how long before I can sing, and practice my music-lessons, mother?" inquired Ella. "And how long before Oscar can go out and play?" inquired Ralph, more thoughtful for his sick brother than for himself. "I can't tell," replied their mother; "you must all keep still a few days longer, for Oscar is very weak now, and the noise disturbs him. The doctor thinks it will take several weeks for him to get fully well, but he will soon be able to sit up, I hope." The next morning, Oscar felt decidedly better, and so he continued to improve day by day. But his old impatience soon began to return. He grumbled every time the hour returned to take his drops, and he fairly rebelled against the food that was prepared for him--a little weak gruel, when his appetite was clamoring for a hearty meal of beef and potatoes! During his sickness, many little delicacies had been sent in to him by friends and neighbors, and from most of these too he was still debarred by the inexorable doctor. He teased his mother to let him have things the doctor had forbidden, and was offended with her when she refused. He thus made a great deal of unnecessary trouble and suffering for his mother, who had served him so devotedly through this sickness that her own health was giving way. A day or two after his fever turned, Oscar wished to sit up in a chair, and begged very hard to be allowed to get up from the bed. "Why, Oscar," said his mother, "you could not sit up two minutes, if I should put you in a chair. You have no idea how weak you are." "No, I aint weak," replied Oscar; "I bet you I can walk across the room just as well as you can--you don't know how strong I 've grown within a day or two. Come, mother, do let me get up, will you?" "You are crazy to talk so, my son," answered Mrs. Preston. "If you should try to stand up, you would faint away as dead as a log. It will be a week before you are strong enough to walk about." "I believe you mean to keep me sick as long as you can," was Oscar's unfeeling reply. "I am tired almost to death of laying a-bed," he added, and the tears began to gather in his eyes. His mother felt hurt by these words, but she attributed them to the weakening and irritating influence of disease, and forgave them as quickly as they were uttered. She even yielded to his wishes so far as to offer to let him sit up in bed a little while. He gladly acceded to the proposal, and putting his arms around her neck, she slowly raised him up; but he had no sooner reached an upright position than his head began to "fly round like a top," and he was very glad to be let down again to his pillow. This little experiment satisfied him for the day. It was a fine April morning when Oscar was first taken up from his sick bed, and placed in an easy chair, well lined with blankets and comforters. This was a memorable event in his life, the first time he sat up after nearly three weeks' confinement to his bed. He was dragged to the front window, from which he could see the people upon the street below. How familiar, and yet how strange, everything and everybody looked to his sick eyes! And then, to have his toast and drink set before him upon a corner of the table, where he could help himself, and eat and drink with some comfort,--was n't that "grand," to use his own expressive term! Oscar's recovery was now pretty rapid, but his mother had to watch him very sharply, to prevent him from running into excesses, to which his impatience continually prompted him. It was hard to make him realize that there was yet some danger of a relapse, and that prudence would be necessary for several weeks to come. CHAPTER XIII. GETTING WELL. Oscar had reason to remember the first time he went down stairs, after his fit of sickness. It was in the night-time. He awoke, feeling quite hungry; for he was yet kept on a spare diet, which was far from satisfying the cravings of his appetite. He was alone in his room, and all the rest of the family were asleep. A lamp was burning dimly in the fire-place of his chamber, and the door that led into his mother's room was open, that she might be ready, at the least sound of alarm. After thinking the matter over a few minutes, and satisfying himself that no one in the house was awake, he determined to go down stairs in quest of something to eat. "What is the use of starving a fellow to death, because he has been sick!" he said to himself. "I might as well die one way as another; and if there 's anything to eat in the house, I'm bound to have it. I 've lived on slops and toasted bread three weeks, and I can't stand it any longer." He accordingly got up, and taking the lamp, stole very cautiously into the entry, and down stairs, having nothing but his night-clothes upon him. The snapping of the stairs, under his tread, was the only noise that was heard, and this did not awake any of the household. He proceeded at once to the kitchen closet, and commenced helping himself with a free hand to its contents. He began upon a dish of corned beef and vegetables, from which he partook quite liberally. He then hastily swallowed a piece of mince-pie, and a slice or two of cake, when, the night air beginning to feel chilly, he hurried back to bed. This last operation was by no means so easy as he had imagined it would be. His knees were very weak and "shaky," and it seemed as though they could not support him, when he undertook to go up stairs. He was alarmed, and would have given up the attempt, and called for help, but for the dread of being caught in such a flagrant act of disobedience. So he persisted in his efforts, and finally reached his chamber, quite exhausted. After a heavy and troubled sleep, Oscar awoke in the morning, feeling quite wretchedly. As soon as his mother entered the room, her quick eye detected the unfavorable change; but he did not seem inclined to complain much of his feelings, and appeared averse to conversing about them. She ascertained, however, after awhile, that Oscar was more feverish than he had been, that he had a severe pain in his chest, and that his cough was worse. Many were the surmises thrown out, by his father and mother, as to the probable cause of this change in his symptoms; but as for himself, he seemed entirely at a loss to account for the mystery, and left them to form their own conjectures. The doctor, who now visited Oscar only two or three times a week, was sent for after breakfast. When he arrived, he questioned Mrs. Preston very closely as to the manner in which the patient had been treated, and he also addressed many inquiries to Oscar; but he learned nothing from either that could account for the renewed attack of fever. He sat a few moments, in a thoughtful mood, seemingly at a loss what to say, when Oscar, who had complained much of nausea for the last half hour, began to show symptoms of vomiting. A basin was brought, and the contents of his stomach were quickly discharged into it. The mystery was now explained. Mrs. Preston looked on in silent astonishment, while the doctor could hardly repress his anger at this exhibition of the contents of his patient's stomach. There were great pieces of unmasticated meat and potato, mixed up with a porridge of half-dissolved pie and cake, the whole forming a medley of hearty and indigestible substances, that would have taxed the strong stomach of a healthy man. "Well," said the doctor, turning to Mrs. Preston, when Oscar got through, "what does all this mean?" "I know not; you must ask him," replied Mrs. Preston. The same question, put to Oscar, brought from him a reluctant confession of the last night's folly. When he had concluded, the doctor arose, and taking his hand, said: "I will bid you good-bye. It's of no use for me to attend upon you any longer, if you abuse my confidence in this way. If you want to kill yourself I won't stand in your way. Good morning." Before Oscar recovered from his astonishment, the doctor had reached the entry. Addressing his mother who was following him, he said: "Call him back, mother--tell him I won't do so again--call him back." The doctor heard the message, and returned. "I will consent to prescribe for you only on one condition," he said; "and that is, that you will agree to do precisely as I tell you to. You must take the medicines I order, and eat only what I tell you to, or I will have nothing more to do with you. Do you agree to that?" "Yes, sir," replied Oscar. The doctor resumed his seat, and felt the patient's pulse. He had not yet got entirely over his irritation, and, turning to Mrs. Preston, he remarked: "If the patient was a little stronger, my first prescription would be a smart external application of birch or ratan; but, as it is, we shall have to omit that for the present. You need not think you will escape punishment, however," he continued, turning to Oscar. "This scrape of yours will put you back more than one week and if you are not careful you may never get your health again. You may trifle with the doctor, but you can't trifle with the lung fever." The doctor then gave directions as to Oscar's diet and medicine, and departed, but not until he had again warned him against leaving the room without his mother's consent, or eating any articles forbidden by her. Oscar found no opportunity after this to evade the commands of the doctor, had he been so disposed, for some one was always with him by day and night. Still, his recovery seemed to have been checked very much by his relapse, and the doctor's skill was taxed pretty severely to bring the fever to a favorable termination. As it was, his attempt was not fully successful; for the fever, in spite of all he could do, left behind it a cough, and a weakness of the lungs, which gave Oscar's parents no little alarm at times. For a fortnight after his midnight supper, Oscar allowed his mother and the doctor to do just as they pleased with him. He yielded to their wishes, and their orders were law to him. At the end of that time the doctor discontinued his regular visits. Oscar was now able to go out-doors a little in very pleasant weather; but his cough rendered prudence still very necessary. His confinement, however, was daily growing more irksome, and sometimes he disregarded the positive commands of his parents by going out when the weather was unsuitable. One morning, a menagerie, or collection of wild beasts, was to enter the city in grand procession. There were to be several elephants and camels on foot, besides hundreds of other animals (invisible) in carriages. There was also to be a mammoth gilt chariot, filled with musicians, and drawn by ever so many horses. The procession was to pass very near the street where Oscar lived, and he intended to go and see it; but when the morning came, there was a cold, drizzling rain, with an uncomfortable east wind, and his mother told him he must not think of going out. He did think of it, however, and not only thought of it, but went. While his mother was up stairs, he quietly slipped out, and went to the corner the procession was expected to pass. There he waited about an hour, until he became thoroughly wet and chilled, and then returned home, without seeing the sight; for the showmen had shortened their intended route on account of the storm. He entered the house, vexed by his disappointment and the uncomfortable plight he was in; and when his mother mildly reproved him for his conduct, and entreated him to be more careful of himself, he only replied that he did not wish to live, if he must be shut up in the house all the time. This act of imprudence and disobedience made him a close prisoner in the house for several days, besides causing him no little suffering. Oscar employed much of his leisure time in reading, during his confinement in-doors. His acquaintances lent him many interesting books, with which he beguiled the weary hours. One day, happening to think of a volume belonging to his classmate, Benjamin Wright, which he thought he should like to read, he sent word by Ralph that he wished to borrow it. The next morning Benjamin brought it to school, and Ralph took it home to Oscar. On removing the paper in which it was wrapped up, a letter dropped out, which Oscar found was directed to himself. He opened it, and a smile lit up his countenance as he glanced over the sheet, which was filled up with drawings and writing of an amusing character. Benjamin was quite famous among the boys for the skill and facility with which he made sketches, and in this letter he had given a curious specimen of his artistic talent. The following is a copy of this production: DEAR OSCAR: I am sorry to hear you 're in weakness and pain, And I send you a book to beguile your tired brain; I send also some puzzles, to stir up your wit, And tempt you to laugh, when you really don't feel like it one bit! [Illustration: A Queer Name.] What a queer name! What do we all do when we first get into bed? Why is swearing like an old coat? What is that which is lengthened by being cut at both ends? My first, if you do, you won't hit; My second, if you do, you will have it; My whole, if you do, you won't guess it. [Illustration: The Double Face.] Turn me over, pray. A word there is, five syllables contains; Take one away, no syllable remains. What is that which is lower with a head than without one? Who was the first whistler? What tune did he whistle? How do you swallow a door? What is that which lives in winter, dies in summer, and grows with its root upwards? If you were to tumble out of the window, what would you fall against? [Illustration: The Cat-Erect.] Why is this like the Falls of Niagara? If my puzzles are simple, and my pictures a fright, Then just laugh at me, and it will all B. WRIGHT. This letter was the prime source of attraction to all the children, the rest of the day; and its reception formed an era in Oscar's sick-day experience, not easily to be forgotten. All the family, from Mr. Preston down to little George, set themselves to work to guess out the riddles; but in some of them, they found more than their match. To Oscar, however, the letter was something more than a collection of drawings and puzzles. It was a token of interest and sympathy from a boy towards whom he had never manifested a very friendly spirit. Benjamin's high standing in the school, both for scholarship and behavior, had awakened in Oscar a secret feeling of jealousy or resentment towards him. He was a poor boy, too, and this by no means increased Oscar's respect for him. But now, Oscar began to feel ashamed of all this; and as instances of his unkind treatment of his generous classmate came up in remembrance, he wished he had the power to blot them from existence. He determined thenceforth to "stand up" for Benjamin, and began to plan some way of making a return for his manifestation of good feeling. Ella wanted to carry Benjamin's letter to school, to show to the girls, but Oscar would not allow it to go out of his hands. She then begged the privilege of copying it, to which he consented. She did the best she could, no doubt, but her drawings probably did not quite do justice to the subjects; for Oscar declared that her copy was more comical than the original. She lent it to some of her schoolmates, one of whom was roguish enough to show it to Benjamin himself! He laughed heartily at the caricature; but thinking it was getting him rather more notoriety than he wished, he put it in his pocket, and that was the end of it. In consequence of his many acts of imprudence, Oscar got along very slowly in his recovery. Yet he was daily growing more impatient of his long confinement, and the utmost vigilance of his parents was necessary to restrain him from doing himself harm. During stormy weather, which was not rare at that season of the year, he was not allowed to go out, and the time passed heavily with him. One rainy afternoon, as he was sitting listlessly at a front window, watching for some object of interest to pass, a coach stopped at the door, and his heart beat high at the thought of his dulness being dispelled by the arrival of "company." The driver opened the coach door, and out jumped a stout, brown-faced man, whom Oscar at once recognized as his uncle, John Preston, from Maine. The arrival of Uncle John was soon heralded through the house, and a warm greeting extended to him. He usually visited the city thrice a year on business, and on such occasions made his brother's house his stopping-place. He lived in the town of Brookdale, where he had a family; but he was engaged in the lumber business, and generally spent the winter months in the forests of Maine, with large gangs of loggers, who were employed to cut down trees, and convey them to the banks of the streams, where they were floated down to the mills in the spring freshets. These forests are far from any settlement, and the lumber-men live in log-huts, in a very independent and care-for-nobody sort of way. Oscar had often heard his uncle describe their manner of life, and, to him, there was something quite fascinating about it. He thought he should like the logging business very much--all but the _working_ part of it; he was afraid that would spoil the whole, for his Uncle John always represented it as being pretty hard work. Oscar had four cousins in Brookdale, the children of his Uncle John, none of whom he had ever seen. He had many questions to ask about them, in the course of which he expressed a wish that he might visit them. His uncle replied that he should like to take him home with him, and, as he was sick, he thought the journey might do him good. He afterwards talked with Oscar's parents about the matter, and they finally concluded to let him go, hoping that a few weeks in the country would improve his health. NOTE.--The following are the solutions of the puzzles, &c., in Benjamin's letter, contained in this chapter. The first puzzle is the name of Oscar Preston, enigmatically expressed. 2. Make an impression. 3. It is a bad habit. 4. A ditch. 5. Mistake. 6. Monosyllable. 7. A pillow. 8. The wind. 9. "Over the hills and far away." 10. Bolt it. 11. An icicle. 12. Against your inclination. 13. It is a cataract (cat erect). CHAPTER XIV. THE JOURNEY. Oscar's valise was well packed for his journey, and many were the injunctions given him by his mother, in regard to his conduct during his absence from home. The morning for his departure soon came, and, in company with his uncle, he proceeded to the depôt, and took the cars for Portland. It was a mild spring morning, near the close of May. Oscar secured a seat by a window, from which he could see the country they passed through; while his uncle, to whom the journey was no novelty, seated himself by his side, and was soon absorbed in his morning newspaper. The keen relish with which Oscar set out upon his long ride gradually wore off, and he began to feel weary long before the train reached its destination. It was just noon when they arrived at Portland; and as it was too late to reach Brookdale that day, Oscar's uncle concluded to stop there until the next morning. They proceeded to a hotel, where they booked their names, and were shown to a chamber. After dinner, Mr. Preston took Oscar to walk, and showed him some of the most notable places about town. But the latter felt too tired to walk about a great deal, and spent most of the afternoon in the hotel, while his uncle was off attending to some business. After supper, Mr. Preston again went out to make some calls. He invited Oscar to go with him, but he preferred to remain in the hotel. He lounged awhile in the bar-room, as it was called (though there was no bar in it), listening to the conversation of the men who had gathered there. At length, beginning to grow sleepy, he retired to his chamber, taking with him a queer little lamp the landlord gave him, which appeared to hold only about a thimblefull of oil. Oscar thought it was a stingy contrivance, and had some notion of sitting up to see how long it would burn; but his eyelids grew heavy, and he gave up the idea. Throwing off his clothing, he extinguished his diminutive lamp, and took possession of one of the beds in the room, of which there were two. As he composed himself to sleep, a slight sense of lonesomeness stole over him, when he remembered that he was alone in a strange house and a strange city, more than a hundred miles from his home; and almost unconsciously he found himself reverently repeating the little prayer he had been taught by his mother in infancy, but which of late years, in his sad waywardness, he had outgrown and almost forgotten: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take." He had occasionally repeated to himself this simple but appropriate evening petition during his late illness; but, strange to tell, for several years previous to that time, the thought of asking anything of the great Giver of all good had scarcely ever entered his mind. Oscar was soon fast asleep, and the next thing he was conscious of was the striking of a strange church-clock, that awoke him in the morning. His uncle was dressing himself, and the sun was shining in at the window. For a moment, he was puzzled to determine where he was; but his recollection returned when his uncle remarked: "Come, Oscar, it is time to get up,--we have got to be at the depôt in an hour." Oscar jumped out of bed, and was dressed and ready for the breakfast table before the bell rang. After the morning meal was despatched,--for it was literally a work of despatch, judging from the celerity with which the heaping plates of hot biscuits and beef-steak disappeared from the long table,--Mr. Preston settled with the landlord, and proceeded with Oscar to the railroad depôt. "How much further have we got to go?" inquired Oscar, after they had taken their seat in the car. "About one hundred and twenty miles," replied his uncle; "and thirty-five of it will be in a stage-coach--that is the worst of the whole journey." "I shall like that part of it first-rate, I guess," said Oscar. "If they have good horses, I know I shall." "You will find out how you like it, before night," added Mr. Preston, with a smile. The cars were soon on their way, and Oscar's eyes and attention were fully engaged in taking note of the scenery from the windows. The appearance of the country did not differ much from that through which he passed the day previous; and long before he reached the end of his eighty-miles' ride, his attention began to flag, and his eyes to grow weary. It was about eleven o'clock, when they arrived at the depôt at which they were to leave the train. Here they had an opportunity to rest an hour, and to take dinner, before resuming their journey. After dinner, the stage-coach made its appearance, and the passengers began to stow themselves away within it, Oscar mounted the outside, and took a seat with the driver, with whom he was soon on intimate terms. All things being ready, the horses started, at the familiar "Get up!" and they were on their way toward Brookdale. The horses did not prove quite so smart as Oscar hoped they would, and the coach was a heavy and hard-riding concern, compared with those he was accustomed to ride upon at home. But the road was good, though hilly, and the scenery, much of the way, was very pleasant. The driver, too, was quite talkative, and Oscar being the only outside passenger, enjoyed the full benefit of his communicativeness. Occasionally they passed through a village, with its rows of neat white houses, its tall church steeple, its bustling store, and its groups of children playing in the streets. Now and then they stopped a few moments, to leave a passenger, a package, or a mail-bag; for the strong leathern bags, with brass padlocks, which the driver had carefully packed away under his box, contained the United States' mails for the towns along his route. As they advanced on their way, the villages became less frequent, the farm houses were more scattering, and the country grew more wild. Sometimes the road extended for miles through thickly-wooded forests. Occasionally they would come in sight of a river, and, perhaps, would hear the clatter and whizzing of a saw-mill, or get a glimpse of a raft of logs floating lazily down the stream. It was about six o'clock when the stage stopped at the post-office of a small settlement, and the driver told Oscar he was going to leave him there. His seat had grown tiresome, during the last few hours, and he was by no means sorry to leave it. "Well, Jerry, here I am again," said Mr. Preston, addressing a boy who stood by. "How are all the folks at home?" "They are well," replied the boy addressed. "This way Oscar," said Mr. Preston, pointing to a horse and wagon on the opposite side of the street. "Oscar, this is your cousin Jerry," he continued, and the boys shook hands with each other, in acknowledgment of the introduction. Oscar now learned that they were yet five miles from Brookdale, and that as the stage did not pass any nearer to his uncle's, Jerry had come over with a horse to take his father home. There being but one seat to the wagon, Mr. Preston and Oscar took possession of it, while Jerry seated himself on the floor behind them. While on the way to Brookdale, Oscar addressed several remarks to his cousin; but the latter seemed shy, and they did not get acquainted with each other very fast. They passed but very few houses, and Oscar looked in vain for any signs of a village. At length, when he thought they could not be far from their journey's end, he inquired: "Where is the village, uncle John? Shan't we see any of it, going to your house?" "This is the village," replied Mr. Preston. "This a village!" exclaimed Oscar; "why, I don't see any houses." "This is all the village there is," replied his uncle; "there are hardly any two houses in sight of each other in the town." They were now approaching an old, two-story farmhouse, in the doorway of which a woman and several children were standing, looking towards them. This proved to be the end of their journey. Having driven the wagon into the large barn which stood nearly opposite the house, Mr. Preston left Jerry to put up the horse, and proceeded at once to the house with his nephew. Mrs. Preston had seen Oscar in Boston, and came out to meet him. She welcomed him very cordially, and inquired after all the other members of the family. She then introduced him to his three other cousins, Emily, Harriet, and Mary, all of whom were younger than Jerry, and quite as shy and silent as he, at the presence of a stranger. Supper was now ready, and all the family, including James, the hired man, seated themselves at the table. Mr. Preston, during the meal, talked freely of what he had seen and done since he left home; but the children maintained their gravity and silence, though Oscar tried hard to break the ice of restraint with Jerry, who sat by his side. A strange face was an unusual thing among them, and they could not get over it in a moment. After supper, Mrs. Preston and her oldest daughter cleared off the table and washed the dishes; James and Jerry went out to the barn; Mr. Preston sat down to a table to examine some papers he had in his pocket-book; while Harriet and Mary remained, to keep Oscar company. The latter now began to make advances towards his youngest cousin, who was the prettiest and most interesting of the children. A little coaxing brought her to his side. "Do you know what my name is, Sissy?" he inquired. "Yes; it's Oscar," she replied. "Oscar what?" he inquired. "Cousin Oscar," she answered, after a little hesitation. "Yes, but that is n't all of it," replied Oscar; "don't you know the other part of it--Cousin Oscar----what?" Mary looked thoughtful a moment, and then replied, in a confident tone, "Boston." Oscar could not help laughing at this amusing mistake, and Mary, feeling hurt at the liberty he took, began to move away; but he held her by the hand, saying: "No, don't go yet, Sissy--you got my name almost right, after all. Cousin Oscar Preston, from Boston,--that was what you meant to say, was n't it?" "Yes," replied Mary. "Now tell me what your name is?" continued Oscar. "Mary Preston," she replied. "And how old are you?" "I 'm going to be six next winter," she answered, with animation. "Very well,--you 're a smart little girl," replied Oscar. "How old be you?" inquired Mary, now turning the table upon her questioner. "I 'm fourteen," said Oscar. "You 're a smart little boy," added Mary, with a roguish twinkle in her eye, and she darted out of the room with a merry laugh. After that, there was no more shyness between Mary and Oscar. With the older children, however, Oscar did not get acquainted quite so easily, particularly with the girls. He made but little progress with any of them that evening, until he retired with Jerry, with whom he was to sleep during his visit. After they had got into bed, Jerry's tongue was loosed, and before they went to sleep his reserve had almost entirely vanished. CHAPTER XV. BROOKDALE. The next morning the air was extremely raw and chilly, and there were strong indications of rain. Oscar's uncle and aunt advised him so earnestly not to expose himself to the cold and damp wind, that he did not extend his rambles any further than to the barn that day. But if he did not go far, he made many new acquaintances. Having made sure of Jerry and Mary, he left his other two cousins to "surrender at discretion," and turned his attention in another direction. His first performance was to introduce himself to Billy, the horse, who was eating the breakfast James had just given him. After rubbing and talking to him awhile, he paid his respects to a pair of oxen and three or four cows, which he helped James and Jerry to drive into the pasture near the barn. He next visited the hogs, and then the hens. This completed the list of life stock on the farm. He then had a frolic with Jerry in the hay-loft, in the midst of which he suddenly stopped and inquired: "Is n't it almost time for you to go to school, Jerry?" "No," his cousin replied, with a laugh, "it wants just six months of it." "Six months!" exclaimed Oscar; "what do you mean? Don't you go to school?" "Yes, I go when there is any school; but it does n't commence till next December," replied Jerry. "That's a queer idea," said Oscar; "I should like to know how long your school keeps, after it begins." "It keeps three months," replied Jerry. "I should like that first-rate--I wish I lived here," said Oscar; "I have to go to school all the time. But why does n't your school keep more than three months?" "I don't know," replied Jerry; "I guess it's because folks are too stingy to pay for it. They 've been talking of having a summer school, but I don't believe it will amount to anything." "I should hope it would n't if I lived here," said Oscar. "What capital times you must have!--no school to bother you, and no lessons to get. But I suppose you have to work some--don't you?" "No, not much," said Jerry; "I help a little in planting and haying time, and have a few chores to do about the house,--that's all." "Do you have many boys to play with?" inquired Oscar. "There are boys enough," replied his cousin, "but they are scattered all over town,--that's the worst of it. There is only one fellow of my age that lives near here, and he's half a mile off." "If you call that near, I should like to know what you call distant," said Oscar. "I 'm afraid I should be lonesome if I lived here." "Halloo, it rains!" said Jerry, as the big drops began to sound upon the roof over their heads. "Then I 'm going in," added Oscar, and they both started for the house. It proved to be a rainy day, and Oscar was obliged to find his amusement in-doors through its remaining hours. With his four cousins to help him, this was not a very difficult matter. When he retired at night, he felt quite at home in his new quarters. The sun rose clearly the next morning, and everything looked the more beautiful for the rain. To Oscar, the fields not only seemed greener, but the hills looked higher, and the trees more majestic, than they did the day before. "Why," he exclaimed, as he stood before the chamber window, "there is a pond away off there, is n't there? I did n't know that before." "Yes, that's a pond," replied Jerry, "and we 've got a small river, too, but you can't see it from here. We 'll go over to the pond, some warm day, and go into water; it's a real good place to bathe." "Perhaps we 'll go to-day," said Oscar; "it looks as though it were going to be real warm." Mrs. Preston now called to the boys that breakfast was ready, and they hurriedly finished dressing themselves, and descended to the kitchen. Having washed his face at the sink, Oscar stepped to the door, and used his pocket-comb; but Jerry was in too great a hurry to go through this last operation, and he was about taking his seat at the table, with his hair standing up in every direction, when his father inquired: "Jerry, what have you been doing to your head?" "Nothing," replied Jerry, with a look of surprise. "Well, I think you had better do something to it, before you come here," said his father. "Oscar will think you were brought up among the wild Arabs, if you come to the table with such a mop of hair as that about your head. Don't you see how nicely he has smoothed his hair?" "He's got a comb of his own. I wish you would buy me one, father," said Jerry. "Don't stand there talking--go and comb your hair," said Mr. Preston, somewhat sharply. To tell the truth, Jerry did need a lesson in neatness; and in this respect, Oscar was a very good model for him to imitate. Having reduced his snarly locks to something like order and smoothness, Jerry took his seat at the table, much improved in appearance. "You 'll have a chance to go about some to-day, Oscar," said Mr. Preston; "it's about twenty-five degrees warmer than it was yesterday." "Father," said Jerry, "I and Oscar--" "I and Oscar--where did you learn your manners?" interrupted his mother. Jerry was for a moment in doubt whether to be offended or not at this second unexpected lesson in good-breeding; but he finally concluded to make the best of it, and went on with his story: "Oscar and I, then--were going over to the pond this forenoon, and I guess it will be warm enough for us to go into water. Should n't you think it would?" "No, indeed," replied Mr. Preston, "you mustn't think of such a thing. It's only the first of June, and you ought not to go into water for two or three weeks yet. Besides, Oscar 's an invalid, and I should n't like to have him go in, even if it was warm enough for you. I would n't walk about much, either, at first," he continued, addressing Oscar. "You 're weak, and must look out, and not overdo yourself. This afternoon, when the horse is at leisure, Jerry shall give you a ride; so you had better not go far this forenoon." The river of which Jerry spoke is a small stream that has its source in the lake Oscar saw from the chamber window. It flows in a south-westerly direction, crossing the road on which Mr. Preston lived, not far from his house. A small bridge is thrown over the river at this point. After breakfast, Jerry and Oscar walked down to this bridge, and then, leaving the road, followed the river through the fields and woods, to its fountain-head. Here they found a beautiful sheet of water, more than half a mile across, in one direction, with an irregular shore, fringed most of the way with woods. A two-masted sail-boat was riding at anchor, a little off from the shore, which Oscar regarded with wishful eye; but as it did not belong to Mr. Preston, and they could not reach it without going into the water, it was of no use to think of taking a sail. They now walked along the edge of the pond, some distance, and after wandering some time in the woods, they returned home by a circuitous route. The annexed map of Brookdale will show the location of the pond, river, &c. Jerry lived in the house numbered 2. [Illustration: Map of Brookdale.] Oscar and Jerry spent the rest of the forenoon in the barn and wood-shed, and in the fields immediately around the house. After dinner, Mr. Preston told the boys they could have the horse and wagon, and as the family wanted some groceries, they might ride over to the store and get them. They accordingly tackled up the team, and were soon on their way. The store at which Mr. Preston traded was at the village where the stage left Oscar, which goes by the name of the "Cross-Roads," from the fact that two of the principal thoroughfares of that section of country cross at this point. Though this store was about five miles distant, there was no other one nearer to Mr. Preston's. The boys had a fine ride over to the village. Oscar drove, and was quite anxious to put Billy to a test of his speed; but as his uncle told them not to hurry, because the horse had been worked some in the forenoon, he did not dare to make any experiment of this kind. Jerry assured him, however, that he once drove Billy over to the Cross-Roads in just twenty minutes, which was the quickest time he had ever been known to make. He thought this a remarkable feat; but Oscar did not seem much astonished at it, and said he knew of horses that could go a mile in three minutes, and even in less time if the road was smooth and level. After riding about three-quarters of an hour, they arrived at the Cross-Roads, and drove up to a post and chain for tying horses in front of the store. The store was kept in a large wooden building. Over the door was the sign, "J. FLETCHER, VARIETY STORE;" and the shutters were covered with columns of names of articles sold within, such as "Bacon," "Cheese," "Flour," "Grain," "Shoes," "Dry Goods," &c. Another sign in one of the windows indicated that this was also the post-office of the village. The boys went into the store, and while Jerry was ordering the articles his mother had sent for, Oscar improved the opportunity to look around the premises. It was to him a queer assortment of goods. There seemed to be a little of everything for sale. Here you could buy of one salesman articles that you could obtain in Boston only by visiting a dozen different shops. Groceries and dry goods, country produce and hardware, boots, shoes, and hats, confectionary and fancy articles, stoves and children's toys, were in most neighborly companionship. Before leaving the store, Oscar invested a few cents in candy and cigars; for his father had given him a little spare change beyond what was necessary to defray the expenses of the journey. He shared the candy with Jerry, and put the cigars in his pocket for future use. Jerry having finished his business at the store, they set out on their return, and arrived home in safety and without meeting with any remarkable adventure. The boys employed themselves the rest of the afternoon in planning excursions and amusements, and before they got through, they had laid out "fun" enough to occupy them for several days. The evenings were now quite short, and as it was the custom to retire to bed early at Mr. Preston's, it frequently happened that no lamps were lit in the house for several days in succession. As twilight came on that evening, Oscar, who began to feel pretty tired, laid down upon the sofa in the sitting-room, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. Jerry got a straw, and was about to tickle his ear, when his mother stopped him. Oscar's nap, however, was a short one, and suddenly waking up, he began to laugh. "I guess you had a pleasant dream," said his aunt. "I had a real funny one," replied Oscar. "I thought you sent me over to the store to get some things, and when I got there, I had them all jumbled together in my head, and I told the man I wanted a yard of molasses, and a pound of calico, and a gallon of shingle-nails, and I did n't know what else. And I thought the man laughed, and asked me if I would take them loose, or have them done up in a rag. Then another boy that was in the store set up a loud laugh, and that woke me up. I wonder how long I slept--do you know, aunt?" "Only two or three minutes," replied Mrs. Preston. "I was real smart, then," replied Oscar; "for you gave me my errand, and I harnessed the horse and drove away over to the Cross-Roads, and went through the scene in the store, and woke up again, all in two or three minutes. I thought I 'd been asleep half an hour." "I should think you 'd dream about the store," said Jerry; "you 've made fun enough about it, if that 's all." "Well, I 'll leave it to aunt if it is n't odd to see such a queer lot of stuff in one store; I 've heard about country stores, but I never saw one that would come up to that before. It is almost equal to going into a fair, to go in there. There was everything you could think of, from a grindstone to a pop-gun." "There is n't business enough to support more than one trader, and that is the reason why Mr. Fletcher keeps such a variety," said Mrs. Preston. "I know that," said Oscar, "and I suppose the folks are glad to have him keep all sorts of knick-knacks; but it seems queer to me, to see groceries and dry goods, and everything else, in the same shop." "Did you see any babies there?" inquired little Mary, who was amusing herself by walking around the room backwards. "What sort of babies--live ones, or rag ones, or wax ones?" inquired Oscar. "No, none of them," replied Mary; "I mean crying babies, like Annie Davenport's." "O, you mean those little dolls that make a squeaking noise when you squeeze them. No, I believe I did n't see any," said Oscar. "No, Mr. Fletcher would n't keep such silly things as them," said Jerry, who was very fond of teasing his sisters. "No, they aint silly, either, are they cousin Oscar?" said Mary. "No," replied Oscar, "seeing it's you, they aint silly." Mary was continuing her backward walk around the room, and was just at that moment passing before Jerry, when he suddenly put out his foot, and stumbling over it, she fell heavily upon the floor, striking her head against a corner of the sofa. A loud scream immediately followed this mishap, and as the author of it hastened to raise up his sister, he was himself a little frightened; but seeing no blood flowing from her head, he concluded she was "more scared than hurt," and tried to turn the affair into a joke, saying: "There, sis, you're a little crying baby yourself, now. Come, stop your noise; you 've blubbered enough about it. It didn't hurt you, did it?" "Come here, dear, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Preston, who had left the room a moment before, and hurried back on hearing Mary scream. "Jerry knocked me over," said Mary, sobbing bitterly, as her mother lifted her up into her lap. "Where did it hurt you, dear?--there? Well, let mother rub it, and it will feel better soon. Jerry is a naughty boy to do so. Why need you torment your little sister so?" Mrs. Preston added, turning to Jerry. Mr. Preston, who had been sitting upon the door-step, smoking his pipe, as was his custom in the evening, came in, on hearing the uproar; and having ascertained what the trouble was, he boxed Jerry's ears pretty severely, and sent him off to bed. Oscar soon followed him; but Jerry was so mortified at the rough handling he had received, that he scarcely spoke again that night. CHAPTER XVI. IN THE WOODS. It was soon evident that the air of Brookdale agreed with Oscar. He was fast gaining his strength, and the increased fulness and color of his countenance betokened returning health. No part of this improvement was to be attributed to the bottle of cough drops his mother packed away in the bottom of his valise, and charged him to take every morning and night; for the drops were not very palatable, and he had not opened the bottle since he left home. In fact, he had by this time quite forgotten both the medicine and his mother's injunction. So rapid was the improvement in Oscar's health, that two or three days after his trip to the Cross-Roads, Mr. Preston gave his consent to an excursion he and Jerry had planned, which was to occupy a whole day. "Old Staple's Hut," as it was called, was the place they proposed to visit. It was about four miles distant, beyond the hills in the north-east part of the town, represented in the upper corner of the map of Brookdale. They were to carry their dinner, and Mrs. Preston accordingly filled a small basket with eatables. While she was doing this, Jerry took Oscar aside and said: "There is one thing more we want, and that is father's gun. I know he won't let me have it, but I guess he would lend it to you, if you should ask him." "Yes, we must have a gun," replied Oscar; "and I should just as lief ask him for it as not." Oscar hunted up his uncle, and made known his request. Mr. Preston hesitated a moment, and then inquired: "Does your father allow you to use a gun at home?" "He never says anything about it, either way," replied Oscar. "Well, I guess you had better not take the gun," said Mr. Preston. "I 'm afraid you might get hurt,--that's all I care about. I don't allow Jerry to use firearms, and I should n't like to put anything of the kind into your hands without your father's consent." "But I 'll be very careful if you 'll let me have it," added Oscar. "I 've fired a gun several times, and know how to handle it." "No, I think you had better not carry the gun with you," replied his uncle. "If you used it, Jerry would think he must, and I know he is too careless to be trusted with it. He 'd shoot you, just as like as not, if he did n't kill himself." Mr. Preston's tone was so decided, that Oscar saw it would be useless to say anything more about the gun, and so he and Jerry were obliged to abandon the idea of taking it with them. Taking their basket of provisions, they accordingly set out on their long tramp. Leaving the road, and turning into a footpath through the fields, they passed close by the upper edge of the pond. In this part of their walk there was a good deal of swamp land, and a number of brooks to cross. Sometimes they had to pick their way along upon stones which had been placed at regular intervals in wet places, or upon old logs that served for bridges; and at times it required no little skill in balancing to avoid getting a wet foot. After they had got beyond the pond, however, the land gradually ascended, and was mostly occupied as pastures for cattle. But they still occasionally came to a brook, flowing down from the hills towards the pond. Most of them were so narrow, they could easily jump over them; but in one instance they were obliged to take off their shoes and stockings and wade across. "Now you see why this place is called Brookdale," said Jerry, after they had passed four or five of these little streams. "Is that the reason, because there are so many brooks? I never thought of that before," said Oscar. "Yes, that's it," replied Jerry. "In the spring these brooks make quite a show; but they get low in the summer, and generally dry up in August, unless it's a very wet season." "I 'm going to cut me a cane," said Oscar, taking out his knife; "I see a real straight and handsome one in there," and he pointed to a thicket they were approaching. "That's nothing but birch--that won't make a good cane," replied Jerry; "stop a minute, and I 'll find you something better." After looking about a little, Jerry found some beeches, which he said would make good canes. They accordingly cut two of the straightest and handsomest. "I mean to try an experiment with mine," said Oscar, "and see if I can't crook the top of it. Do you know how they do it, Jerry?" "No, I always thought they grew in that shape," replied Jerry. "A man told me they boiled the end of the stick and then bent it," said Oscar. "He said that was the way all the hooked canes were made. I don't know whether he knew or not, but I mean to try it some day, and see how it works." "I don't believe in that," said Jerry. "It is n't very likely you can bend such a stick as that without breaking it; just see how stiff it is." "I don't care, I'll try it, just to satisfy myself," replied Oscar. Oscar was right in regard to bending wood. The hooked-top walking-sticks are made in the way he described,--by boiling the end, and then bending it into an arch. In boiling wood, several substances which enter into its composition are dissolved, and others are softened, so that it is rendered flexible. The boys trudged slowly on their way, now aided by their canes, which, in a long walk, are of no slight service to the pedestrian. As they sauntered along, chatting, singing, and whistling, as merrily as the birds around them, Oscar remembered the cigars he bought at the store, and soon the pure atmosphere of the fields was polluted with the vile odor of bad tobacco. Oscar had been in the habit of smoking occasionally for some time; but though he considered it a manly accomplishment, he was very careful not to let his parents know that he was addicted to it. He prevailed upon his cousin to take a cigar; but Jerry was not very partial to tobacco, and a few whiffs satisfied him for that occasion. They had now reached the foot of the long, steep hills, over which they must climb. These hills were thickly wooded most of the way, forming beautiful groves, cool, dark, fragrant with resinous odors, and softly carpeted with moss and decayed leaves. Oscar and Jerry concluded to rest a few minutes before scaling the hills. Selecting a favorable spot, they stretched themselves at full length upon the ground, and looked up towards the distant tree-tops. It was a pine forest, and the trees were as straight as an arrow, and so tall that their tops almost seemed among the clouds. The moaning of the wind among the topmost branches sounded like the distant roar of the sea. Birds were skipping merrily among the "tasselled boughs," and curiously eying the young strangers who had invaded their solitude. "O, how I wish I had that gun now!" said Oscar, as a fine plump robin lit on one of the lower branches of a tree right over his head. In repay for this generous wish, Signor Robin executed one of his choicest songs in his handsomest style, and, without waiting for an encore from his audience, darted off and was quickly out of sight. But it is probable the audience thought more of the "good shot" he presented, than of the sweet strains he poured forth for their entertainment. "There's better game than that in these woods," said Jerry, after the robin had taken his departure. "Is there anything besides birds?" inquired Oscar. "Yes," replied Jerry, "there are rabbits, and woodchucks, and weasels, and skunks, and squirrels; and some folks say there are wild-cats here, but I don't know about that. Jim Oakley, a fellow who lives about a mile from our house, comes over here gunning very often; and he says he saw a real savage-looking creature here, a few weeks ago, that he took to be a wild-cat. He fired at it, but it got clear of him. He says it looked a good deal like a cat, only it was larger, and had a little short tail. I wish he 'd killed it. I should like to know what it was. I never saw a wild-cat; did you?" "No," replied Oscar. "But that was n't equal to something a man came across in the woods the other side of these hills, two or three years ago," continued Jerry. "What do you suppose it was?" "I don't know; was it a moose?" inquired Oscar. "No," replied Jerry; "moose come down into this neighborhood, once in awhile, but that was n't what I was going to tell you about. There is a road through these woods, a little beyond the hills. It is n't travelled much, except by the loggers in the fall and spring. A man was riding along this road, one afternoon in summer, when he suddenly came across a monstrous black bear. As soon as the bear saw him, he squat down on his haunches, right in the middle of the road, and began to show his teeth. The man didn't dare to drive by him, and his horse was so frightened that it was as much as he could do to hold him in. He had a loaded revolver with him, but he knew there was n't much hope of killing the bear with that. So he turned his horse about, and concluded to go back to the nearest house, and get a gun and somebody to help him kill the bear. The bear sat still, watching him, as much as to say, 'If you'll let me alone, I 'll let you alone;' but just as the man was starting up, he thought he would try his pistol, and so he blazed away at the bear. Two or three of the shot hit the bear in the shoulder. They did n't hurt him much, only enough to rouse his dander; but he sprang up as quick as lightning, and started after the team. The man whipped up his horse, and the bear 'pulled foot' after him, and did n't give up the race till he had run about a quarter of a mile. The man said if he had been afoot, the bear would have beat him at running, but he could n't keep up with the horse. "Well, the man went back three or four miles, and got another man to go with him in search of the bear. They armed themselves with guns and hunting-knives; but when they drove back to where the man met the bear, they could n't find anything of him. They traced his tracks into the woods, but after awhile they lost them, and as it was getting late, they gave up the hunt; and nobody hereabouts has seen that bear from that day to this." "Perhaps he's about here now--who knows?" said Oscar. "No, I guess he went right back to the place he came from," replied Jerry. "Somebody would have seen him, if he 'd stayed around here." "Where do you suppose he came from?" inquired Oscar. "From way back in the woods, fifty miles from here," replied Jerry. "There had been great fires in the woods that summer, and I suppose he got burned out, or frightened, and that was the reason he came down this way." "I should like to meet such a customer," said Oscar; "only I should want to have a good double-barrelled gun with me. I read in a newspaper, the other day, about a boy up in New Hampshire, who met a bear and two cubs, all alone in the woods. He had a gun with him, and killed the old one, and one of the cubs, but the other cub got off. That was doing pretty well, wasn't it?" "'Twas so," said Jerry; "but I guess you would n't have done quite so well as that." "I bet I should have tried, at any rate," said Oscar, who really was not deficient in courage, though he had hardly practiced hunting enough to justify him in believing that he could master so savage an animal as a bear. Having rested themselves, the boys resumed their journey, and after ten minutes' hard work, reached the top of the range of hills. The highest summit was a bare ledge of rock, and they concluded to climb to the top of it, for the sake of the view to be obtained. It was called "Prospect Rock," and was very appropriately named. As the boys stood upon it, the country for miles around was spread out at their feet,--houses, and cultivated fields, and forests, and roads, and narrow streams. A distant mountain was visible in the west, which Jerry said was about twenty miles off, though it seemed much nearer. After enjoying the scene a few minutes, they began to descend the hill on the other side. They kept their eyes open, for game, but they saw only a few squirrels, and one rabbit, which bounded off, and was out of sight in a moment. Jerry pointed out to Oscar a woodchuck's hole, near the foot of the hill. "I should like to see a woodchuck," said Oscar; "what do they look like?" "They 're about as big as a rabbit, and are of a brownish color," replied Jerry. "Do you suppose there's one in that hole?" inquired Oscar; "let's see if we can't scare him out." "I don't know whether there is or not," replied Jerry; "but if there was, we could n't dig him out without shovels. They burrow real deep. If we had brought a dog with us, how he would dig into that hole!" "I wish I had my Tiger here," said Oscar; "it's too bad father would n't let me bring him with me." Oscar thrust his cane into the hole, but did not reach the end of it; and if the occupant of the tenement was within, he did not think it worth while to show himself. The boys accordingly renewed their journey. After they had reached the foot of the hill, they had to cross a swamp. With its wet and miry bottom, and its dense growth of vines, bushes, and small trees, this was no easy matter; but they succeeded in getting through with no damage save wet feet, a few slight scratches, and a good many mosquito bites. This latter trouble was the most serious of all. The mosquitoes were large and ferocious. They bit right through jacket, vest, and all, and Oscar declared that their sharp stings even penetrated his boots. After the boys emerged from the swamp, they came to the road in which the man met a bear. They followed this road a short distance, till it brought them to the shore of a large and beautiful pond. Leaving the highway, they now walked along by the edge of the water, and soon came to the old hut they were in pursuit of. It was but a few rods from the pond, and was directly under the brow of a steep and rocky hill. It had a very old and decayed appearance. The roof had fallen in, the door had disappeared, and the single window was without sash or glass. It contained but one apartment, and that was very small, and so choked up with rubbish that the boys did not try to enter. "Well, that must have been a great place for a man to live in," said Oscar, after he had inspected the premises. "How long has the old fellow been dead?" "I don't know," said Jerry; "it must be fifteen years, for he died before I was born." "I wonder what he lived here for; does anybody know?" inquired Oscar. "No, he was a hermit, and that's all anybody knows about him. They say he used to have a garden, and raised everything he wanted to eat. In the summer time he used to work a good deal for two or three farmers that lived over at Cedar Hill, at the further end of the pond. He had a little skiff, and rowed back and forth in that. He never used to spend any money, and people say he must have had all of a thousand dollars, that he had earned, when he died; but nobody knew what became of it. They suppose he buried it about here somewhere, or hid it in some rock." "A thousand dollars!" said Oscar; "I 'm going to hunt for that; what will you bet I won't find it?" "Pooh!" replied Jerry, "people have searched all round here, and dug holes, and pulled up the floor of the hut, more than a hundred times; and I guess there's no danger of your finding the money now." "I 'm going to try, at any rate," said Oscar, and he get up from the stone upon which he was seated. "Stop, don't go now," said Jerry; "let's make a fire and get dinner first--I 'm just about half starved." Oscar fell in with this suggestion, and they gathered together a lot of brush and other dry wood, and soon had a good fire kindled against a large stone, which happened to be hollowed out something like a fireplace. Among the provisions they had brought with them were half a dozen potatoes, which they buried in the embers after the fire had got well under way. While these were baking, they employed themselves in gathering wood and watching the fire. They also found some slices of cheese in their basket, which they toasted by holding it before the fire upon the point of a sharp stick. When their preparations for dinner were about completed, Oscar inquired: "Where shall we find some water to drink? Is there a spring about here?" "Water, why, there's plenty of it," replied Jerry pointing to the pond. "What! you don't mean to drink pond water, do you?" said Oscar, somewhat surprised. "Yes I do," replied Jerry; "that's good water--old Staples drank it all the time he lived here." "Well, come to think of it, I suppose it is good," said Oscar; "for our Cochituate water, in Boston, is nothing but pond water. It seems queer, though, to dip it right out of the pond; but I suppose it is just as good as though we drew it from an aqueduct." There was a tin dipper in the basket, and Oscar took it, and went down to the pond, to try the water. He found it clear, and agreeable to the taste, though not very cold. Filling the dipper, he returned to the fire, where Jerry now had the dinner in readiness. They found a large flat stone, which answered for a table, and spreading their provisions upon it, they threw themselves upon the grass, and began to eat. The potatoes were nicely roasted, and, indeed, all the articles that helped to form their rural repast, tasted uncommonly well. Even the pond water, Oscar confessed, would have been equal to the Cochituate, if they had only had a little ice to put in it. [Illustration: The Dinner in the Woods.] After dinner, Oscar commenced his search for the hidden treasures, and Jerry, impelled by sympathy, joined in the hunt, though with no very sanguine expectations of finding the hermit's gold. They examined the hut, and poked over the rubbish, within and about it. They walked over the ground, around the cabin, turning over stones, looking after holes in the trunks of trees, and peering curiously into every crack and crevice they could find. They then climbed up the rocks behind the hut, and patiently continued their search, talking earnestly, the meanwhile, about what they should do with the money, if they found it. Oscar said if he found the money, he should buy the best horse he could find. He should not go to school any more, but should spend his time in riding, and going to places of amusement. If his father did not like it, he should leave home, and board at a hotel. Jerry, on the other hand, wanted to see the world. If _he_ found the money, he was going to travel all over the country. After visiting the great Atlantic cities, he should go to California, and stop a few months, just long enough to dig a few thousand dollars out of the mines--and then he should push on to China, and India, and Europe, and come home in one of the Collins steamers. It was finally agreed, however, that if either of them found the treasure, it should be equally divided between them, and with this friendly understanding, they renewed their search, with fresh zeal. "It's real hot; what do you say about going into water?" inquired Oscar, after they had ransacked the neighborhood pretty thoroughly, and worked themselves into a perspiration. "I 'll go in if you will," said Jerry. "Father did n't tell us not to go in to-day--I was afraid he would; but he did n't say anything about it." "He need n't know it, if we do go in," suggested Oscar, who knew very well that his uncle would not approve of his bathing so early in the season, and so soon after his sickness. "No, he won't know anything about it," added Jerry; "and I don't believe it can do us any hurt, for it is as warm as it is in the middle of summer. I 've been into water many a time, when it was colder than it is now." They did not debate the question long, but throwing off their clothes, they soon plunged into the clear lake. The water did not feel quite so warm to their bodies, as it tasted when they washed down their dinner with it. Still, it was not very cold; and as the place was quite convenient for bathing, having a hard, gravelly bottom, with a gradual slope, they enjoyed their dip in the water as well as they _could_ enjoy a forbidden gratification. After they had dressed themselves, they sat a little while with their caps off, that the warm sun might dry their hair, and thus remove all evidence of their stolen pleasure. This accomplished, they concluded, from the position of the sun, that it was time to start for home; and taking their basket and canes, they commenced their homeward march. They met with no incident of any moment in returning, except that they got off their course at one time; but Jerry, who was quite at home in the woods, soon found where he was, and set himself right again. The last two miles of their jaunt were the hardest of all, especially to Oscar, who was more troubled with sore feet and stiff legs than Jerry. They were both, however, as tired and hungry as need be, when they got home. No questions were asked about their going into water. This was fortunate, for it probably saved them from the additional guilt of falsehood. They experienced no punishment for their disobedience, except the consciousness that they had committed a wrong act. To some boys, that alone would have been no slight punishment; but I fear this was not the case with Oscar and Jerry. CHAPTER XVII. CLINTON. "Come, Jerry, let's go over to Clinton's this forenoon," said Oscar, the morning after their excursion to the hermit's hut. "Agreed," replied Jerry, "we 'll start right away as soon as I can find my cap. Let me see---where did I leave it, I wonder?" "Jerry," said Mrs. Preston, who overheard this conversation, "bring me in an armfull of wood before you go." "I 'll get the wood while you 're looking for your cap," said Oscar, and he started for the wood-house. Oscar almost repented of his offer when he discover ed that there was no wood split. However, he took the axe and split a few logs, and carried them into the kitchen. Jerry had not yet found his cap, though he had searched all over the house for it. He began to suspect some one had played a trick upon him by hiding his cap, and when Emily laughed at his impatience, he concluded she was the guilty one. In vain she protested that she had not seen the missing cap, and did not know where it was. He searched every part of the girls' chamber, and then, in his vexation, he pulled Emily's bonnet from off her head, and tossed it out of the window into an apple-tree, in the branches of which it lodged. It was now Emily's turn to fly into a pet, and she availed herself of the opportunity. Running to her mother, she reported what Jerry had done, setting off his foolish conduct in the worst possible light. Jerry soon made his appearance in the kitchen, and retorted upon his sister by charging her with having hid his cap. Mrs. Preston tried to settle the difficulty by directing Jerry to get Emily's bonnet out of the tree, and ordering Emily to tell Jerry where his cap was, if she knew; but Emily protested she knew nothing about the cap, and her brother did not seem inclined to obey his portion of the decree, while his sister failed to comply with hers. The quarrel was thus becoming more and more complicated, when Oscar suddenly entered the room with the lost cap in his hand. "Here's your cap, Jerry," he said; "I found it just where you left it last night, out in the barn. Don't you remember, you threw it at the cat to scare her?" "Yes, so I did, and I forgot to pick it up again," said Jerry. "There, do you believe me now?" said Emily, with an air of triumph. Jerry did not stop to reply; but, going into the garden, he climbed the apple-tree, and tossed the bonnet down to Emily. "Now I 'm ready to start, just as soon as I 've had a drink of buttermilk," said Jerry to Oscar; "come into the buttery and get some, won't you?" There was only one bowl-full of buttermilk left from the morning's churning, but Mrs. Preston told the boys they might have that. Jerry proposed that they should "go snacks," and gave the bowl to Oscar that he might drink his share first. The latter took one mouthful, but quickly spit it out, and puckered his face into all sorts of shapes. "Ugh!" he exclaimed, "you don't call that sour stuff good, do you?" and he handed the bowl back to Jerry, with a look that would have soured the buttermilk, if it had not already undergone that process. As soon as Jerry could get over laughing at his cousin's grimaces, he swallowed the contents of the bowl, and then smacking his lips, said: "There, don't you think I like it? You just drink it a few times, and then see if you don't like it, too. I could drink a quart of it now if I had it." "You may have it, for all me; I don't want any more of it," replied Oscar. "Jerry, have the hens been attended to?" inquired Mrs. Preston, as the boys were about starting from home. "I don't know--I have n't fed them," replied Jerry. "You ought to know whether they are seen to or not; it's your business to take care of them," said his mother. "Don't you go off this morning till you have fed them. You ought to have done it an hour ago." The care of the fowls had been committed to Jerry, but he did not feel much interest in them, and needed to be reminded of his duty pretty often. His negligence had been more marked than ever since Oscar's arrival, and more than once the hens had been without food and water nearly a whole day because he forgot to attend to them. Jerry now went back, in obedience to his mother, and gave the fowls their usual allowance of corn, and a vessel of fresh water. He also looked into the nests to see if there were any new-laid eggs; and he was not a little surprised to find in one of them a small billet, neatly folded up, and addressed, "_To Master Jerry_." He looked at it a moment, and tried to imagine what it could be; then he opened it, and read the following, which was neatly written with a pencil: "THE HENROOST, June 12th. "MASTER JERRY:" "I have determined to write you a few words in behalf of my dear suffering family. The sun is scorching hot, and yet we have not got a drop of water to save us from parching up. My poor biddies have been walking back and forth all day, panting for water, and calling for it as plainly as they could speak; but all in vain. We have received our food at very irregular times, too, and sometimes we have had to keep fast nearly all day. If I were the only sufferer, I would say nothing about it; but I cannot bear to see my poor flock dying by inches in this way. Do take pity on us, and see that we have plenty of corn and water hereafter. Some of my family, who pride themselves on being good layers, complain that since you have kept us shut up in such narrow quarters they cannot find anything to make their egg-shells of. Now, if you would give us some old burnt bones, pounded up fine, or a little lime, once in awhile, I do not think you would lose anything by it. And as you will not let us go out to scratch for ourselves, what is the reason that you cannot dig us a few worms occasionally? It would be a great treat to us. I hope you will heed my suggestions. If you do not, I can assure you of two things: you won't have many eggs this summer; and fat chickens will be a scarce article in this neighborhood next Thanksgiving time. But Mrs. Yellowneck has just laid an egg, and I must help her cackle over it; so I will write nothing more at present, but sign myself "Your faithful, but afflicted, "SHANGHAE ROOSTER." Before Jerry had finished reading this mysterious letter, Oscar, who wondered at his long absence, went to see what the matter was, and found his cousin deeply absorbed in the document. After Jerry had read it, he handed it to Oscar, telling him where he found it. "Well, that is queer," said Oscar, after he had read it. "Who do you suppose wrote it?" "I know where it came from well enough," said Jerry; "keep dark--don't say anything about it," he added, as he put the letter in his pocket. Then stepping to the kitchen-window, he inquired, "Mother, was Clinton over here yesterday?" "I believe he was," replied Mrs. Preston. "That accounts for it," said Jerry to Oscar; "that letter sounds just like Clinton. I knew he wrote it just as soon as I saw it." "But can he write as well as that?" inquired Oscar. "Yes, he 's a very good writer," replied Jerry. "He ought to be, for he has to get a lesson every day, just as though he went to school, and recite to his mother in the evening. I wish I knew as much as he does, but I should n't want to study so hard." They had now started on their way to Clinton's. The Shanghae letter continued to be the topic of remark for some time. It was finally concluded that they should say nothing to Clinton about it. To tell the truth, Jerry felt a little mortified at the deserved rebuke he had received, and he thought the easiest way to get over it would be, to pretend that the letter had never reached its destination. Clinton Davenport, the suspected author of this letter, lived in the nearest house to Mr. Preston's. The house is marked 1, on the map of Brookdale. He was three or four months younger than Jerry, and, like him, was an only son. They had been intimate playmates from early childhood, though their tastes and dispositions were very different. Clinton was an industrious boy. He liked to work, and took an interest in all his father's plans and labors. He was an ingenious boy, too; and, in addition to his other commendable traits, he was a good scholar. Oscar had seen Clinton once or twice, at Jerry's house, but this was his first visit to him. They soon came in the sight of the house. It was a neat, but plain cottage, situated near the foot of a hill. There were several noble oaks around it, and fruit trees in the rear. Luxuriant vines were trained around and over the front door. A large and substantial barn stood a little one side, and back from the road, with its great doors swung open. On a tall pole, behind the house, there was a complete miniature of the cottage, which appeared to be occupied by a family of birds, who were constantly flying back and forth. This pretty birdhouse Clinton had made with his own hands the previous winter. When Oscar and Jerry reached the house, they saw Clinton doing something in the orchard, behind the buildings, and walked along towards him. They found him employed in destroying caterpillars' nests, in the apple-trees. He had a light ladder, with which he ascended the trees; and having his hands protected by a pair of old gloves, he swept down the nests, and destroyed the young caterpillars by the hundred. "This is n't very pleasant work," said Clinton, "but it has got to be done. I've been all over the orchard this morning, and this is the last tree I 've got to examine. I shall be done in a few minutes, and then I 'll walk around with you." "I should like to know where all these caterpillars come from," said Oscar; "do they come up from the ground?" "No," replied Clinton. "A miller lays the eggs, the summer before, on a branch of the tree, and there they stay till about the first of June; then they hatch out, and build their nest. The nests look something like tents, don't you see they do?" "Yes, so they do," said Oscar. "That's the reason they are called tent-caterpillars. There are three or four hundred of them in every nest. In about a month from now, they would all turn into millers, if nobody disturbed them, and lay millions of eggs for next year's crop." "That 's curious--I 've learnt something new by coming here," said Oscar. "There, I believe that's all," said Clinton, as he cast his eye over the tree; "now come and see my turkeys." Jerry slyly winked at Oscar, and both thought of the Shanghae rooster's letter; but they said nothing, and followed Clinton to a tree near the barn, where there was a large, motherly hen, surrounded by her happy brood. They were young turkeys, but it was all the same to the poor simple hen. She had set four weeks upon the eggs from which they were hatched, and no wonder she honestly believed they were her own children. To confess the truth, they did look so much like chickens, that a city boy like Oscar would hardly have suspected they were turkeys, if he had not been told that they were. They were black, and of about the size of chickens of their age. They had also the sharp, piping cry of genuine chickens. But their necks were a little longer than usual, and that was almost the only badge of their turkeyhood. The hen was confined to the tree by a string, to prevent her roving off. A barrel turned upon its side, served them for a house at night. There was another hen, confined under a tree near by, which was the proud mother of a large brood of chickens. There were about twenty-five of them, but though they now constituted one brood, they were hatched by two hens. Clinton said he usually managed to set two hens together, so that one of them might bring up all the chickens, thereby saving some trouble for himself, as well as one hen's time, which was of some value to him. Hens do not seem to have much knowledge of arithmetic, and biddy was apparently unconscious of any difference between twelve and five-and-twenty. A loud and prolonged "Cock-a-doodle-do-o-o-o" now attracted Oscar to the hen-yard near by, behind the barn, where the rest of Clinton's poultry were confined. It was a large enclosure, connected with a shed, in which the fowls roosted and laid their eggs. Its occupants, and indeed all the poultry on the place were the exclusive property of Clinton, and he took the entire management of them in his own hands. He raised the corn they consumed on a patch of ground his father gave him for the purpose. He sold his eggs, chickens, and turkeys to whom he pleased, and kept a regular account in a book of all his business transactions. Of course, all the money he made was his own, and he told Oscar he had nearly seventy-five dollars in the bank, which he had earned in this way. "I don't see how you do it," said Jerry; "I could n't make anything that way if I should try. I don't believe our hens more than pay their way, if they do that." "If you should manage as I do, I guess you would make something," replied Clinton. "No, it isn't my luck," said Jerry; "if I worked ever so hard, I should n't be any better off for it." "I don't believe that," said Clinton; "there 's no luck about it. Any boy could make out just as well as I have done, if he took the same trouble. You try it, now, and see." "No, I shan't try, for I know just as well as I want to, how it would turn out," replied Jerry. "How can you know if you never tried it?" inquired Clinton. Jerry did not answer this question, and perhaps he could not. He preferred to comfort himself with the foolish plea of the lazy, that he was not one of "the lucky ones," and it was useless for him to think of succeeding in anything of that kind. Clinton did not make the most distant allusion to the Shanghae Rooster's letter, although Jerry felt sure that he knew all about it. The latter also avoided all reference to it. Oscar could hardly keep from introducing the matter, but his cousin's injunction to "keep dark" prevailed, and he was able to restrain his impatient tongue. The boys now took a look at the piggery, where they found several fat, dignified grunters, together with a family of little squealers, who seemed quite too clean and delicate to occupy such an enclosure. They then went all over the great barn, which happened to be tenantless, the cows being at pasture and the oxen and horse off at work. Oscar's attention was attracted to a scrap cut from a newspaper, which was pasted upon one of the posts of the horse's stall. It read as follows: "THE HORSE'S PRAYER. "Up hill, spare thou me; Down hill, take care of thee; On level ground, spare me not, Nor give me water when I 'm hot." Clinton said he found these lines in a newspaper about the time he began to drive alone, and he stuck them up upon the stall that he might not forget them. "Hallo, who is this?" inquired Oscar, as a little curly-haired girl of six years came tripping into the barn. The little girl to whom the inquiry was addressed turned a shy and roguish look towards the strange boy, and then edged along to Clinton, and nestled her little hand in his. "Can't you tell him who you are?" inquired Clinton. "He came all the way from Boston, where cousin Ettie and cousin Willie live. He 's Jerry's cousin, and little Mary Preston's cousin. Now you'll tell him what your name is, won't you?" "Annie Davenport--that's my name," she replied, in her artless, winning way. "Then you're Clinton's sister, are you?" inquired Oscar. "Yes, and he 's my brother," she quickly added, with a proud look that greatly amused the boys. "Did you say you have a cousin Willie in Boston, Clinton?" continued Oscar. "Yes, Willie Davenport," replied Clinton. "I know him--he's about your size, is n't he? and his father is a lawyer?" "Yes, that's him--why, I want to know if you know him?" "O yes; he goes to our school. The boys have nicknamed him Whistler, because he whistles so much; but he 's a real clever fellow, for all that. My brother Ralph is quite intimate with him. It's strange that I never knew before that he had relations down here," added Oscar. "Do you know his sister, Ettie?" inquired Clinton. "No, I never saw her," replied Oscar. "Come into the house with me,--I must tell mother we 've heard from Boston," said Clinton. They all entered the house, and Mrs. Davenport was soon informed of the pleasant discovery they had made, and had many questions to ask concerning her Boston friends. Oscar seemed to become at once an old acquaintance. The fact that he was a schoolmate of Willie gave him a direct passport to the good graces of all the family. When Oscar called to mind his peculiar relations towards Willie, this unlooked-for friendship was not particularly agreeable to him; for he was not, and never had been, on very friendly terms with Clinton's cousin. This, however, was more than he dared say to Clinton, and so he concealed his dislike of Willie as well as he could. After sitting in the house a little while, Clinton invited Oscar and Jerry into the "shop," which was a room back of the kitchen, where Mr. Davenport kept a variety of carpenter's tools. Here, in cold and stormy weather, Clinton's father mended his broken tools and implements, and performed such other jobs as were required. Clinton, too, spent many odd moments at the work-bench, and patient practice had made him quite a neat and skilful workman. He showed the boys several boxes, a pine table, and a cricket, made entirely by his own hands, which would have done no discredit to a regular carpenter. After remaining an hour or two with Clinton, Oscar and Jerry started for home, well pleased with their visit. CHAPTER XVIII. THE LETTER. "Oscar, you have n't written home since you came down here, have you?" inquired Mr. Preston one morning at the breakfast table. "No, sir," replied Oscar. "Well, you ought to write," added Mr. Preston; "your mother told you to, and I suppose she has been looking for a letter every day for a week or more. It's over a fortnight since you left home, and your folks will feel anxious about you, if they don't hear from you soon. You 'd better write a letter to them this morning, before you do anything else, and then it will be out of the way. I shall either go or send over to the post-office to-day, and the letter will start for Boston to-morrow morning, and get there the next day." "O dear, I hate to write," said Oscar. "Why can't you write to mother, aunt, and tell her how I am?" "No, no," said Mr. Preston, "that won't do. You promised your mother that you would write yourself, and she 'll expect to hear from you, and not from somebody else. Your aunt can write, if she chooses, but you must write too. I 'll give you a pen and some paper and ink after breakfast, and you can write just a much as you please." "I guess it won't be much--I don't know how to write a letter," replied Oscar. "A boy of your age not know how to write a letter--and been all your lifetime to such grand schools as they have in Boston, too! I don't believe that," said Mr. Preston, shaking his head. "I shall have to go and see the Shanghae Rooster," said Oscar, looking at Jerry very knowingly. Jerry laughed at this allusion, but the others did not appear to understand its meaning. It was evident that they were innocent of all knowledge of the mysterious letter; and as Jerry wished them to remain so, he adroitly turned the remark by replying: "No you won't--father has got plenty of steel pens." After breakfast, Mr. Preston told Oscar to follow him. They went up stairs, and Mr. P. took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the door of what was known by the name of "the private room." It was a very small apartment, and was originally designed for a closet or store-room; but Mr. Preston now used it as a sort of office. Here he kept his business papers, and here he did what little writing he had to do. There was one window in the room, which looked out upon the garden in the rear of the house. The furniture consisted of a chair, a small portable desk, placed upon a table, an old map of the State of Maine, a dictionary, almanac, and several other odd volumes and pamphlets. "There," said Mr. Preston, "you may sit right down to my desk, and write as long as you please, if you won't disturb my papers. There are paper, ink, pens, and wafers--you can use what you want. When you get done, lock the door, and give the key to your aunt." Oscar found there was no backing out from a letter this time; so he sat down, and tried to make up his mind to face the dreaded duty. He heard his uncle tell the children not to interrupt him, till he had finished his letter; and when Mr. Preston and his man James went off to work, Jerry accompanied them. Oscar was thus left to himself. After thinking about the matter a few moments, he dipped his pen in the ink-stand, and, having consulted the almanac, wrote the proper date for the letter, together with the address, "Dear Mother." Here he came suddenly to a stand. He was at a loss how to commence. He sat uneasily in his chair, now nibbling the end of the pen-holder, and now running his fingers slowly through his hair, as if to coax out the thoughts he wished to express. At length he got started, and wrote several lines without stopping. Now he thought he should go ahead without further trouble; but he soon found himself again brought to a dead halt. He began to scribble and draw rude figures upon a piece of waste paper, hoping the next sentence, in continuance of his letter, would soon pop into his head; but instead of anything popping in, his ideas began to pop out, so that he almost forgot the letter, amid the unmeaning flourishes his pen was making. Then, suddenly thinking of the scarcely-commenced task before him, he read and re-read the few lines he had written, but could not determine what to say next. Lifting up the lid of the desk, he found a variety of bills, receipts, accounts and letters scattered about. Disregarding the injunction of his uncle, and in violation of one of the plainest rules of good breeding, he concluded to open one of the letters, and see if he could not gain some hint from it, to aid him in completing his own. The letter he opened proved to be a short business message, and it was written in such a difficult hand, that he could not read half the words. He then looked into several other letters, but none of them afforded him any aid. After idling away half an hour in this manner, he resumed his letter, and began to make some progress upon it, when the lively chirping and twittering of a party of birds in an apple-tree near the window, attracted his attention. He laid down his pen, and watched their movements awhile. They were swallows; and from their actions, Oscar soon discovered that the old birds were teaching their little ones how to fly. There were several nests of these swallows, under the rafters of Mr. Preston's barn; and as they had recently had accessions to their families, Oscar concluded this must be the first appearance of the new-comers in public. The old birds fluttered back and forth, twittering and talking to the young ones all the while, and trying to entice them to commit themselves again to their wings. The little fearful things looked doubtingly, first one way and then another, as though they would gladly launch away upon their destined element, if they were only sure they should not tumble ingloriously to the ground. The clamor of the old ones increased every moment. They called and coaxed more earnestly, and fluttered more impatiently, until at length the young birds worked up their courage to the requisite point, and away the whole flock darted, towards the barn. Now that the swallows were out of his way, Oscar returned to his letter once more. Had he learned a lesson of self-confidence from the example of the little swallows, the few minutes he spent in watching their movements would have been well employed. But instead of his confidence increasing, he was now almost sick of the sight of the letter, and began to doubt whether he should ever finish it. While he was hesitating whether he had better tear it up, or try once more to go on with it, a sweet childish voice from the garden engaged his attention. He looked from the window, and saw little Mary sitting down upon the grass, in a shady spot, with a large book open before her. She was looking at the engravings in the volume, and was talking very earnestly to herself, and to the figures in the pictures. "There is Emily," she was saying, "and there is father with a shovel; and this one is me, and that is Jerry, and that's Oscar, carrying a basket. I guess they 're going to dig potatoes. O, what lots of houses over the other side of the pond; and there 's one, two, three, five, ten, eight meeting-houses, too. It must be Boston, I guess, there are so many houses there. And there's a great boat coming--O what a smoke it makes!--and it's got wheels, too. Now we'll get right into it, and go and see Uncle Henry and all the folks. Stop, stop, you boat! Now that's too bad--it goes by, and we can't go to Boston." [Illustration: Mary and the Picture-Book.] Thus little Mary continued to talk to the pictures and to herself, unconscious that any one was listening to her. She was a pretty child, and, all unknown to herself, she made almost as attractive a picture as any in her book, with her fair face, her flowing hair, and her clean dress, set off by the green grass and climbing vines around her. Oscar sat listening to her childish prattle for some time, when the striking of the kitchen clock reminded him that he had been seated at the desk an hour, and had not yet written a dozen lines. He was about to tear up the sheet of paper over which he had sat (but not labored) so long, and give up the attempt. Then he thought of his promise to write, and how ashamed he should feel to have his uncle's folks know that he had tried a whole hour, and could not write a letter to his own mother. He finally determined to make one more attempt. Finding that the sound of Mary's voice disturbed him, Oscar now shut down the window, and thus cut off all communication with the outer world, except by the eye. He soon got under way again with his letter, and, to his own surprise, he went along quite easily and with considerable rapidity. The reason of this was, he was now really in earnest, and had given his mind wholly to the letter. Before, his thoughts were flitting from one trifle to another; now they were directed to the object he wished to accomplish. Before the clock struck the next hour, the letter was finished, sealed, and directed. It was quite a respectable sort of a letter, too. When he had got through, Oscar was himself surprised to find that he could write so good an epistle. The spelling, punctuation, and penmanship might have been improved, but in other respects the letter was creditable to him. I will print it as he intended it should read, and not precisely as he wrote it: "BROOKDALE, June 15, 185--. "DEAR MOTHER: "I suppose you are looking for a letter from me, and I meant to have written before this, but somehow I have neglected it. I got here safe the next day after I left home. We stopped one night in Portland, and put up at the ---- Hotel. The next day we rode in the cars all the forenoon, and in the stage all the afternoon. The stage does not go within five miles of uncle's, but Jerry went over with a horse and wagon to get us. I like Brookdale first-rate. It is a real countryfied place, but I like it all the better for that. The nearest house to uncle's is half a mile off; and, by the way, tell Ralph that a cousin of Whistler's lives there. His name is Clinton Davenport. I have got acquainted with him, and like him very much. I like Jerry, too. We have capital times together. All the boys here are rather 'green,' as we say in Boston; and you would laugh at the ideas they have of city things; but I suppose they think I am green about country things, and so we are square. I have lots of rides, and good long walks, too. A few days ago, Jerry and I walked four or five miles through the woods and pastures, to an old hut where a hermit used to live. They say he was a miser, and buried his money there, and people have dug for it, but nobody has found it. We carried our provisions, and made a fire, and ate dinner there. There is a fine pond close by, where we got our water to drink. "There are lots of birds here. We are going to set some snares in the woods, and catch some. There are some swallows' nests in uncle's barn, just over the door. You can look right up into them, and see the birds. They are quite tame. They are just making their young ones learn how to fly. It is real amusing to see them. "Uncle has quite a large farm. I forget how many acres he told me there was, but it is a good many. They have cows, and pigs, and hens, and live in real country style. I have learned how to make butter, but I have not learned to like buttermilk yet. I can't bear it, but all the other folks think it is a great treat. The schools don't keep here but three months in the winter, so Jerry and I are together about all the time. We sleep together, too. I almost forgot to tell you that I have got quite strong and hearty again. My cough is gone, and aunt says I look a good deal better than I did when I came here. I want to hear from home, but I hope you won't send for me to go back just yet. But I am tired of writing, and must close up my letter. Excuse errors and bad writing. Give my love to all the family, including Tiger. "Your affectionate son, "OSCAR." Oscar felt quite relieved when his letter was ready for the post-office. Having locked up the little room, he carried the key to his aunt. "Have you written your letter?" inquired Mrs. Preston. "Yes, ma'am," replied Oscar. "Where is it? You 're going to let me read it, aint you?" inquired Emily. "There it is," said Oscar, taking the letter from his jacket pocket; "but I guess you won't read it, miss." "Yes, do let me read it," persisted Emily, who really had an undue proportion of inquisitiveness in her nature. "No, I can't; it's sealed up," replied Oscar. "Then tell me what you wrote, won't you?" continued Emily. "Why, you silly child, what business is it to you what he wrote?" said her mother. "Don't ask any more such foolish questions; Oscar will think you have n't got common sense if you do." "Did you write anything about me?" continued Emily, in a lower tone. "Did you hear me, Emily?" inquired Mrs. Preston, in a sharper tone. "O no, I did n't write much," said Oscar, in reply to Emily; "there's nothing in the letter that you would care about seeing." "I did n't know you were going to seal up the letter so soon. I wanted to send a message to Alice and Ella," continued Emily. "You are too late now," replied Oscar; "but I 'll give you a chance next time. What message do you want to send?" "You must n't be so inquisitive," said Emily, with a laugh; "just as though I were going to tell you, when you would n't let me read the letter!" "Well, I can tell you one thing,--I don't want to know," replied Oscar. "Aunt Eliza, do you know where Jerry is?" "He has gone with his father down to the meadow lot," replied Mrs. Preston. "I guess they will be back before a great while." Oscar set out for the "meadow lot," which was a quarter of a mile from the house, on the other side of the river. He had not gone far, however, when he met Mr. Preston and Jerry returning. "I 've written my letter, uncle, and it's all ready to go to the post-office," said Oscar; "can't Jerry and I carry it over?" "I 'll see about that this afternoon," said Mr. Preston; "I 've got something else for Jerry to do now." "I 'm going over to the old wood-lot to get a load of mulching," said Jerry to Oscar; "and you can go too, if you want to." "Mulching--what is that?" inquired Oscar. "It's stuff that they put around young trees, to keep the roots from drying up in summer," replied Jerry. "You know all those small apple and pear trees back of the barn? well, it's to put around them." Having reached the house, the boys ate some luncheon, and then proceeded to tackle Billy into the hay-cart. After Mr. Preston had given Jerry sundry cautions and directions, which the latter seemed to think quite unnecessary, the boys hopped into the cart, and drove off towards the woods. Mr. Preston owned several tracts of woodland in Brookdale. The lot to which the boys were going, was called the "old" one, because the wood had all been cut off once, and it was now covered with a young growth, not large enough for firewood. It was but a short distance from the house, and the boys soon reached the spot, and commenced operations. They were each provided with large jack-knives, and with these they proceeded to lop off the young and tender ends of the birches, which trees were quite abundant in that spot; for birches are very apt to spring up after a pine forest has been cleared away. Many of the trees were yet so small, that the boys did not have to climb up to reach the branches. Though all this was really work, it seemed so much like play to Jerry and Oscar, that they actually _forgot to be lazy_. The consequence was, the job was done before they thought of it. Gathering up the heaps of small twigs scattered around them, they threw them into the cart, and found they had quite a respectable load; respectable in bulk at least, though not a very heavy burden for Billy. Taking their seats upon the top of the mulching, which was almost as soft as a load of hay, they drove back to the barn, and alighted. Mr. Preston now appeared, and led the horse into the orchard, where, with the aid of the boys, he scattered the birch twigs around the young trees, so as to protect their roots from the fierce heat of the sun. There was not enough for all the trees, but he told them they need not get any more at that time. After dinner, Mr. Preston said he should have to go over to the Cross-Roads himself, as he wanted to see a man who lived there; but he told Oscar he might go with him, if he wished. Oscar accepted the invitation, and they were soon on their way, leaving Jerry not a little disappointed that he could not go with them. Oscar handed his letter to the postmaster, who marked it with the stamp of the office, and deposited it in the mail-bag, Mr. Preston stopped to purchase a few articles in the shop where the post-office was kept. When he was ready to start, he inquired: "Have you mailed your letter, and paid your postage, Oscar?" "I 've mailed it, but I did n't pay the postage," replied Oscar. "That was n't right," said his uncle; "when you mail a letter to a friend, you should always pay the postage. If you pay it now, in advance, it will be only three cents; but if the postage is not paid till the letter is delivered, it will be five cents." "I did n't think of that," said Oscar; "I wonder if it is too late to pay it now? I 'll go and see." On making known his request, the postmaster drew forth the letter from the bag, and imprinted another stamp upon it. Oscar paid the three cents, and departed, with his uncle. CHAPTER XIX. THE RECALL. Oscar was bent upon going a-gunning. He had allowed his mind to dwell upon the idea, until it seemed to him as though he could no longer resist the impulse to play the sportsman, without a sacrifice of his happiness. His uncle, it is true, had tried to dissuade him from it, and had positively refused to lend him his gun. But there were other guns in Brookdale, and everybody was not so particular as Mr. Preston about trusting boys with fire-arms. Why could n't he borrow a gun of somebody else? So he asked himself; and by-and-bye he put the same question to Jerry. Jerry heartily entered into the proposal. He thought Jim Oakley would lend him a gun. At any rate, he was not afraid to ask him. Jim was a famous gunner, in that region. He had several fowling-pieces; and if he would not lend them his best rifle, it was not likely that he would refuse them one of his old guns. So Jerry reasoned, and Oscar fully agreed with him. They went to see Jim, that very afternoon, and by dint of teasing, they got the gun, together with a small quantity of powder and shot. Thus armed, they set out for the woods, in quest of game. They had been in the woods but a short time, and had not yet shot anything, though they had fired several charges, when a dispute arose between them about the gun. Jerry claimed a right to it half the time, on the ground that he had borrowed it. Oscar was willing that he should use the gun occasionally, but he resisted his claim to it half the time. He contended that the gun was loaned to him, and besides, he had agreed to pay the owner for all the ammunition they used. The dispute waxed warmer and warmer. Oscar was obstinate, and Jerry grew sulky. It was the first serious difficulty that had arisen between them. Neither of them, as yet, knew the other's temper, but now they were in a fair way of finding each other out. It was the clashing of two strong wills. Oscar soon saw that their sport was at an end for that day, and throwing down the gun and powder flask upon the grass, he said, in an angry tone: "There, take the old thing, and do what you please with it; and when you carry it back, see that you pay for the powder, for I won't." So saying, he turned upon his heel and walked off. He had not gone far when Jerry, who had picked up the gun, called out: "Here! you 've broken the trigger, throwing it down so. You may carry it back yourself now, I won't." "I shan't carry it back," replied Oscar; "you say he lent it to you, and you may take care of it now." Oscar went back to his uncle's, leaving Jerry and the gun to keep each other company. Not feeling in a very pleasant mood, Oscar did not go into the house, but loitered around the barn, avoiding the family as much as he could. Pretty soon he saw Clinton driving up, and he stepped inside of the barn, as he did not care about speaking with him. Clinton stopped however, when opposite to the barn, and called to him. "What would you give for a letter from home?" said Clinton, when Oscar made his appearance. "I don't know--why, have you got one for me?" inquired Oscar, with remarkable coolness. "That's for you, I guess," said Clinton, handing him a letter. "I 've been over to the post-office, and as I happened to see a letter directed to you, I thought I would take it along with me." "That's right, I'm glad you did," said Oscar, taking the letter. "Much obliged to you for your trouble," he added, as Clinton drove off. Oscar now went into the barn, and, seating himself upon a stool, opened and read his letter. It was from his mother. She acknowledged the receipt of his letter, and expressed much gratification at hearing that he was well and enjoying himself. His father, she wrote, thought he had better return home, and resume his place at school, from which he had been absent nearly three months. The term would close in about a month, and he wanted Oscar to be prepared to enter the High School at that time. Then followed various little messages from the children, directions about his journey home, &c. In closing, she requested him to return that week, that he might be ready to go to school the following Monday. Oscar was not very much pleased with the contents of the letter. He did not expect to be recalled so suddenly. He had hoped that, at any rate, he should not be sent to school again that term. But, his plans and hopes were all overturned by this letter. He went into the house, and told the news to his aunt, who expressed regret that he was to leave so soon. By-and-bye Jerry came home, but he brought the same scowl upon his face that Oscar left with him up in the woods. Oscar, too, was as "stuffy" as ever. No words passed between the two, and each seemed bent upon giving the other a wide berth. At the supper table, something was said about Oscar's letter, and his going home; but Jerry was too obstinate to ask any questions, and so he remained in tormenting uncertainty in regard to the matter. Oscar, too, had some curiosity about the gun, but he did not intend to "speak first," if he never spoke again to his cousin. During the whole evening, Oscar and Jerry were at the opposite poles of the little family circle. When Oscar retired for the night, he found Jerry not only abed, but asleep, or pretending to be. It was a wonder that both did not tumble out of bed that night; for each slept upon the extreme edge of the mattress, as far as possible from the other. When Oscar awoke in the morning, he found himself alone, Jerry having quietly arisen and slipped out of the room, without disturbing him. They did not see each other until they met at the breakfast table. Here, their sober and quiet demeanor, so unusual with them, soon attracted notice. "See how down in the mouth Jerry is!" said Emily. "He looks as though he had lost all his friends. And Oscar does n't look much better either, poor fellow!" Both boys changed color, and looked queerly, but they said nothing. "Never mind, boys," said Mrs. Preston, "you 've got one day more to enjoy yourselves together. You 'd better make the most of that, while it lasts, and not worry about the separation till the time comes." "That's good doctrine," said Mr. Preston; "never borrow trouble, for it comes fast enough any way. Come, cheer up, Oscar, you have n't gone yet." "It's too bad to make me go home so soon--I thought I was going to stay here a month or two," said Oscar, who was very willing that his unusual demeanor should be attributed entirely to his summons home. "You must ask your father to let you come down and spend your vacation," said Mr. Preston. "I expect to go up to Boston about that time, and I guess he will let me bring you home with me." "I should like to come," said Oscar, "but I don't believe father will let me, it's so far." "O yes, he will, when he knows what good friends you and Jerry are," replied Mr. Preston. "Jerry 's crying, as true as I 'm alive!" exclaimed Emily, who had been watching the workings of her brother's face for several moments, and thought she saw moisture gathering in his eye. "No I aint, either!" replied Jerry, in such a prompt and spiteful tone, and with such a scowl upon his face, that all the others, including even Oscar, joined in a hearty laugh. "I hope you feel good-natured," said his mother; "Oscar's going off seems to have had a queer effect upon you." "I don't care, you 're all picking upon me--it's enough to make anybody cross," said Jerry, in a surly tone. "You're mistaken--nobody has picked upon you," replied his mother. "Yes, you have, too," responded Jerry. "Jerry! don't let me hear any more of that--not another word," said Mr. Preston, sternly. "Then you 'd better make Emily hold her tongue," said Jerry. "Hush! do you hear me?" said Mr. Preston, with considerable excitement. Jerry undertook to mutter something more, when his father jumped up, and, taking him by the collar, led him to the cellar-door, and told him to go down and stay until he was sent for. Then, shutting the door, and turning the button, he resumed his seat at the table, and the family finished their meal in silence. Jerry was released from his confinement soon after breakfast; but the unfortunate affair at the table continued to weigh heavily upon his mind. Throughout the rest of the day, he kept out of everybody's way, and said nothing, but looked sour, cross, and wretched. Oscar, too, felt very unpleasantly. He found it hard work to amuse himself alone. He was a boy of strong social feelings, and abhorred solitary rambles and sports. It was a long and dull day, and when he retired to bed at night, he almost felt glad that it was his last day in Brookdale. Soon after he had got into bed, Jerry, who had retired before him, called out: "Oscar!" "What?" inquired the other. There was a long pause, during which Jerry hitched and twisted about, as if hesitating how to proceed. He at length inquired: "Are you mad with me?" "No," replied Oscar, somewhat reluctantly, and in a tone that was almost equivalent to "yes." "I don't want you to go off without making up with me," added Jerry; and as he spoke, his voice trembled, and had it been light enough, Oscar might have detected something like moisture in those very eyes that had flashed in anger at Emily in the morning, for reporting the same thing of them. "I 'm ready to make up with you," replied Oscar, turning over toward Jerry. Having thus broken the ice, the constraint and reserve that had existed between them since the previous day, gradually melted away, and they were once more on sociable terms, although their intercourse was not quite so free and unembarrassed as it was before their quarrel. In fact, they did not properly heal up the difficulty between them, inasmuch as neither made any confession or apology--a duty that both should have performed, as they were about equally guilty. Oscar's first inquiries were concerning the gun. Jerry told him that he carried it home, and that the owner was quite angry, when he saw the damage it had sustained, but said nothing about making the boys pay for it. The next morning the family arose at an earlier hour than usual, as Oscar had got to be on his way soon after sunrise. It was decided that Jerry should drive him over to the Cross-Roads. Accordingly, after a hasty breakfast, he bade them all good-bye, one by one, and taking a seat in the wagon with Jerry, started for home. It was delightful, riding while the birds were yet singing their morning songs, and the grass was spangled with dew, and the cool air had not felt the hot breath of the sun; but the separation that was about to take place, and the unpleasant recollection of their recent quarrel, lessened their enjoyment of the ride very much. They reached the Cross-Roads nearly half an hour before the stage-coach came along. At length it drove up to the post-office, and Oscar, mounting to the top, took a seat behind the driver. The mail-bag was handed to the driver, and the coach started again on its way, Oscar bowing his farewell to Jerry, as they drove off. [Illustration: The Stage Coach.] Nothing of special interest occurred the forenoon's ride. The coach reached its destination about eleven o'clock and Oscar had barely time enough to brush the dust from his clothing, and to obtain a drink of cold water, when the signal was given for the cars to start, and he took his seat in the train. His thoughtful aunt had placed a liberal supply of eatables in the top of his valise, and to that he now had recourse, for his long ride had given him a sharp appetite. There were but few passengers in the train when it started, but at almost every station it received accessions. On reaching Portland, Oscar found that he had nearly half an hour to spare, before taking the Boston train; for it was his intention to "go through" in one day, which his early start enabled him to do. After treating himself to a few cakes, which he purchased at a refreshment stand in the depôt, he walked about until it was time to take his seat in the cars. The clock struck three, and the train started. One hundred and eleven miles seemed to Oscar a long distance to travel, at one stretch, especially after riding all the forenoon; and, indeed, he did begin to feel quite tired, long before he reached the end of the journey. To add to his uneasiness, a particle of cinder from the locomotive flew into his eye, and lodged there so firmly that all his efforts to remove it were in vain. In a little while, the eye became quite painful, and he was obliged to keep it closed. A kind-looking gentleman, who sat near him, noticed his trouble, and offered to assist him in removing the mote; but it was so small that he could not find it. He advised Oscar not to rub the inflamed organ, and told him he thought the moisture of the eye would soon wash out the intruder, if left to itself. Oscar tried to follow this advice, but the pain and irritation did not subside, and he closed his eyes, and resigned himself to darkness. The nine o'clock bells of Boston were ringing, as Oscar left the depôt and turned his steps homeward. He hurried along through the familiar streets, and had just turned the corner from which his home was in sight, when somebody jumped suddenly from a dark passage-way, and seized him by the hand. It was Ralph, who had been on the watch for his brother half an hour, and, concealed himself just as he saw him approaching. Each gave the other a cordial greeting, and then they hastened into the house, where Oscar found the rest of the family waiting to receive him. The general commotion that followed his arrival, aroused Tiger from the comfortable nap he was taking on a mat, and on hearing the well-remembered tones of his master's voice, he sprang toward Oscar, and nearly knocked him over with his demonstrations of welcome. So Oscar was at home again; and from the welcome he received, he learned that there is pleasure in getting back from a journey as well as in setting out upon one. His inflamed eye soon attracted the notice of his mother, and she examined it to see if she could detect the cause of the irritation; but the troublesome atom was invisible. She then said she would try the eye-stone, and, going to the drawer, she got a small, smooth, and flat stone, and told Ella to go down into the kitchen and bring up a little vinegar in a saucer. On putting the stone into the vinegar, it soon began to move about, as though it were possessed of life. When it had become sufficiently lively, Mrs. Preston wiped it dry, and put it between the lid and ball of Oscar's inflamed eye. After it had remained there a few minutes, he allowed it to drop into his hand, and on a close-examination, he found that it had brought with it the offending substance that had caused him so much pain. It was a little black speck, so small that it was barely perceptible to the unaided eye. It now being quite late, Mrs. Preston thought that further inquiries and answers concerning Oscar's visit had better be deferred till morning, and the family soon retired to their beds. CHAPTER XX. DOWNWARD PROGRESS The next day was Saturday. Oscar was off most of the day with his comrades, among whom he was quite a lion for the time. During one of the brief intervals that he was in the house, his mother said some thing about his going to school on Monday. "O dear, I don't want to go to school again this term," said Oscar. "What's the use? Why, it 's only four or five weeks before the term will be through." "I know that," replied his mother, "but your father is very anxious that you should get into the High School, and he thinks you can do it if you finish up this term." "I can't do it--I 've got all behindhand with my studies," said Oscar. "O yes, you can if you try," replied his mother. "You might have got into the High School last year if you had studied a little harder. You were almost qualified then, and I'm sure you ought to be now. If you find you are behind your class in your lessons, you must study so much the harder, and you 'll get up with them by-and-bye." "But I don't believe it will do me any good to be confined in the school-room," continued Oscar. "I don't think I'm so strong as I was before I was sick." "Well," said Mrs. Preston, "when you 're sick you need not go to school; but I guess there 's no danger of your staying at home for that reason, at present. You never looked better in your life than you do now." Oscar tried his pleas again in the evening with his father, but with quite as poor success. He saw that it was fully determined that he should resume his seat at school, and he reluctantly submitted to this decision. When Monday morning came, he proceeded to school, but found that his old desk was in possession of another boy. The head teacher in Oscar's department soon appeared, and seemed quite glad to see him once more. He appointed Oscar a new seat, and told him he hoped he would study so diligently as to make up for lost time. The hopes of Oscar's teacher and parents were doomed to disappointment. It was soon evident that he cared less about his lessons than ever. He was behind his class, and instead of redoubling his efforts to get up with them, he became discouraged and indifferent. His recitations were seldom perfect, and often they were utter failures. His teachers coaxed, and encouraged, and ridiculed, and frowned, and punished, all in vain. One day, after Oscar had blundered worse than usual, the teacher who was hearing the recitation said to him, in a despairing tone: "You remind me, Oscar, of what one of the old Roman emperors said to an archer who shot his arrows a whole day, and never once hit the mark. He told him he had a most wonderful talent for missing. So I must say of you--you 've got the greatest talent for missing of any boy I know." Seeing a smile on the faces of Oscar's classmates, he added: "But this is too sober a matter to make light of. If you could not get your lessons, it would be a different matter; but I know, and you know, that this is not the trouble. You are quick enough to learn and to understand, when you have a mind to be. If you would only try to get your lessons as hard as the other boys do, you would n't be at the foot of the class a great while. If you keep on in this way, you will see your folly as plainly as I see it now, before you are many years older." This admonition had little effect upon Oscar. When school was dismissed, a few minutes after, he rushed out with as light a step as any of his comrades, and his gay laugh was heard as soon as he reached the entry. In the general scramble for caps, one had fallen from its peg, and instead of replacing it, two or three of the boys were making a football of it. Oscar joined the sport, and gave the cap a kick that sent it part of the way down stairs. A moment after, he met Willie Davenport returning with it. "Halloo, Whistler, that is n't your cap, is it?" inquired Oscar. "No, but it's _somebody's_," said the good-hearted boy, as he brushed off the dust, and put the lining back into its place. He was about hanging it up, when Benny Wright appeared, and claimed it as his property. Had Oscar known that the cap was Benny's, he would not have made a foot-ball of it. He remembered the kind epistle he received, when sick, and the amusement it afforded him, when amusements were scarce. Since his recovery, he had treated Benny with much more consideration than before, and quite a kindly feeling had sprung up between them. Oscar's inattention to his studies was not his only fault at school. His general behavior was worse than it had ever been before. Vexed that he was compelled to return to school so near the expiration of the term, it seemed as though he was determined to make as little improvement in his studies, and as much trouble for his teachers, as he could. He not only idled away his own time, but he disturbed other boys who were disposed to study. He was repeatedly reproved and punished, but reproof and punishment did no good; on the contrary, they seemed rather to make him worse. The teachers at length gave him up as incorrigible, and consoled themselves with the thought that his connection with the school would cease in two or three weeks, at which time his class would graduate. They still aimed to keep him in check, during school hours, but they ceased spending their time and breath in trying to bring about a reformation in his conduct. One day as the scholars were engaged in writing, the master, while passing along among the boys, and inspecting their writing-books, noticed that somebody had been spitting what appeared to be tobacco juice, near Oscar's seat. This was a violation of the rules of the school, and the teacher concluded not to let it pass unnoticed. Having no doubt, from several circumstances, that Oscar was the offender, he said to him: "Oscar, what are you chewing tobacco in school for, and spitting the juice on the floor?" "I have n't chewed any tobacco this afternoon," replied Oscar. "What is it, then, that you have been spitting upon the floor?" inquired the teacher. "I have n't spit upon the floor," replied Oscar. "Who did that?" continued the teacher, pointing to the puddle upon the floor. "I don't know," said Oscar; "it was there when I took my seat." It was possible that Oscar told the truth, but the teacher had his doubts. He might perhaps, have settled the matter at once by putting a question to one or two of the boys who sat near the supposed offender but as he always avoided the system of making one boy inform against another, when he could properly do so, he took another course. He told Oscar, if he had any tobacco in his mouth, or anywhere about his person, to give it up to him. Oscar declared that he had none. "Let me look into your mouth," said the teacher. Oscar had a small piece of the weed in his mouth, which he tucked behind his upper lip with his tongue, and then opened his mouth. The teacher of course saw nothing but what belonged there. He _smelt_ something, however, that left him no longer in doubt that Oscar had told a falsehood. "I can't see your cud, but I can smell it plain enough," said the master; "and I 'll examine your pockets, if you please." Oscar was far from pleased with this proposition, and tried to prevent its being carried into effect. The master, however, easily overcame the difficulties he put in the way, and running his hand into the pocket which he seemed most anxious to defend, brought forth a piece of tobacco large enough to kill a horse! "What is that?" he inquired, holding the contraband article before Oscar. Oscar neither looked at it nor made any reply. "And you are the boy who said a moment ago that you had no tobacco about you," continued the master "I declare I don't know what to do with you. I have said and done all that I can to make a better boy of you, and now I shall report this matter to your father, and let him settle it with you. But I want you to remember one thing. When you tell me a lie, you break God's law, and not mine; and you can't settle the matter in full with me, or any other human being." The teacher then threw the piece of tobacco out of the open window, and taking Oscar's writing-book, told him he would set a new copy for him. He soon returned, with the following line written upon the top of a clean page: "_Lying lips are abomination to the Lord._" As Oscar wrote this fearful sentence over and over again, he could not fully escape the force of its meaning. It reminded him of his feelings during his recent illness, when at times the terrible thought that his sickness might possibly be unto death intruded upon his mind. But thoughts of God, and death, and a future world, were alike unpleasant to him, and he banished them as speedily as possible. During the afternoon, the principal of the school wrote a letter to Mr. Preston, informing him of Oscar's indolence and bad conduct, and referring particularly to the incident that had just occurred. By way of offset to the complaint, he spoke in very high terms of Ralph, who attended the same school, but was in another department and another room. He sent the letter by Ralph, but told him not to let Oscar know anything about it. Ralph had some suspicions of the nature of the letter, but he did his errand faithfully, going directly from school to his father's store. Mr. Preston was at first very much irritated by the teacher's complaints of Oscar's misconduct; and could he have taken the culprit in hand at the time, he would probably have handled him rather roughly. But several days elapsed before he found it convenient to talk with Oscar about the matter, and by this time his passion had subsided into anxiety and sorrow. He showed Oscar the letter, in which he, the eldest son, was severely censured, and his little brother was so highly commended. With tears in his eyes, he warned him of the dangers before him, and entreated him to change his course. Oscar had never seen his father exhibit so much emotion before. Usually, on such occasions, he was stern, if not passionate; more ready to threaten and punish than to appeal to the heart and conscience. Now, all this was changed, and sorrow seemed to have taken the place of anger. Oscar was somewhat affected by this unusual manifestation of parental anxiety. He was pretty well hardened against scoldings and threatenings, but he did not know how to meet this new form of rebuke. He tried to conceal his feelings, however, and preserved a sullen silence throughout the interview. This affair made no abiding impression upon Oscar. In a day or two it was forgotten, and the slight compunctions he felt had entirely disappeared. But the schoolmaster's complaint was soon followed by another that was quite as unpleasant. As Mrs. Preston was sitting at her sewing, one day, the door suddenly opened, and in came Bridget, the servant girl, with a face as red as rage and a hot fire could make it. "I'll be goin' off this night, ma'am--I'll pack me chist, and not stop here any longer at all," said Bridget, in a tone that betokened her anger. "Going off--what do you mean? You don't say you 're going to leave us so suddenly, Biddy?" inquired Mrs. Preston, with surprise. "Yes, that I be," replied Bridget, very decidedly; "I 'll not be after staying in the same house with that big, ugly b'y, another day." "Who, Oscar? What has he done now?" inquired Mrs. Preston. "He's did nothing but bother the life out o' me ivery day since he coom back, that's jist all he 's did," replied Biddy. "Jist now, ma'am, he slopped over a hull basin o' dirty whater right on to the clane floor, and thin laffed at me, and sassed me, and called me, all sorts o' bad names--the little sass-box! It's not the like o' Bridget Mullikin that 'll put up with his dirty impidence another day. I 'd like to live with ye, ma'am, and Mister Pristen, good, nice man that he is but I can't stop to be trated like a dog by that sassy b'y." "I 'll go and see what he has been about," said Mrs. Preston, laying down her work. When they reached the kitchen, Oscar was not to be found. There was the puddle of dirty water upon the floor, however, and so far Bridget's story was corroborated. As she proceeded to wipe it up, she continued to speak in not very complimentary terms of the "ugly b'y," as she delighted to call Oscar. It was in vain that Mrs. Preston attempted to soothe her ruffled spirits. She refused to be comforted, and insisted upon taking her departure from the house that night. Oscar did not make his appearance again until late in the afternoon. When his mother called him to account for his treatment of Bridget, he denied the greater part of her story. He said that the basin of water was standing upon the floor, and that he accidentally hit it with his foot, and upset it. He denied that he called her bad names or was impudent, but he admitted that he laughed, to see her so angry. He also complained that she was as "cross as Bedlam" to him, and "jawed" him whenever he entered the kitchen. Mrs. Preston, puzzled by these contradictory stories, brought the two contending parties face to face, in hope of either eliciting the truth or effecting a treaty of peace between them. She failed in both objects, however. Bridget not only adhered to her first statement, but boldly accused Oscar of sundry other misdeeds that had come up in recollection since the first outbreak; while Oscar, on the other hand, stoutly denied most of her charges, and insisted that she was ill-natured, and irritated him in every possible way. The contest finally waxed so warm between them that Mrs. Preston was obliged to interpose, and to withdraw with Oscar. Mrs. Preston never ascertained the real facts in the case. Candor compels me to say that Bridget's complaints were essentially true. Knowing the poor Irish girl's weak side (her quick temper), Oscar had for some time taxed his ingenuity to torment her, for the sake of hearing her "sputter," as he termed it. He was not only impudent, and applied offensive names to her, but sometimes he purposely put her to extra labor and trouble by misplacing articles, making dirt about the house, &c. These things were a sad annoyance to Bridget, and she soon came to regard Oscar as "the plague of her life," and treated him accordingly. He did very wrong to annoy her in this way; and she was foolish to take so much notice of his hectoring. The ill-will thus established between them grew day by day, until it resulted in the open rupture just described. But Mrs. Preston did not give full credit to Bridget's story. She believed the difficulty was owing quite as much to Biddy's irritable temper and ignorance as to Oscar's impudence, and consequently the latter escaped with a slight reprimand. She also prevailed upon Bridget to remain with them the week out, thinking she would by that time get over her anger. But, to the surprise of all, when Saturday night came, Bridget took her departure. She had got another "place," where she would be out of the reach of the provoking Oscar. The week for the annual examination of the public schools soon arrived. Oscar begged hard, but in vain, for permission to absent himself, on the eventful day that the grave committee and other distinguished visitors were to sit in judgment upon the condition of the school to which he belonged. But though he was present, he did not appear to much advantage among the "bright particular stars" of the day; and as one and another of the flower of his class were called out, to receive the "Franklin medals," his name was not heard, and no silken ribbon, with silver medal attached, was hung around his neck. The same day, in obedience to the orders of his father, but very much against his own inclination, Oscar applied to the head master for the certificate required of boys who present themselves for admission to the High School. The teacher seemed a little puzzled what reply to make. At length he said: "Do you know what kind of a certificate is required?" "Yes, sir," replied Oscar, who had read the advertisement in the paper that morning. "The certificate must say that you are a boy of good character, and that your teacher believes you are qualified for admission to the High School," continued the master. "Now I want to ask you if you think I can honestly say that of you?" Oscar hung his head in shame, but made no reply. It had turned out just as he feared it would. "It is very hard to refuse such a request," continued the teacher; "but, really, if I should give you the certificate, I am afraid it would do you no good, while it might do me some harm, for I don't like to have my scholars rejected. I cannot honestly say that I think you are qualified for the High School; and besides your conduct has been such of late, that I do not see how I could give you a very high recommendation. I would advise you to give up the idea of applying for admission. I am very sorry it is so, but that will not help the matter." What could Oscar say to this? He said nothing, but his looks betrayed the deep mortification he felt, and moved his teacher to pity, while he denied his request. Nor was this the end of Oscar's troubles. He had got to face his father, and to confess to him that he was found unworthy even to be a candidate for the school for which he had so long been preparing. In doing this, he smoothed over the matter as well as he could; but at best it was a bitter thing to him, and thus he began to experience some of the sad but natural effects of his own misconduct. CHAPTER XXI. NED MIXER. The long summer vacation had now commenced. Oscar wished to spend it at Brookdale, but his parents did not seem much inclined to yield to his wishes. They had not yet fully determined what to do with him; whether to send him to a private school, when the vacations were over, or to put him to work in some shop or store. Meanwhile, Oscar was idling away his time about the streets, and devoting all his energies to the pursuit of amusement. His favorite place of resort continued to be the hotel where Alfred Walton lived. Here he found congenial spirits in Alfred, and Andy the speller, and the several drivers and hostlers, with whom he was on intimate terms. Here, too, he often met with strangers who took his fancy. At this time, a boy named Edward Mixer was boarding at the hotel. He had lately come to Boston from another city, and Oscar and Alfred were soon captivated by his free and easy manners, and his sociable qualities. He was between fifteen and sixteen years old, and represented that he was travelling about, to see the world. He said he had plenty of money, and should have a great deal more, when he became of age. He was fashionably dressed, and Oscar and Alfred felt proud of his acquaintance, and were soon on terms of intimacy with him. It was not long before Oscar discovered that Edward was a very bad boy. His conversation was low and profane, and he seemed to take special delight in relating sundry "scrapes," in which he himself figured in a character that was something worse than mischievous, and bordered on the criminal. He "talked large," too, amazingly large; and Oscar and Alfred were at length forced to the reluctant conclusion that he was an unmitigated liar. But these were small faults, in their view. They considered Ned a capital fellow, and a right down good companion, in spite of these little drawbacks, and they sought his company as much as ever. Ned spent a good deal of his time around the several railroad depôts. He seemed to have quite a mania for such places. Oscar and Alfred often accompanied him to these favorite old haunts of theirs. One morning, as the three were loitering around a depôt, having nothing in particular to amuse themselves with, an excursion on foot into a neighboring town was proposed, and all readily agreed to the suggestion. They immediately set out, accompanied by Oscar's dog, Tiger. They walked along the railroad track, and crossed the river by the railroad bridge, thus saving their tolls, besides many extra steps. They passed several small sign-boards, on which was painted the warning, "_No Person allowed to cross this Bridge_;" but this did not check their progress, and as no one interfered with them, they were soon safely over the river. They still followed the track for some distance, until they had reached the open country, and then they turned off into the green fields. There were many fine orchards and gardens on every side, but ripe fruits and berries were very scarce. Strawberries and cherries had pretty much disappeared, and it was not yet time for plums, peaches, and early apples and pears. Ned appeared to regret this very much. "Just see there!" he exclaimed, as they approached a large garden, remote from any house, whose trees were loaded with green fruit. "What fine picking we should have, if it were only a few weeks later! I mean to come out here again next month, you see if I don't. We must mark this place; let me see; there's an old rough board fence--I shall remember that, I guess. Didn't you ever rob an orchard, Alf? I've robbed more than you could shake a stick at. I 'm a first-rate hand at it, I can tell you--never got caught in my life; but I've come pretty near it, though, a good many times. Hold on--I 'm going to get over the fence, and see what they 've got. Those plums over there look as if they were pretty near ripe. Come, Alf and Oscar, won't you get over?" "You two may," said Oscar, "but I 'll stay here with Tiger. He might bark if we all got over, where he could n't see us." Edward and Alfred were soon upon the other side of the fence. While they were exploring the garden, Oscar's attention was attracted to a dense thicket, from which two or three birds suddenly flew on his approach. He thought there might be a nest there, and concluded to see if he could find it. Carefully brushing aside the leaves and twigs, he began to hunt for the suspected nest, while Tiger stood looking on. Absorbed in this occupation, he lost sight of his comrades. [Illustration: Hunting for Birds' Nests.] After searching for several minutes, Oscar found a small nest, within his reach, but it was empty. He turned to inform the other boys of his success, but they were nowhere to be seen. He walked along by the fence, but could see nothing of them. He was afraid to call to them, lest the owner of the garden might hear, and take the alarm. He listened, but could not hear them. He walked along still further, and kept his eyes wide open, but they were not to be seen. He concluded they were playing a trick upon him, and had hid themselves. If that was the game he thought, he would not worry himself about it. He accordingly turned about, and was going to sit down and wait for them to make their appearance, when he happened to espy them in a distant field, running at the top of their speed, with a man in full chase after them. It was soon evident that the boys were gaining on their pursuer; but they were approaching a brook, over which there was no bridge, and the man probably supposed that would bring them to a stand. It did not, however, for they ran right through the shallow water, without stopping to think about it. The man did not think it prudent to follow their example, and he accordingly gave up the chase, and went back with dry feet. After Edward and Alfred had got rid of their pursuer, they began to look around for Oscar. The latter, putting his fingers into his mouth, gave a loud and shrill whistle, which they immediately recognized, and answered in a similar way. Oscar started towards them, and taking a wide sweep through the fields, they all came out together upon the highway. They did not think it safe to remain long in the neighborhood, and so they hurried on towards Boston. It appeared, from Edward's story, that he and Alfred knocked a few hard peaches from a tree, while in the garden, but they proved unfit to eat. They also found some ripe currants, and were leisurely helping themselves, when they heard somebody ask them what they were about. They turned, and saw a man approaching; whereupon, without stopping to answer his question, they leaped over the fence, and took to their heels, the man following closely upon them. The conclusion of the race Oscar had witnessed. As they were walking home, and talking about various matters, Edward suddenly gave the conversation a new turn, by inquiring: "Boys, do you want to go into a grand speculation with me?" "Yes, what is it?" was the response of both the others. "We should make something handsome out of it, but we should have to run some risk," continued Edward. "I've got the scheme all laid out, so that I know just how to go to work. But it's no use talking about it. I don't believe either of you have got pluck enough to go into it." "I 've got pluck--the real, genuine article; try me, and see if I have n't," said Alfred. "So have I," said Oscar; "I should like to have you show me a boy that's got more pluck than I have, when I get stirred up." "Pooh, you don't know what pluck is, neither of you," replied Edward. "What would you do if a policeman should nab you?" "I should run, just as _you_ did, when the man caught you stealing fruit," said Oscar, with a laugh. "That's a specimen of _your_ pluck, aint it?" "But what is the speculation you were telling about?" inquired Alfred. "I guess I shan't tell you about it now," replied Edward. "I 'm afraid you would n't keep it to yourselves." "Yes we will. _I_ will at any rate," said Alfred. "So will I," added Oscar. "If I let you into the secret, and you should blab it out, I would n't mind killing both of you," said Edward, with forced gravity, which he could not long maintain, it gradually relaxing into a smile. "I mean what I say," he added, "you needn't laugh at it." Both the others renewed their promise to keep the matter a secret; but Edward, after talking about his scheme a quarter of an hour longer, and exciting the curiosity of the others to the highest point, finally informed them that he could not let them into the secret then, but that he would tell them all about it in a few days, if he was sure that they would keep it to themselves. Oscar saw Edward almost every day, and often inquired about his speculation, but got no definite answer. He and Alfred both felt very curious to know what it was; but though expectation was on tiptoe, it was not gratified. Edward assured them, however, that things were nearly ready, and that in a few days he would let them into the mysterious scheme. Oscar's uncle, from Brookdale, was now in the city, and was stopping for a few days at Mr. Preston's. He no sooner arrived, than Oscar applied to his parents for permission to return with him to Maine; but they did not give much encouragement to his proposal, although his uncle said he should like to have him make his family another visit. Oscar, however, daily renewed his request, for he believed that he should yet accomplish his object by teasing. The day before Oscar's uncle was to return to his home, a gentleman called into Mr. Preston's store, and told him he wished to see him alone. Having with drawn to a private room, the stranger introduced himself as an officer of the police. "You have a son fourteen or fifteen years old?" inquired the officer. "Yes, I have," replied Mr. Preston. "Are you aware that he is getting into bad company?" continued the officer. "No, sir," said Mr. Preston. "Well," resumed the other, "I 've called to acquaint you of a few facts that have come to my knowledge, and you can act in the matter as you think best. There is a young fellow stopping at the ---- Hotel, who came to this city a few weeks ago, and who calls himself Edward Mixer. He is a little larger than your son, and is well dressed, and looks like a respectable boy; but for a week or two past we have suspected that he was a rogue. He hangs around the railroad depôts, and as several persons have had their pockets picked, when getting out of the cars, since he made his appearance, we began to watch him. We have got no evidence against him yet; but yesterday I pointed him out to a New York policeman, who happened to be here, and he says he knows him well. It seems he is a regular pickpocket by profession, and has served a term at Blackwell's Island. [1] He was liberated last month, and came on here to follow the business where he isn't known. But we keep a sharp eye on him, and as we have noticed that your son is quite intimate with him, I thought it my duty to inform you of it. I don't suppose your boy knows the real character of this fellow, or has anything to do with his roguery; but it isn't safe for him to be in such company, and I thought you ought to know what is going on." Mr. Preston thanked the officer very cordially for the information, and promised to see that Oscar was immediately put out of the way of danger from this source. When he went home at noon, he had a long private interview with his son, and informed him of the disclosures the officer had made. Oscar was not a little astonished to learn that the genteel and sociable Ned Mixer, whose company he prized so highly, was a thief by trade, and was fresh from a prison. He assured his father that he knew nothing of all this. This was true; but after all Oscar knew too much of the character of Ned to believe him to be a good boy, or a safe companion. He had heard him swear and lie. He had also heard him sneer at virtue, and boast of deeds that no well-ordered conscience would approve. And yet he courted his company, and considered him a "capital fellow"! O, foolish boy! But Oscar's plea of ignorance did not fully excuse him, even in the eye of his father, who did not know how little force that plea really had. "I don't suppose you knew his character," said Mr. Preston; "but are there not good boys enough in the neighborhood for you to associate with--boys that have always lived here and are well known--without your cultivating the acquaintance of every straggler and vagabond that comes along? I wish you would not make yourself so intimate with Tom, Dick, and Harry, before you know anything about them. I 've cautioned you against this a good many times, and now I hope that you 'll see there is some cause for it. If this intimacy had gone on a few weeks longer, it might have ruined you and disgraced your mother and me." After consultation with his wife and brother, Mr. Preston concluded to let Oscar go down to Brookdale; and remain until they could make some permanent arrangements for him elsewhere. He did not think it safe for him to remain longer exposed to the temptations of the city. He charged Oscar not to speak again to Ned, and not to inform any one of the facts he had learned about him, lest it might thwart the efforts of the police to detect his rogueries. On second thought, he concluded to take Oscar to the store with him that afternoon, to prevent the possibility of an interview between him and Ned. Oscar thus remained under the eye of his father through the day. In the evening he packed his valise for the journey, and the next morning he started for Brookdale with his uncle. A day or two after Oscar's departure, Ned was arrested in the act of picking a lady's pocket at a railroad depôt. Being unable to obtain bail, he was committed for trial. When his case came up in court, he was brought in guilty; and it appearing, from the testimony of the officers, that, though young, he was quite old in crime, he was sentenced to one year in the House of Correction. Oscar never ascertained the nature of Ned's "grand speculation," and probably it was well for him that he did not. Had he been let into the secret, and had the scheme been carried into effect at the time it was first talked of, I might have been obliged to add another and a still sadder chapter to the history of "THE BOY WHO HAD HIS OWN WAY." [1] The New York Penitentiary. 
36015	----	[Illustration: Cover] LITTLE MISS PEGGY: ONLY A NURSERY STORY "Would I could paint the serious brow, The eyes that look the world in face, Half-questioning, doubting, wondering how This happens thus, or that finds place." _My Opposite Neighbour._ [Illustration: "'What is the matter, little girls?' said the lady." P. 181] LITTLE MISS PEGGY: ONLY A NURSERY SToRY BY MRS. MoLESWoRTH WITH PICTURES BY WALTER CRANE LoNDoN: MACMILLAN & Co. AND NEW YORK 1887 To the Memory of E. L. THE DEAR YOUNG FRIEND WHO SUGGESTED ITS NAME TO THIS LITTLE STORY, AND FROM WHOSE LATE HOME, SO INTIMATELY ASSOCIATED WITH HER, THIS DEDICATION IS MADE. BINDON, _August_ 1887. CONTENTS CHAPTER I PAGE A BREAKFAST PARTY 1 CHAPTER II THE WHITE SPOT ON THE HILL 18 CHAPTER III "THE CHILDREN AT THE BACK" 33 CHAPTER IV "REAL" FANCIES 48 CHAPTER V THE LITTLE RED SHOES 65 CHAPTER VI FELLOW-FEELINGS AND SLIPPERS 81 CHAPTER VII A BUN TO THE GOOD 98 CHAPTER VIII UNDER THE BIG UMBRELLA 114 CHAPTER IX THE OPPOSITE HOUSE 131 CHAPTER X "SOAP-BUBBLING" 145 CHAPTER XI UP FERNLEY ROAD 162 CHAPTER XII THE SHOES-LADY AGAIN 178 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "WHAT IS THE MATTER, LITTLE GIRLS?" SAID THE LADY. _Frontispiece_ PAGE HE HAD TO DRUM WITH A SPOON, FIRST IN ONE FAT HAND AND THEN IN THE OTHER 2 THEY WERE SETTLED ON THE HEARTH-RUG--BABY ON PEGGY'S LAP 17 "SEE HAL," SHE SAID, "OVER THERE, FAR, FAR AWAY, NEELY IN THE SKY, DOES YOU SEE THAT BLUEY HILL?" 27 SHE WAS RATHER A TERRIBLE-LOOKING OLD WOMAN; SHE ALWAYS WORE A SHORT BED-GOWN ... AND SHE WAS GENERALLY TO BE SEEN WITH A PIPE IN HER MOUTH 35 "TELL ME WHAT THE LITTLE WHITE HOUSE IS REELY LIKE" 52 PEGGY STOOD STILL, HER EYES FIXED ON THE BABY SHOES 68 "HERE'S THE OTHER SHOE, I'VE JUST FOUNDED IT" 92 SUDDENLY A WINDOW ABOVE OPENED, AND MOTHER WHELAN'S BEFRILLED FACE WAS THRUST OUT 109 AN UMBRELLA ROLLING ITSELF ABOUT ON THE PAVEMENT 127 "TO BE SURE," SHE SAID, IN HER MOST GRACIOUS TONE. "'TIS THE BEAUTIFUL PIPES I HAVE" 138 THE BOYS, BOY-LIKE, THOUGHT LITTLE BUT OF WHO COULD BLOW THE BIGGEST BUBBLES 149 HUSHED LIGHT SMILEY TO SLEEP, HER ARM CLASPED ROUND PEGGY 177 CHAPTER I A BREAKFAST PARTY "Henry was every morning fed With a full mess of milk and bread." MARY LAMB. "NO," said Peggy to herself, with a little sigh, "the naughty clouds has covered it up to-day. I can't see it." "Miss Peggy," came nurse's voice from the other side of the room, "your breakfast's waiting. Come to the table, my dear, and stand quiet while Master Thor says the grace." [Illustration: "--Baby, who required a great deal of room to himself at table, baby though he was. He had so many things to do during a meal, you see, which grown-up children think quite unnecessary. He had to drum with a spoon, first in one fat hand and then in the other; he had to dip his crust first in nurse's cup of tea and next in Hal's jug of milk to see which tasted best, and there would have been no fun in doing either if he hadn't had to stretch a long way across; and besides all this he felt really obliged now and then to put his feet upon the table for a change, one at a time, of course."] Nurse spoke kindly, but she meant what she said. Peggy turned slowly from the window and took her place among her brothers. She, and Thorold and Terence, the two oldest boys, sat opposite nurse, and beside nurse was Baby, who required a great deal of room to himself at table, baby though he was. He had so many things to do during a meal, you see, which grown-up children think quite unnecessary. He had to drum with a spoon, first in one fat hand and then in the other; he had to dip his crust first in nurse's cup of tea and next in Hal's jug of milk to see which tasted best, and there would have been no fun in doing either if he hadn't had to stretch a long way across; and besides all this he felt really obliged now and then to put his feet upon the table for a change, one at a time, of course. For even he, clever as he was, could not have got both together out of the bars of his chair without toppling over. Nurse had for some time past been speaking about beginning "to break Master Baby in," but so far it had not got beyond speaking, and she contented herself with seating him beside her and giving him a good quarter of the table to himself, the only objection to which was that it gave things in general a rather lopsided appearance. At the two ends sat Baldwin and Hal. Hal's real name, of course, was Henry, though he was never called by it. Baldwin, on the contrary, had no short name, partly perhaps because mamma thought "Baldie" sounded so ugly, and partly because there was something about Baldwin himself which made one not inclined to shorten his name. It suited him so well, for he was broad and comfortable and slow. He was never in a hurry, and he gave you the feeling that you needn't be in a hurry either. There was plenty of time for everything, for saying the whole of his name as well as for everything else. That made a lot of brothers, didn't it? Five, counting baby, and to match them, or rather not to match them--for five and one are not a match at all--only one little girl! She wondered about it a good deal, when she had nothing else more interesting to wonder about. It seemed so very badly managed that she should have five brothers, and that the five brothers should only have one sister each. It wasn't always so, she knew. The children at the back had plenty of both brothers and sisters; she had found that out already. But I must not begin just yet about the children at the back; you will hear about them in good time. There was a nice bowl of bread-and-milk at each child's place, and as bread-and-milk is much better hot than cold, it was generally eaten up quickly. But this morning, even after the grace was said, and the four brothers who weren't baby had got on very well with theirs, Peggy sat, spoon in hand, gazing before her and not eating at all. "What's the matter, Miss Peggy?" said nurse, when she had at last made Baby understand that he really _wasn't_ to try to put his toes into her tea-cup, which had struck him suddenly as a very beautiful thing to do; "you've not begun to eat. Are you waiting for the sugar or the salt, or can't you fix which you want this morning?" For there was a very nice and interesting rule in that nursery that every morning each child might choose whether he or she would have salt or sugar in the bread and milk. The only thing was that they had to be quick about choosing, and that was not always very easy. Peggy looked up when nurse spoke to her. "Peggy wasn't 'toosing," she said. Then she grew a little red. "_I_ wasn't 'toosing," she went on. For Peggy was five--five a good while ago--and she wanted to leave off baby ways of talking. "I was wondering." "Well, eat your breakfast, and when you've got half-way down the bowl you can tell us what you were wondering about," said nurse. Peggy's spoon, already laden, continued its journey to her mouth. But when it got there, and its contents were safely deposited between her two red lips, she gave a little cry. "Oh!" she said, "it doesn't taste good. There's no salt or sugar." "'Cos you didn't put any in, you silly girl," said Thor. "I saw, but I thought it'd be a good lesson. People shouldn't wonder when they're eating." "Peggy wasn't eating; she was only going to eat," said Terry. "Never mind, Peg-top. Thor shan't tease you. Which'll you have? Say quick," and he pulled forward the sugar-basin and the salt-cellar in front of his sister. "Sugar, pelease," said Peggy. "It's so 'told this morning." At this Thor burst out laughing. "What a Peggy-speech," he said. "Sugar's no warmer than salt." "Yes," said Baldwin, solemnly, from the other end of the table. "'Tis. There's sugar in toffee and in jam, and they're hot, leastways they're hot to be made. And there's salt in ices, for mamma said they're made with salt." "What rubbish!" said Thor. "Nurse, isn't it rubbish? And when did you ever see ices, I'd like to know, Baldwin?" "I did," Baldwin maintained. "Onst. But I'll not tell you when, if you say rubbish." "It is rubbish all the same, and I'll prove it," said Thor. "You know that nice smooth white sugar on the top of bridescake?--well, they ice that to put it on--I know they do. Don't they, nurse?" "They call it icing, to be sure," nurse replied. "But that's no proof that ices themselves mayn't be made with salt, Master Thor, for when you come to think of it ices have sugar in them." "To be sure they have," Thor cried, triumphantly. "Nurse has proved it--that sugar's no warmer than salt," which was not what nurse had intended to say at all. But now Peggy, who all this time had been steadily eating, looked up again. "Peggy was wondering," she said, "what's clouds. Is clouds alive?" Thor was all ready with his "you silly girl" again, but this time Terry was before him. "They can't be alive," he said. "They've got no hands, or feet, or mouths, and noses, and eyes, and----" "They _has_ noses," said Peggy, eagerly. "Peggy's seen them, and they has wings--the little ones has wings, they fly so fast. And p'raps they has got proper faces on their other sides, to look at the sun with. I've seen shiny bits of the other sides turned over." "Yes," said Baldwin, solemnly again, as if that settled it, "so has I." "But they're not alive, Peggy, they're really not. They fly because the wind blows them," said Terence. "Oh!" said Peggy, with a deep-drawn breath, "I see. Then if we all blowed very hard at the window, if we all blowed together, couldn't we blow them away? I do so want to blow them away when they come over my hills." But when she had said this she grew very red, just as if she had told something she had not meant to tell, and if any one had looked at her quite close they would have seen that there were tears in her eyes. Fortunately, however, no one had noticed her last words, for Thorold and Terence too had burst out laughing at the beginning of her speech. "Fancy us all blowing out of the window together," they said. And they began puffing out their cheeks and pretending to blow very hard, which made them look so funny that Peggy herself burst out laughing too. "I'll tell you what," said Thor, when they were tired of laughing, "that reminds me of soap-bubbles, we haven't had any for such a time. Nurse, will you remember to let us have them the first wet half-holiday? Mamma'll let us if you will." "And the pipes?" said nurse. "There was six new got the last time, and they were to last, certain sure till the next time, and then----" "Oh I know," said Thor, "we took them to school and never brought them back. Never mind--we'll get some more from old Mother Whelan. She always keeps lots. We'll keep our halfpennies for two Saturdays--that'll do. But we must be going, Terry and Baldwin. _I'm_ all ready." And he jumped up as he spoke, and pulled his satchel of books from under his chair, where he had put them to be all ready. Baldwin slowly got down from his place, for he was not only broad, but his legs were very short, and came up to nurse to be helped on with his little overcoat, while Terence began rushing about the room in a fuss, looking for one of his books, which as usual couldn't be found at the last minute. "I had it just before breakfast, I'm _sure_ I had," he went on repeating. "I haven't finished learning it, and I meant to look it over. Oh dear, what shall I do?" The nursery party was too accustomed to Terry's misfortunes to be much upset by them. Peggy sat still for a moment or two considering. Then she spoke. "Terry," she said, "look in Baby's cot." Off flew Terence, returning in triumph, grammar in hand. "I'll learn it on the way to school. How did you know it was there, Peggy?" "I sawed you reaching over to kiss Baby when you comed in to ask nurse for a new shoe-lace this morning," said Peggy, with great pride. "Good girl," said Terence, as he slammed the door and rushed downstairs to overtake his two brothers. The nursery seemed very quiet when the three big boys had gone. Quiet but not idle; there was always a great deal to do first thing of a morning, and Peggy had her own share of the doing to see to. She took off her own breakfast pinafore and put on a quite clean one--one that looked quite clean anyway, just as if it had never been on, even though it had really been used two or three times. Peggy called it her "prayers pinafore," and it always lasted a whole week, as it was only worn to go down to the dining-room for five or ten minutes. Then she washed her hands and stood still for nurse to give a tidying touch to her soft fair hair, though it really didn't need it,--Peggy's hair never looked messy,--and then she took off Hal's over pinafore which he wore on the top of his blouse at meal-times, and helped him to wash his hands, by which time nurse and baby were also ready, and the little procession set off on their journey. If the prayers bell had not sounded yet, or did not sound as they made their way down, nurse would stop at mamma's door and tap, and the answer was sure to be "Come in." Then nurse would go on downstairs with Baby, and Peggy and Hal would trot in to see mamma, and wait a moment or two till she was ready. She was almost always nearly ready, unless she was very, very tired; and in that case she would tell them to go downstairs and come up and see her again after prayers, as she was going to have breakfast in bed. They rather liked these days, though of course they were sorry for mamma to be so tired, but it was very interesting to watch her having her breakfast, and generally one or two dainty bits of toast and marmalade would find their way to the two little mouths. It was only since last winter that mamma had been so often tired and not able to get up early. Before then she used always to come up to the nursery to see her six children at breakfast, and prayers were early enough for the three boys to stay for them, instead of having them at school. For mamma was not at all a "lazy" mother, as you might think if I did not explain. But last winter she had been very ill indeed, so ill that papa looked dreadfully unhappy, and the boys had to take off their boots downstairs so as not to make any noise when they passed her door, and the days seemed very long to Peggy and Hal, worst to Peggy of course, for Hal was still so little that almost all his life belonged to the nursery. It was during that time that Peggy first found out the white spot on the hill, which I am going to tell you about, for she used to climb up on the window-sill and sit there looking out at whatever there was to see for hours at a time. This morning mamma was evidently not tired, for just as the children got to the landing on to which her door opened, out she came. "Well, darlings," she said, "there you are! Have the boys got off to school all rightly, nurse?" "Oh yes, ma'am," nurse was beginning, but Peggy interrupted her. "Terry loosed his book, mamma dear, and Peg--_I_ founded it; I knewed where it was 'cos I used my eyes like you said." "That was a very good thing," said mamma. She had talked to Peggy about using her eyes a good deal, for Peggy had rather a trick of going to sleep with her eyes open, like many children, and it becomes a very tiresome trick if it isn't cured, and makes one miss a great many chances of being useful to others, and of enjoying pleasant things one's self. "Poor Terry--I wish he wasn't so careless. Where was his book this time?" "In such a funny place, mamma dear," said Peggy. "In Baby's cot," and at the sound of his name Baby crowed, which made both Peggy and Hal burst out laughing, so that mamma had to hold their hands firmly to prevent their tumbling down stairs. After prayers were over nurse took Baby and Hal away, but papa said Peggy might stay for a few minutes. "I've scarcely seen you the last day or two, old woman," he said; "you were fast asleep when I came home. What have you been about?" "About," Peggy repeated, looking puzzled. "Well--what have you been doing with yourself?" he said again. "I've been doing nothing with _myself_," Peggy replied, gravely. "I've done my lessons and my sewing, and I've used my eyes." "Well, and isn't all that yourself?" asked papa, who was rather a tease. "You've done your sewing with your fingers and your lessons with your mind, and you've used your eyes for both--mind, fingers, eyes--those are all parts of yourself." Peggy spread out her two hands on the table and looked at the ten pink fingers. "Them's my fingers," she said, "but I don't know where that other thing is--that what thinks. I'd like to know where it is. Papa, can't you tell me?" There came a puzzled look into her soft gray eyes--mamma knew that look; when it stayed long it was rather apt to turn into tears. "Arthur," she said to Peggy's papa, "you're too fond of teasing. Peggy dear, nobody can see that part of you; there are many things we can't ever see, or hear, or touch, which are real things all the same." Peggy's face lightened up again. She nodded her head softly, as if to say that she understood. Then she got down from her chair and went up to her father to kiss him and say good-bye. "Going already, Peg!" he said. "Don't you like papa teasing you?" "I don't mind," said Peggy, graciously; "you're only a big boy, papa. I'm going 'cos nurse wants me to keep Baby quiet while she makes the beds." But when she got round to the other side of the table to her mother, she lingered a moment. "Mamma," she whispered, "_it's_ not there this morning--Peggy's fairy house. It's all hided up. Mamma----" "Well, darling?" "Are you _sure_ it'll come back again?" "Quite sure, dear. It's only hidden by the clouds, as I've told you before. You know you've often been afraid it was gone, and it's always come again." "Yes, to be sure," said Peggy. "What a silly little girl I am, mamma dear." And she laughed her own little gentle laugh. I can't tell how it was that Peggy's little laugh used sometimes to bring tears to her mother's eyes. When she got up to the nursery again she found she was very much wanted. Nurse was in the night nursery which opened into the day one, and looked out to the back of the house just as the other looked to the front. And Baby was sitting on the hearth-rug, with Hal beside him, both seeming far from happy. "Baby's defful c'oss, Peggy," said poor Hal. And Baby, though he couldn't speak, pouted out his lips and looked very savage at Hal, which of course was very unreasonable and ungrateful of him, as Hal had been doing everything he could to amuse him, and had only objected to Baby pulling him across the floor by his curls. "Oh Baby," said Peggy, "that isn't good. Poor Hal's hair--see how you've tugged it." For Baby was still grasping some golden threads in his plump fists. "Him sinks zem's feaders," said Hal, apologetically. He was so fond of Baby that he couldn't bear any one to say anything against him except himself. "But Baby must learn hairs isn't feathers," said Peggy, solemnly. "And it isn't good to let him pull the feathers out of his parrot either, Hal," she continued, "for some day he might have a _live_ parrot, and then it would be cooel, and the parrot would _bite_ him--yes it would, Baby." This was too much for Baby. He drew the corner of his mouth down, then he opened it wide, very wide, and was just going to roar when Peggy threw her arms round him and kissed him vigorously. "He's sorry, Hal--dear Baby--he's so very sorry. Kiss him, Hal. Let's all kiss together," and the three soft faces all met in a bunch, which Baby found so amusing that instead of continuing his preparations for a good cry, he thought better of it, and went off into a laugh. "That's right," said Peggy. "Now if you'll both be very good boys I'll tell you a story. Just wait a minute till I've tooked off my prayers pinafore." She jumped up to do so. While she was unfastening it her eyes moved to the window; she gave a little cry and ran forward. The day was clearing up, the sun was beginning faintly to shine, and the clouds were breaking. [Illustration: "And in another moment they were settled on the hearth-rug--Baby on Peggy's lap--on, and off it too, for it was much too small to accommodate the whole of him; Hal on the floor beside her, his curly head leaning on his sister's shoulder in blissful and trustful content." P. 17] "Mamma was right," exclaimed Peggy, joyfully; "I can see it--I can see it! I can see my white house again, my dear little fairy house." She would have stayed there gazing out contentedly half the morning if her little brothers had not called her back. "Peggy," said Hal, plaintively, "do tum. Baby's pulling Hal's 'air adain." "Peggy's coming, dear," said the motherly little voice. And in another moment they were settled on the hearth-rug--Baby on Peggy's lap--on, and off it too, for it was much too small to accommodate the whole of him; Hal on the floor beside her, his curly head leaning on his sister's shoulder in blissful and trustful content. CHAPTER II THE WHITE SPOT ON THE HILL "O reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle reader! you would find A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, And you must kindly take it: It is no tale; but, should you think, Perhaps a tale you'll make it." W. WORDSWORTH. "TELLING stories," when the teller is only five and some months old, and the hearers one and a quarter and three, is rather a curious performance. But Peggy was well used to it, and when in good spirits quite able to battle with the difficulties of amusing Hal and Baby at the same time. And these difficulties were not small, for, compared with Baby, Hal was really "grown-up." It is all very well for people who don't know much about tiny children to speak of them all together, up to--six or seven, let us say--as "babies," but we who think we _do_ know something about them, can assure the rest of the world that this is an immense mistake. One year in nursery arithmetic counts for ten or even more in _real_ "grown-up" life. There was a great difference between Peggy and Hal for instance, but a still greater between Hal and Baby, and had there been a new baby below him again, of course it would have been the greatest of all. Peggy could not have explained this in words, but she knew it thoroughly all the same, and she had learnt to take it into account in her treatment of the two, especially in her stories telling. In reality the story itself was all for Hal, but there was a sort of running accompaniment for Baby which he enjoyed very much, and which, to tell the truth, I rather think Hal found amusing too, though he pretended it was for Baby's sake. This morning her glance out of the window had made Peggy feel so happy that the story promised to be a great success. She sat still for a minute or two, her arms clasped round Baby's waist, gently rocking herself and him to and fro, while her gray eyes stared before her, as if reading stories in the carpet or on the wall. "Peggy," said Hal at last, giving her a hug--he had been waiting what he thought a very long time--"Peggy, 'do on--no, I mean begin, p'ease." "Yes, Hal, d'reckly," said Peggy. "It's coming, Hal, yes, now I think it's comed. Should we do piggies first, to please Baby before we begin?" "Piggies is _so_ silly," said Hal, disdainfully. "Well, we'll kiss him instead--another kiss all together, he does so like that;" and when the kissing was over--"now, Baby dear, listen, and p'raps you'll understand _some_, and if you're good we'll have piggies soon." Baby gave a kind of grunt; perhaps he was thinking of the pigs, but most likely it was just his way of saying he would be very good. "There was onst," Peggy began, "a little girl who lived in a big house all by herself." "Hadn't she no mamma, or nurse, or--or--brudders?" Hal interrupted. "No, not none," Peggy went on. "She lived quite alone, and she didn't like it. The house was as big as a--as a church, and she hadn't no bed, and no chairs or tables, and there was very, _very_ high stairs." "Is there stairs in churches?" asked Hal. Peggy looked rather puzzled. "Yes, I think there is," she said. "There's people high up in churches, so there must be stairs. But I didn't say it _were_ a church, Hal; I only said as big as a church. And the stairs was for Baby--you'll hear--p'raps there wasn't _reelly_ stairs. Now, Baby; one day a little piggy-wiggy came up the stairs--one, two, three," and Peggy's hand came creeping up Baby's foot and leg and across his pinafore and up his bare arm again, by way of illustrating piggy's progress, "and when he got to the top he said 'grumph,' and poked his nose into the little girl's neck"--here Peggy's own nose made a dive among Baby's double chins, to his exceeding delight, setting him off chuckling to himself for some time, which left Peggy free to go on with the serious part of the story for Hal's benefit--"and there was a window in the big house, and the little girl used to sit there always looking out." "Always?" asked Hal again. "All night too? Didn't her ever go to bed?" "She hadn't no bed, I told you. No, she didn't sit there all night, 'cos she couldn't have see'd in the dark. Never mind about the night. She sat there all day, always looking out, 'cos there was something she liked to see. If I tell you you won't tell nobody what it was, will you. Hal?" Hal looked very mystified, but replied obediently, "No, won't tell nobody," he said. "Well, then, I'll tell you what it was. It was a----" But at this moment Baby, having had enough of his own meditations, began to put in a claim to some special attention. The piggy had to be summoned and made to run up and down stairs two or three times before he would be satisfied and allow Peggy to proceed. "Well, Peggy?" said Hal eagerly. "It was a----" Oh dear, interrupted again! But this time the interruption was a blessing in disguise. It was nurse come to fetch Baby for his morning sleep. "And thank you, Miss Peggy, my dear, for keeping him so nice and good. I heard you come up, and I knew they'd be all right with you," she said, as she walked away with Baby, who was by no means sure that he wanted to go. "Now," said Hal, edging closer to Peggy, "we'll be comfable. Go on, Peggy--what she sawed." "It was a hill--far, far away, neely as far as the sky," said Peggy in a mysterious tone. "When the sun comed she could see it plain--the hill and what was there, but when the sun goed she couldn't. There was a white spot on the hill, Hal, and that white spot was a lovely white cottage. She knowed it, though she'd never see'd it." "How did she know it?" "Her mam--no, that's wrong, she hadn't no mamma--well, never mind, _somebody_'d told her." "Were it _God_?" asked Hal, in an awestruck whisper. "I don't know. No, I don't think so. I think it's a little naughty to say that, Hal. No, dear, don't cry," for signs of disturbance were visible in Hal's round face. "You didn't mean, and it isn't never naughty when we don't mean, you know. We'll go on about the little girl. She knowed it was a lovely cottage, and she wanted _very_ much, as much as could be, to go there, for the big house wasn't pretty, and it was dark, nearly black, and the cottage was all white." "Her house wasn't as nice as _zit_, were it? Zit house isn't b'ack," said Hal. "No," said Peggy, doubtfully. "_It_ wasn't as nice as this, but the white house was much prettier than this." "How?" asked Hal. "Oh!" said Peggy, letting her eyes and her fancy rove about together, "I think it was beautiful all over. It was all shiny white; the walls was white, and the carpets was white, and the tables and the chairs was white--all shiny and soft like--like----" "Baby's best sash," suggested Hal. "Well, p'raps--that'll do. And there was a cow and chickens and sheep, and a kitchen where you could make cakes, and a garden with lots of flowers and strawberries----" "All white?" asked Hal. "No, of course not. Strawberries couldn't be white, and flowers is all colours. 'Twas the _droind-room_ that was all white." "And the milk and the eggs. Zem _is_ white," said Hal, triumphantly. "Very well. I didn't say they wasn't. But the story goes on that the little girl didn't know how to get there; it was so far and so high up. So she sat and cried all alone at the window." "All alone, _poor_ little girl," said Hal, with deep feeling. "Kick, Peggy, kick, I'm 'doing to cry; make it come right _kick_. The crying's just coming." "Make it wait a minute. I can't make it come right all so quick," said Peggy. "It's going to come, so make the crying wait. One day she was crying d'edful, worst than never, 'cos the sun had goned, and she couldn't see the white cottage no more, and just then she heard something saying, 'mew, mew,' and it was a kitten outside the window, and it was just going to fall down and be killed." "That's not coming right. I _must_ cry," said Hal. "But she opened the window--there now, you see--and she pulled the kitten in, so it didn't fall down, and it was so pleased it kissed her, and when it kissed her it turned into a fairy, and it touched her neck and made wings come, and then it opened the window again and flewed away with the little girl till they came to the white cottage, and then the little girl was quite happy for always." "Did the fairy stay with her always?" asked Hal. "No; fairies never does like that. They go back to fairyland. But the little girl had nice milk and eggs and cakes, and she made nosegays with the flowers, and the sun was _always_ shining, so she was quite, _quite_ happy." "Her couldn't be happy all alone," said Hal. "I don't like zat story, Peggy. You haven't made it nice at all. It's a nonsense story." Hal wriggled about and seemed very cross. Poor Peggy was not so much indignant as distressed at failing in her efforts to amuse him. What was the matter? It couldn't be that he was getting sleepy--it was far too early for his morning sleep. "It isn't a nonsense story," she said, and she glanced towards the window as she spoke. Yes, the sun was shining brightly, the morning clouds had quite melted away; it was going to be a fine day after all. And clear and white gleamed out the spot on the distant hill which Peggy loved to gaze at! "Come here, Hal," she said, getting on to her feet and helping Hal on to his, "come with me to the window and you'll see if it's a nonsense story. Only you've never to tell nobody. It's Peggy's own secret." [Illustration: 'And above the top of all the houses, clear though faint, was now to be seen the outline of a range of hills, so softly gray-blue in the distance that but for the irregular line never changing in its form, one could easily have fancied it was only the edge of a quickly passing ridge of clouds. Peggy, however, knew better. "See, Hal," she said, "over there, far, far away, _neely_ in the sky, does you see that bluey hill?"'] Hal forgot his crossness in a minute; he felt so proud and honoured. Peggy led him to the window. It was not a very pretty prospect; they looked out on to a commonplace street, houses on both sides, though just opposite there was a little variety in the shape of an old-fashioned, smoke-dried garden. Beyond that again, more houses, more streets, stretching away out into suburbs, and somewhere beyond all that again the mysterious, beautiful, enchanting region which the children spoke of and believed in as "the country," not really so far off after all, though to them it seemed so. And above the tops of all the houses, clear though faint, was now to be seen the outline of a range of hills, so softly gray-blue in the distance that but for the irregular line never changing in its form, one could easily have fancied it was only the edge of a quickly passing ridge of clouds. Peggy, however, knew better. "See, Hal," she said, "over there, far, far away, _neely_ in the sky, does you see that bluey hill?" Of course he saw, agreeing so readily that Peggy was sure he did not distinguish rightly, which was soon proved to be the case by his announcing that "The 'ill were sailing away." "No, no, it isn't," Peggy cried. "You've mustooked a cloud, Hal. See now," and by bringing her own eyes exactly on a level with a certain spot on the glass she was able to place his correctly, "just over that little bubble in the window you can see it. Its top goes up above the bubble and then down and then up again, and it never moves like the clouds--does you see now, Hallie dear?" "Zes, zes," said Hal, "but it's a _wenny_ little 'ill, Peggy." "No, dear," his sister explained. "It only looks little 'cos it's so far away. _You_ is too little to understand, dear, but it's true that it's a big hill, neely a mounting, Hal. Mamma told me." "Oh," said Hal, profoundly impressed and quite convinced. "Mountings is _old_ hills, or big hills," Peggy continued, herself slightly confused. "I don't know if they is the papas and mammas of the little ones, but I think it's something like that, for onst in church I heard the clergymunt read that the little hills jumped for joy, so they must be the children. I'll ask mamma, and then I'll tell you. I'm not quite sure if he meaned the same kind, for these hills never jumps--that's how mamma told me to know they wasn't clouds." "Zes," said Hal, "but go on about the secret, Peggy. Hal doesn't care about the 'ills." "But the secret's _on_ the hills," replied Peggy. "Look more, Hal--does you see a teeny, _teeny_ white spot on the bluey hill? Higher up than the bubble, but not at the top quite?" Hal's eyes were good and his faith was great. "Zes, zes," he cried. "I does see it--kite plain, Peggy." "Well, Hallie," Peggy continued, "_that's_ my secret." "Is it the fairy cottage, and is the little girl zere now?" Hal asked, breathlessly. Peggy hesitated. "It is a white cottage," she said. "Mamma told me. She looked at it through a seeing pipe." "What's a seeing pipe?" Hal interrupted. "I can't tell you just now. Ask mamma to show you hers some day. It's too difficult to understand, but it makes you see things plain. And mamma found out it was reelly a cottage, a white cottage, all alone up on the hill--isn't it sweet of it to be there all alone, Hallie? And she said I might think it was a fairy cottage and keep it for my own secret, only I've telled you, Hal, and you mustn't tell nobody." "And is it all like Baby's best sash, and are there cakes and f'owers and cows?" asked Hal. "I don't know. I made up the story, you know, Hal, to please you. I've made lots--mamma said I might. But I've never see'd the cottage, you know. I _daresay_ it's beautiful, white and gold like the story, that's why I said it. It does so shine when the sun's on it--look, look, Hal!" For as she spoke the sunshine had broken out again more brilliantly; and the bright, thin sparkle which often dazzles one between the showers in unsettled weather, lighted up that quarter of the sky where the children were gazing, and, to their fancy at least, the white spot caught and reflected the rays. "Oh zes, I see," Hal repeated. "But, Peggy, I'd like to _go_ zere and to see it. Can't we go, Peggy? It would be so nice, nicer than making up stories. And do you think--oh do you think, Peggy, that p'raps there's _pigs_ zere, real pigs?" He clasped his hands entreatingly as he spoke. Peggy must say there were pigs. Poor Peggy--it was rather a comedown after her fairy visions. But she was too kind to say anything to vex Hal. "I thought you said pigs was silly," she objected, gently. "Playing pigs to make Baby laugh is silly," said Hal, "and pigs going to market and stayin' at 'ome and roast beefin', is _d'edful_ silly. But not real pigs." "Oh well, then, _you_ may think pigs if you like," said Peggy. "I don't think I will, but that doesn't matter. You may have them in the cottage if you like, only you mustn't tell Thor and Terry and Baldwin about it." "I won't tell, on'y you _might_ have them too," said Hal discontentedly. "You're not kind, Peggy." "Don't let's talk about the cottage any more, then," said Peggy, though her own eyes were fixed on the far-off white spot as she spoke. "I think p'raps, Hallie, you're _rather_ too little to care about it." "I'm not," said Hal, "and I do care. But I do like pigs, real pigs. I sawed zem in the country." "You can't remember," said Peggy. "It's two whole years since we was in the real country, Hallie, and you're only three and a half. I know it's two years. I heard mamma say so to papa, so you wasn't two then." "But I did see zem and I do 'amember, 'cos of pictures," said Hal. "Oh yes, dear, there is pictures of pigs in your scrap-book, I know," Peggy agreed. "You get it now and we'll look for them." Off trotted Hal, returning in a minute with his book, and for a quarter of an hour or so his patient little sister managed to keep him happy and amused. At the end of that time, however, he began to be cross and discontented again. Peggy did not know what to make of him this morning, he was not often so difficult to please. She was very glad when nurse came in to say it was now _his_ time for his morning sleep, and though Hal grumbled and scolded and said he was not sleepy she carried him off, and Peggy was left in peace. She was not at a loss to employ herself. At half-past eleven she usually went down to mamma for an hour's lessons, and it must be nearly that time now. She got her books together and sat looking over the one verse she had to learn, her thoughts roving nevertheless in the direction they loved best--away over the chimneys and the smoke; away, away, up, up to the fairy cottage on the distant hill. CHAPTER III "THE CHILDREN AT THE BACK" "It seems to me if I'd money enough, My heart would be made of different stuff; I would think about those whose lot is rough." MRS. HAWTREY. THESE children's home was not in a very pretty place. In front, as I have told you, it looked out on to a rather ugly street, and there were streets and streets beyond that again--streets of straight, stiff, grim-looking houses, some large and some small, but all commonplace and dull. And in and out between these bigger streets were narrower and still uglier ones, scarcely indeed to be called streets, so dark and poky were they, so dark and poky were the poor houses they contained. The street immediately behind the children's house, that on to which its back windows looked out, was one of these poorer ones, though not by any means one of the most miserable. And ugly though it was, Peggy was very fond of gazing out of the night nursery window on to this street, especially on days when it was "no use," as she called it to herself, looking out at the front; that meant, as I daresay you can guess, days on which it was too dull and cloudy to see the distant hills, and above all the white spot, which had taken such hold on her fancy. For she had found out some very interesting things in that dingy street. Straight across from the night nursery window was a very queer miserable sort of a shop, kept by an old Irishwoman whose name was Mrs. Whelan. It is rather absurd to call it a shop, though it was a place where things were bought and sold, for the room in which these buyings and sellings went on was Mrs. Whelan's kitchen, and bedroom, and sitting-room, and wash-house, as well as her shop! It was on the first floor, and you got up to it by a rickety staircase--more like a ladder indeed than a staircase, and underneath it on the ground-floor lived a cobbler, with whom Mrs. Whelan used to quarrel at least once a day, though as he was a patient, much enduring man, the quarrels never went farther than the old Irishwoman's opening her window and shouting down all manner of scoldings to the poor fellow, of which he took no notice. [Illustration: "She was rather a terrible-looking old woman; she always wore a short bed-gown, that is a loose kind of jacket roughly drawn in at the waist, of washed out cotton, which never looked clean, and yet somehow never seemed to get much dirtier, a black stuff petticoat, and a cap with flapping frills which quite hid her face unless you were very near her, and she was generally to be seen with a pipe in her mouth. Her voice was both loud and shrill, and when she was in a temper you could almost hear what she said, though the nursery window was shut." P. 35] On Sundays the cobbler used to tidy himself up and go off to church "like a gentleman," the boys said. But Mrs. Whelan, alas, never tidied herself up, and never went to church, and though she made a great show of putting a shutter across that part of the window which showed "the shop," nurse had more than once shaken her head when the children were dressing for church, and told them not to look over the way, she was sadly afraid the shutting or shuttering up was all a pretence, and that Mrs. Whelan made a good penny by her Sunday sales of tobacco and pipes to the men, or maybe of sugar, candles, or matches to careless housekeepers who had let their stock run out too late on Saturday night. She was rather a terrible-looking old woman; she always wore a short bed-gown, that is, a loose kind of jacket roughly drawn in at the waist, of washed-out cotton, which never looked clean, and yet somehow never seemed to get much dirtier, a black stuff petticoat, and a cap with flapping frills which quite hid her face unless you were very near her, and she was generally to be seen with a pipe in her mouth. Her voice was both loud and shrill, and when she was in a temper you could almost hear what she said, though the nursery window was shut. All the neighbours were afraid of her, and in consequence treated her with great respect. But like most people in this world, she had some good about her, as you will hear. Good or bad, the children, Peggy especially, found Mrs. Whelan very interesting. Peggy had never seen her nearer than from the window, and though she had a queer sort of wish to visit the shop and make closer acquaintance with the old crone, she was far too frightened of her to think of doing so really. The boys, however, had been several times inside Mrs. Whelan's dwelling, and used to tell wonderful stories of the muddle of things it contained, and of the old woman herself. They always bought their soap-bubble pipes there, "three a penny," and would gladly have bought some of the toffee-balls and barley-sugar which were also to be had, if this had not been strictly forbidden by mamma, in spite of their grumbling. "It isn't so _very_ dirty, mamma," they said, "and you get a lot more for a penny than in a proper shop." But mamma would not give in. She knew what Mrs. Whelan was like, as she used sometimes to go over herself to talk to the poor old woman, but that, of course, was a different matter. "I don't much like your going there at all," she would say, "but it pleases her for us to buy some trifles now and then." But in her heart she wished very much that they were not obliged to live in this dreary and ugly town, where their poor neighbours were rarely the sort of people she could let her children know anything of. Mamma, in _her_ childhood, had lived in that fairyland she called "the country," and so had papa, and they still looked forward to being there again, though for the present they were obliged to make the best of their home in a dingy street. It seemed much less dull and dingy to the children than to them, however. Indeed I don't think the children ever thought about it at all. The boys were busy at school, and found plenty of both work and play to make the time pass quickly, and Peggy, who might perhaps have been a little dull and lonely in her rather shut-up life, had her fancies and her wonders--her interesting things to look at both at the front and the back of the house, and mamma to tell all about them to! And this reminds me that I have not yet told you what it was she was _most_ fond of watching from the night nursery window. It was not Mrs. Whelan or the cobbler; it was the tenants of the third or top story of the rickety old house--the family she always spoke of to herself as "the children at the back." Such a lot of them there were. It was long before Peggy was able to distinguish them "all from each other," as she said, and it took her longer still to make names by which she could keep a clear list in her head. The eldest looked to her quite grown-up, though in reality she was about thirteen; she was a big red-cheeked girl, though she lived in a town; her arms were red too, poor thing, especially in winter, for they were seldom or never covered, and she seemed to be always at work, scrubbing or washing, or running out to fetch two or three of the little ones in from playing in the gutter. Peggy called her "Reddy," and though it was the girl's red cheeks and arms which made her first choose the name, in a while she came to think of it as meaning "ready" also, for Peggy did not know much about spelling as yet, and the thought in her mind of the look of the two words was the same. For a good while Peggy fancied that Reddy was the nurse or servant of the family, but one day when she said something of the kind to her own nurse she was quickly put right. "Their servant, my dear! Bless you, no. How could they afford to keep a servant; they've hard enough work to keep themselves, striving folk though they seem. There's such a many of them, you see, and mostly so little--save that big girl and the sister three below her, there's none really to help the mother. And the cripple must be a great charge." "What's the cripple, nursey?" Peggy asked. "Why, Miss Peggy, haven't you noticed the white-faced girl on crutches? You must have seen her dragging up and down in front of the house of a fine day." "Oh yes," said Peggy, "but I didn't know that was called cripple. And she's quite little; she's as little as me, nurse!" "She's older than she looks, poor thing," said nurse--"maybe oldest of them all." This, however, Peggy could not believe. She fixed in her own mind that "Crippley" came after the two boys who were evidently next to Reddy--she did not give the boys names, for they did not interest her as much as the girls. Having so many brothers of her own and no sister, it seemed to her as if a sister must be the very nicest thing in the world, and of all the children at the back, the two that she liked most to watch were a pair of little girls about three years older than herself, whom she named "The Smileys," "Brown Smiley" and "Light Smiley" when she thought of them separately, for though they were very like each other, the colour of their hair was different. They were very jolly little girls, poorly clad and poorly fed though they were, taking life easily, it seemed--too easily in the opinion of their eldest sister Reddy, and the sister next above them--between them and Crippley, according to Peggy's list. This sister was the only one whose real name Peggy knew, by hearing it so frequently shouted after her by the mother and Reddy. For this child, "Mary-Hann," was rather deaf, though it was not till long afterwards that Peggy found this out. "Mary-Hann" was a patient stupid sort of girl, a kind of second in command to Reddy, and she was like Reddy in appearance, except that she was several sizes smaller and thinner, so that even supposing that her arms were as red as her sister's they did not strike one in the same way. Below the Smileys came another boy, who was generally to be seen in their company, and who, according to Peggy, rejoiced in the name of "Tip." And below Tip were a few babies, in reality I believe never more than three, during the years through which their little over-the-way neighbour watched them. But even she was obliged to give up hopes of classifying the babies, for there always seemed to be _a_ baby about the same age, and one or two others just struggling into standing or rather tumbling alone, and for ever being picked up by Reddy or her attendant sprite Mary-Hann. Such were Peggy's "children at the back." And many a dull day when it was too rainy to go a walk, and too cloudy to be "any use" to gaze out at the front of the house, did these poor children, little as they guessed it, help to make pass more quickly and pleasantly for the sisterless maiden. Many a morning when Hal and Baby were asleep and nurse was glad to have an hour or so for a bit of ironing, or some work of the kind down in the kitchen--for my Peggy's papa and mamma were not rich and could not keep many servants, so that nurse, though she was plain and homely in her ways, was of far more use than a smarter young woman to them--many a morning did the little girl, left in the night nursery in charge of her sleeping brothers, take up her stand at the window which overlooked Mrs. Whelan's and the cobbler and the Smileys with all their brothers and sisters. There was always something new to see or to ask nurse to explain afterwards. For ever so long it took up Peggy's thoughts, and gave much conversation in the nursery to "plan" how the ten or eleven children, not to speak of the papa and mamma, _could_ all find place in two rooms. It kept Peggy awake at night, especially if the weather happened to be at all hot or close, to think how _very_ uncomfortable poor Reddy and Crippley and Mary-Hann and the Smileys must be, all sleeping in one bed as nurse said was too probably the case. And it was the greatest relief to her mind, and to nurse's too, I do believe, to discover by means of some cautious inquiries of the cobbler when nurse took him over some of the boys' boots to mend, that the family was not so short of space as they had feared. "They've two other rooms, Miss Peggy, as doesn't show to the front," said nurse, "two attics with sloping windows in the roof to their back again. And they're striving folk, he says, as indeed any one may see for theirselves." "Then how shall we plan it now, I wonder," said Peggy, looking across to the Smileys' mansion with new respect. But nurse had already left the room, and perhaps, now she was satisfied their neighbours were not quite so much to be pitied, would scarcely have had patience to listen to Peggy's "wonderings" about them. So the little girl went on to herself-- "I should think the downstairs room is the papa's and mamma's and the teeniest baby's, and perhaps Crippley sleeps there, as she's ill, like me when I had the hooping-cough and I couldn't sleep and mamma kept jumping up to me. And then the big boys and Tip has one room--'ticks,' nurse calls the rooms with windows in the roof. I think I'd like to sleep in a 'tick' room; you must see the stars so plain without getting up; and--and--let me see, Reddy and Mary-Hann and the Smileys and the old babies--no, that's too many--and I don't know how many old babies there is. We'll say _one_--if there's another it must be a boy and go in the boys' tick--and that makes Reddy and Mary----" "Miss Peggy, your mamma's ready for your lessons," came the housemaid's voice at the door, and Peggy hurried off. But she was rather in a brown study at her lessons that morning. Mamma could not make her out at all, till at last she shut up the books for a minute and made Peggy tell her where her thoughts were wool-gathering. "Not so very far away, mamma dear," said Peggy, laughing. She never could help laughing when mamma said "funny things like that." "Not so very far away. I was only wondering about the children at the back." She called them always "the children at the back" when she spoke of them--for even to mamma she would have felt shy of telling her own names for them. And then she went on to repeat what nurse had heard from the cobbler. Mamma agreed that it was very interesting, and she too was pleased to think "the children at the back's house," as Peggy called it, was more commodious than might have been expected. But still, even such interesting things as that must not be allowed to interfere with lessons, Peggy must put it all out of her head till they were done with, and then mamma would talk about it with her. "Only, mamma," said Peggy, "I don't know what com--commo--that long word you said, means." "I should not have used it, perhaps," said mamma. "And yet I don't know. If we only used the words you understand already, you would never learn new ones--eh, Peggy! Commodious just means large, and not narrow and squeezed up." Peggy nodded her head, which meant that she quite understood, and then the lessons went on smoothly again. When they were over, mamma talked about poor people, especially about poor children, to Peggy, and explained to her more than she had ever done before about what being poor really means. It made Peggy feel and look rather sad, and once or twice mamma was afraid she was going to cry, which, of course, she did not wish her to do. But Peggy choked down the crying feeling, because she knew it would make her mother sorry and would not do the poor people any good. "Mamma," she said, "it _neely_ makes me cry, but I won't. But when I'm big can't I do something for the children at the back?" "They won't be children then, Peggy dear. You may be able to do something for them without waiting for that. I'll think about it. I don't fancy they are so _very_ poor. As I have been telling you, there are many far poorer. But I daresay they have very few pleasures in their lives. We might try to think of a little sunshine for them now and then." "The Smile----" began Peggy, but she stopped suddenly, growing red--"the littler ones do play a good deal in the gutter, mamma dear," she said, anxious to state things quite fairly; "but I don't think that's _very_ nice play, and the sun very seldom shines there. And Red--the big ones, mamma dear, and the one that goes on--I can't remember the name of those sticks." "Crutches," said mamma. "Yes, crutches--_her_ never has no plays at all, I don't think. She'd have more sunshine at the 'nother side of our house, mamma dear." Mamma smiled. Peggy did not understand that mamma did not mean "sunshine" exactly as she took it; she forgot, too, that of actual sunshine more fell on the back street than she thought of. For it was only on dull or rainy days that she looked out much on the children at the back. On fine days her eyes were busy in another direction. "I'll think about it," said mamma. So Peggy for the present was satisfied. This talk about the Smileys and the rest of them had been a day or two before the morning on which we first saw Peggy--the morning that Thor tried so to make fun of her about choosing sugar in her bread and milk, because it was cold. Mamma had not said any more about the children at the back, and this particular morning Peggy herself was not thinking very much about them. Her head was running a good deal on the white cottage and all her fancies about it, and she was feeling rather disappointed that she had not succeeded better in amusing Hal by her stories. "It must be, I suppose," she said to herself, "that he's rather too little for that kind of fancy stories. I wonder if Baldwin would like them; it would be nice to have somebody to make fancies with me." But somehow Baldwin and the fairy cottage did not seem to match. And Thor and Terry were both much too big--Thor would laugh at her, and Terry would think it a waste of time; he had so many other things to amuse himself about. No, Peggy could not think of any one who would "understand," she decided, with a sigh! CHAPTER IV "REAL" FANCIES "Mine be a cot beside the hill." SAMUEL ROGERS. JUST then came the usual summons to her lessons. Mamma was waiting for her little girl in the corner of the drawing-room, where she always sat when she was teaching Peggy. It was a very nice corner, near the fire, for though it was not winter it was rather chilly, and mamma often felt cold. Thor used to tell her that she should take a good run or have a game of cricket to warm her; it would be much better than sitting near the fire. Peggy thought it was rather unkind of Thor to say so, but mamma only laughed at him, so perhaps it was just his boy way of speaking. Peggy said her lessons quite well, but she looked rather grave; no smiles lighted up her face, and when lessons were over she sat still without speaking, and seemed as if she scarcely knew what she wanted to do with herself. "Is there anything the matter, dear?" mamma asked. "I'm rather tired, I think, mamma," Peggy replied. "Tired!" mamma repeated, in some surprise. It wasn't often that Peggy talked of being tired. "What is that with? You've not been worrying yourself about the children who live over Mrs. Whelan's, I hope? You mustn't do that, you know, dear; it would do you harm and them no good." For mamma knew that Peggy sometimes did "worry" about things--"Once she takes a thing in her head she'll work herself up so, for all she seems so quiet," nurse would say. "No, mamma dear," Peggy replied; "I'm not tired because of that. I like thinking about the children at the back. I wish----" "What?" said mamma. "I wish I'd sisters like them. I'm rather lonely, mamma. I do think God might have gaved _one_ sister to Peggy, and not such a great lot to the children at the back." "But you have your brothers, my dear little girl. You might have been an only child." "The big ones is always neely at school, and Hal's too little to understand. It's Hal that's tired me, mamma dear. He was so d'edfully cross afore nurse put him to bed." "Cross, was he?" said mamma. "I'm afraid he must be getting those last teeth. He may be cross for some time; if so, it would not do to leave him." She seemed to be speaking to herself, but when she caught sight of Peggy's puzzled face she stopped. "Tell me about Hal, dear," she went on. "What was it that tired you so?" "I was trying to amuse him and tell him stories about my white cottage up on the hill, and he was so cross. He couldn't understand, and he said they was 'nonsense' stories." "He is too little, perhaps, to care for fancies," said her mother, consolingly. "You must wait till he is a little older, Peggy dear." "But when he's older he'll be a _boy_, mamma," said Peggy; "he'll be like Thor and Terry, who don't care for things like that, or Baldwin, who thinks stories stupid. Oh, mamma, I wish I had a sister. _That's_ what I want," she added, with conviction. Mamma smiled. "Poor Peggy," she said. "I'm afraid it can't be helped. You can never have a sister near your own age, and I'm afraid a baby sister, even if you had one, would be no good." "Oh no, we've had enough babies," said Peggy, decidedly. "But, mamma, mightn't there be some little girl who'd play with me like a sister? If there _is_ a fairy living in that cottage, mamma, how I do wish she would find a little girl for me!" Mamma looked a very little bit troubled. "Peggy dear," she said, "you mustn't let your fancies run away with you too far. I told you they would do you no harm if you kept plain in your head that they _were_ fancies, but you mustn't forget that. You know there couldn't really be a fairy living in that little white cottage." "No," Peggy agreed, "I know that, mamma, because fairies _really_ live in fairyland." She looked up gravely into her mother's face as she said so. Mamma could not help laughing. "Fairies _really_," she said, "live in Peggy's funny little head, and in many other funny little heads, I have no doubt. But nowhere----" [Illustration: "Mama dear," she began, "will you tell me what the little white house is reely like, then? If you will, I'll promise not to think there's fairies there--only----" "Only what, dear?" "If you don't mind," said Peggy, very anxious not to hurt her mother's feelings, "I'd _rather_ not have pigs. I don't think I like pigs very much." P. 52] "Mamma, mamma," Peggy interrupted, putting her fingers in her ears as she spoke, "I _won't_ listen. You mustn't, mustn't say that. I must have my fairies, mamma. I've no sisters." "Well, keep them in fairyland then, or at least only let them out for visits now and then. But don't mix them up with real things too much, or you will get quite a confusion, and never be sure if you're awake or dreaming." Peggy seemed to consider this over very seriously. After a minute or too she lifted her face again, and looked straight into her mother's with her earnest gray eyes. "Mamma dear," she began, "will you tell me what the little white house is _reely_ like, then? If you will, I'll promise not to think there's fairies there--only----" "Only what, dear?" "If you don't mind," said Peggy, very anxious not to hurt her mother's feelings, "I'd _rather_ not have pigs. I don't think I like pigs very much." "Well, we needn't have pigs then. But remember I can only 'fancy' it. I've never seen that particular cottage, you see, Peggy. But I have seen other cottages in Brackenshire, and so I can fancy what it _most likely_ is. You see there are different kinds of fancying--there's fancying that is all fancy, like fairy stories, and there's fancying that might be true and real, and that very likely is true and real. Do you understand?" "Yes," said Peggy, drawing a deep breath. "Well, mamma, go on real-fancying, please. What's that place you've been at--Brat--what is it?" "Brackenshire," mamma replied. "That's the name of that part of the country that we see far off, from the windows upstairs." "And is all the cottages white there, and is they _very_ pretty?" asked Peggy, with deep interest. "Oh, mamma, do tell me, quick." "I don't know if they're all white, but I think they are mostly. And there are some pretty and some ugly. Of course it depends a good deal upon the people that live in them. If they're nice, clean, busy people, who like their house to be neat and pretty, and work hard to keep it so, of course it's much more likely to be so than if they were careless and lazy." "Oh," said Peggy, clasping her hands. "I do so hope my cottage has nice people living in it. I _think_ it has, don't you, mamma? It looks _so_ white." "My dear Peggy," said mamma, smiling, "we can't tell, when it's so far away. But we may hope so." "Yes," said Peggy, "we'll hope so, and we'll think so." But then a rather puzzled look came over her face again, though she smiled too. "Mamma," she went on, "there's such a funny thing come into my head, only I don't know quite how to say it. I think that the far-away helps to make it pretty--why is far-away so pretty, mamma?" Mamma smiled again. "I'm afraid I can't tell you why. Wouldn't it spoil some things if we knew the why of them, little Peggy?" Peggy did not answer. This was another new thought for her, and rather a difficult one. She put it away in her mind, in one of the rather far back cupboards there, and locked it up, to think about it afterwards. "Mamma," she said, coaxingly, "I want you to tell me a real fancy about the cottage. It will be so nice when I look at it to think it's most likely _reely_ like that." "Well, then, let us see," mamma began. "Wait just one minute, mamma dear, till I've shut my eyes. First I must get the bluey hills and the white spot into them, and then I'll shut them and see what you tell. Yes--that's all right now." So mamma went on. "I fancy a cottage on the side of a hill. The cottage is white, of course, and the hill is green. Not very green--a kind of brown-green, for the grass is short and close, nibbled by the sheep and cows that find their living on the hill most of the year. The cottage is very white, for last summer it had a nice wash all over, and that lasts clean a good while in the country. There is a little low wall round it shutting it in from the hillside, and this wall is not very white, though it once was so, for it is covered with creeping plants, so that you can scarcely see what its own colour is. At the front of the house there is a little garden, quite a tiny one--there are potatoes and gooseberry bushes and cabbages at one side, but in front of them are some nice old-fashioned flowers, and at the other side there are strawberry plants, and behind them some rose-bushes. In summer I am sure there will be some pretty roses." "Oh how nice," said Peggy; "go on, go on, please." "There is a funny little wooden shed behind the house, leaning against the wall, which has a door big enough for a child to go in by, or a big person if they stooped down very much, and besides this it has a _very_ little door in the wall, leading on to the hillside. Can you guess what the shed is for, Peggy, and what the tiny door is for?" Peggy thought and thought, but her country knowledge was but scanty. "I can't think," she said. "It couldn't be for pigs, 'cos there isn't any in the cottage. Nor it couldn't be for cows, 'cos cows is so big." "What should you say to cocks and hens, Peggy? There are to be fresh eggs there, aren't there? And chickens sometimes. I rather think they take eggs and chickens to market, don't they?" "Oh yes, I'm sure they do. How stupid I am! Of course the little wooden house is for cocks and hens. You're making it lovelily, mamma. What is it like inside, and who lives in it? I do so want to know." "Inside?" said mamma. "I'm almost afraid you might be disappointed, Peggy, if you've never been in a real cottage. There are so many that look very pretty outside and are not at all pretty inside. But at least we may think it is neat and clean. There are only two rooms, Peggy--a kitchen which you go straight into, and another room which opens out of it. The kitchen is very bright and pleasant; there is a table before the window with some flower-pots on it, in which both winter and summer there are plants growing. There is a large cupboard of dark old wood standing against the wall, and a sort of sofa that is called a settle with cushions covered with red cotton, standing near the fireplace. There are shelves, too, on which stand some dishes and two or three shining pots and pans, the ugly black ones are kept in a little back kitchen where most of the cooking is done, so that the front kitchen should be kept as nice as possible." "That makes another room, mamma dear. You said there was only two." "Oh, but it's so very tiny you couldn't call it a room. The second room is a bedroom, but the best pieces of furniture are kept there. There is a nice chest of drawers and a rocking-chair, and there is a very funny wooden cradle, standing right down on the floor, not at all like Baby's cot. And in this cradle is a nice, fat, bright-eyed little baby." "A baby," said Peggy, doubtfully. "Yes, to be sure. There's always a baby in a cottage, unless you'd rather have a very old couple whose babies are grown-up men and women, out in the world." "No," said Peggy, "I don't want that. A very old woman in a cottage would be _razer_ like a witch, or else it could make me think of Red Riding-Hood's grandmother, and that is _so_ sad. No, I don't mind the baby if it has a nice mamma--but only one baby, pelease, mamma dear. I don't want _lots_, like the children at the back, they're always tumbling about and sc'eaming so." "Oh no, we won't have it like that. We'll only have one baby--a very contented nice baby, and its mamma is very nice too. She's got quite a pretty rosy face, and she stands at the door every morning to see her husband go off to his work, and every evening to watch for him coming back again, and she holds the baby up in her arms and it laughs and crows." "Yes," said Peggy, "that'll do. And the eggs and the chickens, mamma?" "Oh yes, she takes great care of the cocks and hens, and never forgets to go outside the garden to feed them on the hill, and in the evening they all come home of themselves through the little door in the wall. There's a very nice cat in the cottage too; it sits purring on the front steps on fine days, as if it thought the cottage and garden and everything else belonged to it. And----" But suddenly the clock struck. Up started mamma. "Peggy, darling, I had no idea it was so late. And I have to go out the moment after luncheon, and I have still two letters to write. I am a greater baby than any of you! Run off, dear, and tell nurse I want to speak to her before I go out." "And to-morrow," said Peggy, "to-morrow, will you tell me some more about the white cottage, mamma? It _is_ so nice--I don't think you're a baby at all, mamma. A baby couldn't make it up so lovelily." And Peggy set off upstairs in great content. The white spot would give her more pleasure than ever, now that she knew what sort of _real_ fancies to have about it. "And to-morrow," she said to herself, "to-morrow mamma will tell me more, lots more. If I say my lessons very goodly, p'raps mamma will tell me some more every day. And p'raps Hallie would like those kinds better than about fairies, and wouldn't call _them_ nonsense stories." Poor little Peggy--"to-morrow" brought news which put her pretty fancies about the white cottage out of her head for a while. She gave her mother's message to nurse, and after dinner nurse went downstairs. When she came up again she looked rather grave, and Peggy thought perhaps she was unhappy about Hal, who was still cross and had bright red spots on his cheeks. "Does you think poor Hallie is ill, nurse?" asked Peggy in a low voice, for Hal not to hear. "No, my dear, it's only his teeth. But they'll make him fractious for a while, I'm afraid, and he's not a very strong child, not near so strong as Baby and the big boys." "Poor Hallie," said Peggy, with great sympathy. "I'll be very good to him even if he is very cross, nurse." Nurse did not answer for a minute, and she still looked very grave. "Why do you look so sad, nurse, if it isn't about Hal?" asked Peggy, impatiently. "Did I look sad, Miss Peggy? I didn't know it. I was thinking about some things your mamma was speaking of to me." "Oh!" said Peggy, "was it about our new frocks? Mamma and you is always very busy when we need new frocks, I know." "Yes, dear," said nurse, but that was all. Then Peggy and Hal and nurse and Baby went out for a walk. They did not go very far, for it was what nurse called a queer-tempered day. Between the gleams of blue sky and sunshine there came sharp little storms and showers. It was April weather, though April had not yet begun. "Which way are we going?" Peggy asked, as they set off, she and Hal hand-in-hand, just in front of nurse and the perambulator. She _hoped_ nurse would say "up Fernley Road," because Fernley Road led straight on towards the hills--so at least it seemed to Peggy. Their street ran into Fernley Road at one end, so that Fernley Road was what is called at right angles with it, and Peggy felt sure that if you walked far enough along the road you _could_ not but come to "the beginning of the hills." But to-day Peggy was to be disappointed. "We can't go far, Miss Peggy, and we must go to Field's about Master Hal's new boots. It looks as if it might rain, so perhaps we'd better go straight there. You know the way, Miss Peggy?--right on to the end of this street and then turn to the left." Peggy gave a little sigh, but trotted on quietly. Hal began grumbling. "What is I to have new boots for?" he said. "I doesn't want new boots." "Oh, Hal," said Peggy, "I think it's very nice indeed to have new boots. They shine so, and sometimes they do make such a lovely squeaking." But Hal wasn't in a humour to be pleased with anything, so Peggy tried to change the subject. "Nurse says we are to turn to the left at the end of this street," she said. "Does you know which is the left, Hal? _I_ do, 'cos of my pocket in my frock. First I feel for my pocket, and when it's there I say 'all right,' and then I know that's the right, and when it isn't there I _can't_ say 'all right,' and so I know the side it isn't at is the left." Hal listened with some interest, but a slight tinge of contempt for feminine garments. "Boys has pockets at each sides, so all boys' sides is right," he said. But Peggy was by this time in the midst of her researches for her pocket, so she did not argue the point. "Here it is!" she exclaimed, "all right, so the nother side is left. _This_ way, Hallie," and very proud to show nurse that she had understood her directions, she led her little brother down the street into which they had now turned. There were shops in this street, which made it more amusing than the one in which the children lived, even though they had seen them so often that they knew pretty well all that was worth looking at in the windows--that is to say, in the picture-shops and the toy-shops, and perhaps in the confectioner's. All others were passed by as a matter of course. Field's, the shoemaker's, was not quite so stupid as some, because under a glass shade, in the midst of all the real boots and shoes, were half a dozen pairs of dolls' ones, which Peggy thought quite lovely, though apparently no one else was of her opinion, as the tiny things stayed there day after day without a single pair being sold. Peggy herself could remember them for what seemed to her a very long time, and Baldwin, who owned to having admired them when he was "little," assured her they had been there since she was quite a baby; he could remember having "run on" to look at them in the days when he and Terry had trotted in front and nurse had perambulated Peggy behind. The little boots and shoes came into Peggy's mind just now, partly perhaps because Hal was hanging back so, and she was afraid he would be cross if she asked him to walk quicker. "Let's run on and look at the tiny shoes in Field's window," she said. "We can wait there till nurse comes up to us. She'll see us." This roused Hal to bestir himself, and they were soon at the shoemaker's. "_Isn't_ they sweet?" said Peggy. "If I had a gold pound of my very own, Hal, I'd buy some of them." "Would you?" said Hal, doubtfully. "No, if _I_ had a gold pound I'd----" But just then nurse came up to them and they were all marched into the shop. CHAPTER V THE LITTLE RED SHOES "Pif-paf Pottrie, what trade are you? Are you a tailor?" "Better still!" "A shoemaker?" BROTHERS GRIMM. THERE was another reason why the children liked Field's shop. At the back of it was a sort of little room railed off by a low wooden partition with curtains at the top, into which customers were shown to try on and be fitted with new boots or shoes. This little room within a room had always greatly taken Peggy's fancy; she had often talked it over with her brothers, and wished they could copy it in their nursery. Inside it had comfortable cushioned seats all round, making it look like one of the large, square, cushioned pews still to be found in some old churches, pews which all children who have ever sat in them dearly love. There was always some excitement in peeping into this little room to see if any one was already there; if that were the case the children knew they should have to be "tried on" in the outer shop. To-day, however, there was no doubt about the matter--Miss Field, who acted as her father's shop-woman, marshalled them all straight into the curtained recess without delay; there was no one there--and when Peggy and Hal had with some difficulty twisted themselves on to the seats with as much formality as if they were settling themselves in church, and nurse had explained what they had come for, the girl began operations by taking off one of Hal's boots to serve as a pattern for his size. "The same make as these, I suppose?" she asked. "No, miss, a little thicker, I think. They're to be good strong ones for country wear," said nurse. Peggy looked up with surprise. "For the country, nursie," she said. "He'll have weared them out before it's time for us to go to the country. It won't be summer for a long while, and last year we didn't go even when summer comed." Nurse looked a little vexed. Miss Field, though smiling and good-natured, was not a special favourite of nurse's; she was too fond of talking, and she stood there now looking very much amused at Peggy's remonstrance. "If you didn't go to the country last year, Miss Margaret," said nurse, "more reason that you'll go this. But little girls can't know everything." Peggy opened her eyes and her mouth. She was just going to ask nurse what was the matter, which would not have made things better, I am afraid, when Baby changed the subject by bursting out crying. Poor Baby--he did not like the little curtained-off room at all; it was rather dark, and he felt frightened, and as was of course the most sensible thing to do under the circumstances, as he could not speak, he cried. "Dear, dear," said nurse, after vainly trying to soothe him, "he doesn't like being in here, the poor lamb. He's frightened. I'll never get him quiet here. Miss Peggy, love," forgetting in her hurry the presence of Miss Field, for before strangers Peggy was always "Miss Margaret," with nurse, "I'll have to put him back in his perambulator at the door, and if you'll stand beside him he'll be quite content." [Illustration: "Baby did not interrupt her; he was quite content now he was out in the light and the open air, and amused himself after his own fashion by crowing and chuckling to the passers-by. So Peggy stood still, her eyes fixed on the baby shoes. They were of all colours, black and red and bronze and blue--it was difficult to say which was the prettiest." p.p. 68-69] And nurse got up as she spoke. Peggy slid herself down slowly and reluctantly from her seat; she would have liked to stay and watch Hal being fitted with boots, and she would have liked still more to ask nurse what she meant by speaking of the country so long before the time, but it was Peggy's habit to do what she was told without delay, and she knew she could ask nurse what she wanted afterwards. So with one regretful look back at the snug corner where Hal was sitting comfortably staring at his stockinged toes, she trotted across the shop to the door where Baby, quite restored to good humour, was being settled in his carriage. "There now, he'll be quite happy. Nurse will come soon, dear. Just let him stay here in the doorway; he can see all the boots and shoes in the window--that will amuse him." "Yes," said Peggy, adding in her own mind that she would have a good look at the dear, tiny dolls' ones and fix which she would like to buy if she had the money. Baby did not interrupt her; he was quite content now he was out in the light and the open air, and amused himself after his own fashion by crowing and chuckling to the passers-by. So Peggy stood still, her eyes fixed on the baby shoes. They were of all colours, black and red and bronze and blue--it was difficult to say which were the prettiest. Peggy had almost decided upon a red pair, and was wondering how much money it would take to buy them, when some one touched her on the shoulder. She looked up; a lady was standing behind her, smiling in amusement. "What are you gazing at so, my dear? Is this your baby in the perambulator? You had better wheel him a little bit farther back, or may I do so for you?--he has worked himself too far into the doorway." Peggy looked up questioningly in the lady's face. Like many children she did not like being spoken to by strangers in any unceremonious way; she felt as if it were rather a freedom. But the face that met hers was too kind and bright and pleasant to resist, and though Peggy still looked grave, it was only that she felt rather shy. "Yes," she said, "he's our baby. I was looking at those sweet little shoes. I didn't see Baby had pushed hisself away. Thank you," as the lady gently moved the perambulator a little farther to one side. "You and Baby are not alone? Are you waiting for some one?" she asked. "Nurse is having Hal tried on for new boots," Peggy replied, "and Baby didn't like the shop 'cos it were rather dark." "And so his kind little sister is taking care of him. I see," said the lady. "And what are the sweet little shoes you like so much to look at? Are they some that would fit Baby?" "Oh no," said Peggy, "they'd be too little for him. Baby _is_ rather fat. Oh no, it's _those_ under the glass basin turned upside down," and she pointed to the dolls' shoes. "Aren't they lovely? I've seen them ever since I was quite little--I suppose they'd cost a great lot," and Peggy sighed. "Which do you think the prettiest?" asked the lady. "The red ones," Peggy replied. "Well, I almost think I agree with you," said the lady. "Good-bye, my dear, don't let Baby run himself out into the street." And with a kind smile she went on into the shop. She passed back again in a few minutes. "Still there?" she said, nodding to Peggy, and then she made her way down the street and was soon out of sight. Peggy's attention, since the lady had warned her, had been entirely given to Baby, otherwise she might perhaps have noticed a very wonderful thing that had happened in the shop-window. The pair of red dolls' shoes was no longer there! They had been quietly withdrawn from the case in which they, with their companions, had spent a peaceful, but it must be allowed a rather dull life for some years. In another minute nurse and Hal made their appearance, and Hal had a parcel, which he was clutching tightly in both hands. "My new boots is _so_ shiny," he said, "I do so hope they'll squeak. Does you think they will, nursie? But isn't poor Peggy to have new boots, too? _Poor_ Peggy!" Peggy looked down at her feet. "Mine isn't wored out yet," she said; "it would take all poor mamma's money to buy new boots for us _all_." "Never fear," said nurse, who heard rather a martyr tone in Peggy's voice, "you'll not be forgotten, Miss Peggy. But Master Hal, hadn't you better put your boots in the perambulator? You'll be tired of carrying them, for we're not going straight home." Hal looked as if he were going to grumble at this, but before he had time to say anything, Miss Field came hurrying out of the shop. "Oh, you're still here," she said; "that's all right. The lady who's just left told father to give this little parcel to missie here," and she held out something to Peggy, who was so astonished that for a moment or two she only stared at the girl without offering to take the tiny packet. "For me," she said at last. "Yes, missie, to be sure--for you, as I say." Peggy took the parcel, and began slowly to undo it. Something red peeped out--Peggy's eyes glistened--then her cheeks grew nearly as scarlet as the contents of the packet, and she seemed to gasp for breath, as she held out for Hal and nurse to see the little red shoes which five minutes before she had been admiring under the glass shade. "Nursie, Hal," she exclaimed, "see, oh see! The sweet little shoes--for me--for my very own." Nurse was only too ready to be pleased, but with the prudence of a "grown-up" person she hesitated a moment. "Are you sure there's no mistake, miss?" she said, anxiously. "Do you know the lady's name? Is she a friend of Missis's, I wonder?" The girl shook her head. "Can't say, I'm sure," she replied. "She's a stranger to us. She only just bought a pair of cork soles and these here. There's no mistake, that, I'm sure of. She must have seen the young lady was admiring of them." "Yes," said Peggy, "she asked me which was the prettiest, and I said the red ones." "You see?" said Miss Field to nurse. "Well, missie, I hope as they'll fit Miss Dolly, and then you'll give us your custom when they're worn out, won't you?" And with a good-natured laugh she turned back into the shop. "It's all right, nursie, isn't it? Do say it is. I may keep them; they _is_ mine, isn't they?" said Peggy, in very unusual excitement. Nurse still looked undecided. "I don't quite know what to say, my dear," she replied. "We must ask your mamma. I shouldn't think she'd object, seeing as it was so kindly meant. And we can't give back the shoes now they're bought and paid for. It wouldn't be fair to the lady to give them back to Field just to be sold again. It wasn't _him_ she wanted to give a present to." "No," said Peggy, trotting along beside the perambulator and clasping her little parcel as Hal was clasping his bigger one, "it was _me_ she wanted to please. She's a _very_ kind lady, isn't she, nursie? I'm sure they cost a great lot of money--p'raps a pound. Oh! I do so hope mamma will say I may keep them for my very own. Can't we go home now this minute to ask her?" "We shouldn't find her in if we did," said nurse, "and we've had nothing of a walk so far. But don't you worry, Miss Peggy. I'm sure your mamma will not mind." Peggy's anxious eager little face calmed down at this; a corner of the paper in which her treasures were wrapped up was torn. She saw the scarlet leather peeping out, and a gleam of delight danced out of her eyes; she bent her head down and kissed the speck of bright colour ecstatically, murmuring to herself as she did so, "Oh, how happy I am!" Nurse overheard the words. "Missis will never have the heart to take them from her, poor dear," she thought. "She'll be only too pleased for Miss Peggy to have something to cheer her up when she has to be told about our going." And Peggy, in blissful ignorance of any threatening cloud to spoil her pleasure, marched on, scarcely feeling the ground beneath her feet; as happy as if the tiny red shoes had been a pair of fairy ones to fit her own little feet. Mamma was not at home when they got in, even though they made a pretty long round, coming back by Fernley Road, which, however, Peggy did not care about as much as when they set off by it. For coming back, of course she could not see the hills without turning round, nor could she have the feeling that every step was taking her nearer to them. The weather was clearing when they came in; from the nursery window the sky towards the west had a faint flush upon it, which looked as if the sunset were going to be a rosy one. "Red at night," Peggy said to herself as she glanced out; "nursie, that means a fine day, doesn't it?" "So they say," nurse replied. "Then it'll be a fine day to-morrow, and I'll see the cottage, and I'll put the little shoes on the window-sill, so that they shall see it too--the _dear_ little sweets," chattered the child to herself. Hal meanwhile was seated on the floor, engaged in a more practical way, namely, _trying_ to try on his new boots. But "new boots," as he said himself, "is stiff." Hal pulled and tugged till he grew very red in the face, but all in vain. "Oh, Peggy!" he said, "do help me. I does so want to hear them squeak, and to 'upprise the boys when they come in." Down went kind Peggy on the floor, and thanks to her the boots were got on, though the buttoning of them was beyond her skill. Hal was quite happy, though. "They do squeak, don't they, Peggy?" he said; "and nurse'll let me wear them a little for them to get used to my feet 'afore we go to the country." "You mean for your feet to get used to them, Hallie," said Peggy. "But there's lots of time for that. Why, they'll be half wored out before we go to the country if you begin them now." "'Tisn't nonsense," said Hal, sturdily. "Nurse said so to that girl in the shop." Peggy felt very puzzled. "But, Hal," she was beginning, when a voice interrupted her. It was nurse. She had been downstairs, having heard the front door bell ring. "Miss Peggy, your mamma wants you. She's come in. You'll find her in her own room." "Nursie," she said, "Hal's been saying----" "You mustn't keep your mamma waiting," said nurse. "I've told her about the little shoes." "I'll take them to show her--won't she be pleased?" said Peggy, seizing the little parcel which she had put down while helping Hal. And off she set. She stopped at her mother's door; it was only half shut, so she did not need to knock. "Mamma dear, it's me--Peggy," she said. "Come in, darling," mamma's voice replied. "I've brought you the _sweet_ little red shoes to see," said Peggy, carefully unfolding the paper which held her treasures, and holding them out for mamma's admiration. "They are very pretty indeed--really lovely little shoes," she said, handling them with care, but so as to see them thoroughly. "It was _very_ kind of that lady. I wonder who she was? Of course in a general way I wouldn't like you to take presents from strangers, but she must have done it in such a very nice way. Was she an old lady, Peggy?" "Oh yes!" said Peggy, "quite old. She was neely as big as you, mamma dear. I daresay she's _neely_ as old as you are." Mamma began to laugh. "You little goose," she said. But Peggy didn't see anything to laugh at in what she had said, and her face remained quite sober. "I don't understand you, mamma dear," she said. "Well, listen then; didn't Hal buy a pair of new boots for himself to-day?" mamma began. "No, mamma dear. Nurse buyed them _for_ he," Peggy replied. "Or rather _I_ bought them, for it was my money nurse paid for them with, if you are so very precise, Miss Peggy. But never mind about that. All I want you to understand is the difference between 'big' and 'old.' Hal's boots are much bigger than these tiny things, but they are not on that account _older_." Peggy began to laugh. "No, mamma dear. P'raps Hallie's boots is younger than my sweet little red shoes, for they has been a great long while in the shop window, and Baldwin and Terry sawed them when they was little." "Not 'younger,' Peggy dear; 'newer,' you mean. Boots aren't alive. You only speak of live things as 'young.'" Peggy sighed. "It is rather difficult to understand, mamma dear." "It will all come by degrees," said mamma. "When I was a little girl I know I thought for a long time that the moon was the mamma of the stars, because she looked so much bigger." "I think that's very nice, mamma, though, of course, I understand it's only a _fancy_ fancy. I haven't seen the moon for a long time, mamma. May I ask nurse to wake me up the next time the moon comes?" "You needn't wait till dark to see the moon," said mamma. "She can often be seen by daylight, though, of course, she doesn't look so pretty then, as in the dark sky which shows her off better. But, of course, the sky here is so often dull with the smoke of the town that we can't see her as clearly in the daytime as where the air is purer." "Like in the country, mamma," said Peggy. "It's _always_ clear in the country, isn't it?" "Not quite always," said mamma, smiling. "But, Peggy dear, speaking of the country----" "Oh yes!" Peggy interrupted, "I want to tell you, mamma, what a silly thing Hallie _would_ say about going to the country;" and she told her mother all that Hal had said about his boots, and indeed what nurse had said too; "and nursie was just a weeay, teeny bit cross to me, mamma dear," said Peggy, plaintively. "She wouldn't say she'd mistooked about it." Mamma looked rather grave, and instead of saying at once that of course nurse had only meant that Hal's boots should last till the summer, she took Peggy on her knee and kissed her--kissed her in rather a "funny" way, thought Peggy, so that she looked up and said-- "Mamma dear, why do you kiss me like that?" Instead of answering, mamma kissed her again, which almost made Peggy laugh. But mamma was not laughing. "My own little Peggy," she said, "I have something to tell you which I am afraid will make you unhappy. It is making _me_ very unhappy, I know." "Poor dear little mamma," said Peggy, and as she spoke she put up her little hand and stroked her mother's face. "Don't be unhappy if it isn't anything _very_ bad. Tell Peggy about it, mamma dear." CHAPTER VI FELLOW-FEELINGS AND SLIPPERS "If I'd as much money as I could tell I never would cry 'old clothes to sell'!" _London Cries._ MAMMA hesitated a moment. Then she began. "You know, Peggy, my pet," she said, "for a good while now I haven't been as strong and well as I used to be----" "Stop, mamma, stop," said Peggy, with a sort of cry, and as she spoke she threw up her hands and pressed them hard against her ears; "I know what you're going to say, but I can't bear it, no, I can't. Oh mamma, you're not to say you're going to die." For all answer mamma caught Peggy into her arms and kissed her again and again. For a minute or two it seemed as if she could not speak, but at last she got her voice. And then, rather to Peggy's surprise, she saw that although there were tears in mamma's eyes, and even one or two trickling down her face, she was smiling too. "My darling Peggy," she said, "did I frighten you? I am so, so sorry. Oh no, darling, it is nothing like that. Please God I shall live to see my Peggy as old as I am now, and older, I hope. No, no, dear, it is nothing so very sad I was going to tell you. It is only that the doctor says the best way for me to get quite well and strong again is to go away for a while to have change of air as it is called, in some nice country place." "In the country," said Peggy, her eyes brightening with pleasure. "Oh, how nice! will it perhaps be that country where my cottage is? Oh, dear mamma, how lovely! And when are we to go? May we begin packing to-day? And how could you think it would make me unhappy----" she went on, suddenly remembering what her mother had said at first. Mamma's face did not brighten up at all. "Peggy dear, it is very hard for me to tell you," she said. "Of course, if we had all been going together it would have been only happy. But that's just the thing. I can't take you with me, my sweet. Baby must go, because nurse must, and Hallie too. But the friend I am going to stay with can't have more of us than the two little ones, and nurse, and me--it is very, very good of her to take so many." "Couldn't I sleep with you, mamma dear?" said Peggy in a queer little voice, the tone of which went to mamma's heart. "My pet, Hallie must sleep with me, as it is. My friend's house isn't very big. And there's another reason why I can't take you--I'm not sure if you could understand----" "Tell it me, please, mamma." "The lady I am going to had a little girl just like you--I mean just the same age, and rather like you altogether, I think. And the poor little girl died two years ago, Peggy. Since then it is a pain to her mother to see other little girls. When you are bigger and not so like what her little girl was, I daresay she won't mind." Peggy had been listening, her whole soul in her eyes. "I understand," she said. "I wouldn't like to go if it would make that lady cry--if it hadn't been for that--oh mamma, I could have squeezed myself up so very tight in the bed! You and Hallie wouldn't have knowed I were there. But I wouldn't like to make her cry. I am so sorry about that little girl. Mamma, how is it that dying is so nice, about going to heaven, you know, and _still_ it is so sorry?" "There is the parting," said mamma. "Yes--that must be it. And, mamma, I hope it isn't naughty, but if you were to die I'd be _very_ sorry not to see you again just the same--even if you were to be a very pretty angel, with shiny clothes and all that, I'd want you to be my own old mamma." "I would be your own old mamma, dear. I am sure you would feel I was the same." "I'm so glad," said Peggy. "Still it is sad to die," and she sighed. "Mamma dear, you won't be very long away, will you? It'll only be a little short parting, won't it?" "Only a few weeks, dear. And I hope you won't be unhappy even though you must be a little lonely." "If only I had a sister," said Peggy. But mamma went on to tell her all she had planned. Miss Earnshaw, a dressmaker who used sometimes to come and sew, was to be with Peggy as much as she could. She was a gentle nice girl, and Peggy liked her. "She has several things to make for me just now," said mamma, "and as she lives near, she will try to come every day, so that she will be with you at dinner and tea. And Fanny will help you to dress and undress, and either she or Miss Earnshaw will take you a walk every day that it is fine enough. And then in the evenings, of course, the boys will be at home, and papa will see you every morning before he goes." "And I daresay he'll come up to see me in bed at night too," said Peggy. Then she was silent for a minute or two; the truth was, I think, that she was trying hard to swallow down a lump in her throat that _would_ come, and to blink away two or three tiresome tears that kept creeping up to her eyes. Two days later and they were gone. Mamma, nurse, Hal, and Baby, with papa to see them off, and two boxes outside the cab, and of course a whole lot of smaller packages inside. Peggy stood at the front-door, nodding and kissing her hand and making a smile, as broad a one as she possibly could, to show that she was not crying. When they were gone, really gone, and Fanny had shut the door, she turned kindly to Peggy. "Now, Miss Peggy, love, what will you do? Miss Earnshaw won't be here till to-morrow. I'll try to be ready so as to take you out this afternoon if it's fine, for it's not a half-holiday. It'd be very dull for you all day alone--to-morrow the young gentlemen will be at home as it's Saturday." A bright idea struck Peggy. "Fanny," she said, "did mamma or nurse say anything about soap-bubbles?" Fanny shook her head. "No, miss. But I'm sure there'd be no objection to your playing at them if you liked. I can easy get a little basin and some soap and water for you. But have you a pipe?" Peggy shook her head. "It isn't for me, Fanny, thank you," she said. "It's for my brothers most. I'd like to make a surprise for them while mamma's away." "Yes, that would be very nice," said Fanny, who had been charged at all costs to make Peggy happy. "We'll talk about it. But I'd better get on with my work, so as to get out a bit this afternoon." "Very well. I'll go up to the nursery," said the little girl. The nursery seemed very strange. Peggy had never seen it look quite so empty. Not only were nurse and the little ones gone, but it seemed as if everything belonging to them had gone too, for nurse had sat up late the night before and got up very early this same morning to put everything into perfect order before leaving. The tidiness was quite unnatural. Peggy sat down in a corner and gave a deep sigh. Just then she did not even care to turn to the window, where the sunshine was pouring in brightly, sparkling on the two little scarlet shoes, standing side by side on the sill, where Peggy placed them every fine morning, that they might enjoy the sight of the white cottage on the hill! "I almost wish it was raining," she half whispered to herself, till she remembered how very disagreeable a wet day would have been for mamma and the others to travel on. "I hope it will be a sunny day when they come back," she added, as a sort of make-up for her forgetfulness. And then she got up and wandered into the other room. Here one of Hal's old shoes, which had fallen out of a bundle of things to be given away which nurse had taken downstairs just before going, was lying on the floor. Peggy stooped and picked it up. How well she knew the look of Hal's shoes; there was the round bump of his big toe, and the hole at the corner where a bit of his red sock used to peep out! It gave her a strange dreamy feeling as she looked at it. It seemed as if it could not be true that Hallie was far away--"far, far away" by this time, thought Peggy, for she always felt as if the moment people were in the railway they were whizzed off hundreds of miles in an instant. She stroked the poor old shoe lovingly and kissed it. I don't think just then she would have parted with it for anything; it would have cost her less to give away the lovely little scarlet ones. The thought of the old clothes turned her mind to the children at the back. "I wonder if nurse gave them any of Hal's and Baby's old things," she said to herself. And she went to the window with a vague idea of looking to see. She had not watched the Smileys or their relations much for some days; she had been busy helping mamma and nurse in various little ways, and her mind had been very full of the going away. She almost felt as if she had neglected her opposite neighbours, though, of course, they knew nothing about it, and she was quite pleased to see them all there as usual, or even more than usual. For it was so fine a day that Reddy and her mother were evidently having a grand turn-out--a sort of spring cleaning, I suppose. Small pieces of carpet, and one or two mats, much the worse for wear, were hanging out at the open windows. Reddy's head, tied up in a cloth to keep the dust out of her hair, was to be seen every minute or two, as she thumped about with a long broom, and Mary-Hann presently appeared with a pail of soapy water which she emptied at a grid in the gutter. Mary-Hann looked rather depressed, but Reddy's spirits were fully equal to the occasion. Had the window been open, Peggy felt sure she would have been able to hear her shouting to her sister to "look sharp," or to "mind what she was about," even more vigorously than usual. The rest of the family, excepting, of course, the boys, were assembled on the pavement in front of Mr. Crick the cobbler's shop. He too had opened his window to enjoy the fine day, and in the background he could be dimly seen working, as dingy and leathery as ever. Mrs. Whelan's frilled cap and pipe looked out for a moment and then disappeared again. Apparently just then there was nobody or nothing she _could_ scold. For the poor children on the pavement were behaving very quietly. The Smileys had stayed at home from school to mind the babies, with a view to smoothing the way for the spring cleaning, no doubt, and were sitting, each with a child on her lap, in two little old chairs they had carried down. Crippley was rocking herself gently in her chair beside them, and the last baby but two, as Peggy then thought, was on his knees on the ground, amusing himself with two or three oyster shells and a few marbles. All these particulars Peggy, from her high-up nursery window, could not, of course, see clearly, but she saw enough to make her sigh deeply as she thought that after all, the Smileys were much to be envied. "I daresay they're telling theirselves stories," she said to herself. "They look so comfable." Just then the big baby happened to come more in sight, and she saw that one of the things he was playing with was a little shoe--an odd one apparently. He had filled it with marbles, and was pulling it across the stones. Up jumped Peggy from her seat on the window-sill. "Oh!" she exclaimed, though there was no one to hear, "it must be the nother shoe of this. What a pity! They'd do for Tip, and p'raps they've thought there wasn't a nother. How I would like to take it them! I'll call Fanny and see if she'll run across with it." Downstairs she went, calling Fanny from time to time as she journeyed. But no Fanny replied; she was down in the kitchen, and to the kitchen Peggy knew mamma would not like her to go. She stood at last in the passage wondering what to do, when, glancing round, she noticed that the back-door opening into the yard was temptingly open. Peggy peeped out--there was no one there, but, still more tempting, the door leading into the small back street--the door just opposite the Smiley mansion--stood open, wide open too, and even from where she was the little girl could catch sight of the group on the other side of the narrow street. She trotted across the yard, and stood for a minute, the shoe in her hand, gazing at the six children. The sound of their voices reached her. "Halfred is quite took up with his shoe," said Brown Smiley. "I told mother she moight as well give it he--a hodd shoe's no good to nobody." "'Tis a pity there wasn't the two of 'em," said Crippley, in a thin, rather squeaky voice. "They'd a done bee-yutiful for----" [Illustration: '"For Tip--yes, that's what _I_ were thinking," cried an eager little voice. "Here's the other shoe; I've just founded it." And little Peggy, with her neat hair and clean pinafore, stood in the middle of the children holding out Hal's slipper, and smiling at them like an old friend.' P. 92] "For Tip--yes, that's what _I_ were thinking," cried an eager little voice. "Here's the other shoe; I've just founded it." And little Peggy, with her neat hair and clean pinafore, stood in the middle of the children holding out Hal's slipper, and smiling at them, like an old friend. For a moment or two they were all too astonished to speak; they could scarcely have stared more had they caught sight of a pair of wings on her shoulders, by means of which she had flown down from the sky. Then Light Smiley nudged Crippley, and murmured something which Peggy could not clearly hear, about "th' young lady hopposite." "Thank you, miss," then said Crippley, not quite knowing what to say. "Here, Halfred, you'll have to find summat else to make a carridge of; give us the shoe--there's a good boy." Halfred stopped playing, and still on his knees on the pavement stared up suspiciously at his sister. Brown Smiley, by way of taking part in what was going on, swooped down over him and caught up the shoe before he saw what she was doing, cleverly managing to hold her baby on her knee all the same. "'Ere it be," she said. "Sarah, put Florence on Lizzie's lap for a minute, and run you upstairs with them two shoes to mother. They'll do splendid for Tommy, they will. And thank the young lady." Sarah, otherwise Light Smiley, got up obediently, deposited _her_ baby on Crippley's lap and held out her hand to Peggy for the other shoe, bobbing as she did so, with a "Thank you, miss." Peggy left off smiling and looked rather puzzled. "For Tommy," she repeated. "Who is Tommy? I thought they'd do for Tip. I----" It was now the sisters' turn to stare, but they had not much time to do so, for Halfred, who had taken all this time to arrive at the knowledge that his new plaything had been taken from him, suddenly burst into a loud howl--so loud, so deliberate and determined, that Peggy stopped short, and all the group seemed for a moment struck dumb. Brown Smiley was the first to speak. "Come, now, Halfred," she said, "where's your manners? You'd never stop Tommy having a nice pair o' shoes." But Halfred continued to weep--he gazed up at Peggy, the tears streaming down his smutty face, his mouth wide open, howling hopelessly. "Poor little boy," said Peggy, looking ready to cry herself. "I wish I'd a nother old shoe for him." "Bless you, miss, he's always a-crying--there's no need to worry," said Crippley, whose real name was Lizzie. "Take him in with you, Sarah, and tell mother he's a naughty boy, that's what he is," and Light Smiley picked him up and ran off with him in such a hurry that Peggy stood still repeating "poor little boy" before she knew what had become of him. Quiet was restored, however. Peggy, having done what she came for, should have gone home, but the attractions of society were too much for her. She lingered--Crippley pushed Sarah's empty chair towards her. "Take a seat, miss," she said. "You'll excuse me not gettin' up. Onst I'm a-sittin' down, it's not so heasy." Peggy looked at her with great interest. "Does it hurt much?" she asked. Lizzie smiled in a superior way. "Bless you," she said again, "_hurt's_ no word for it. It's hall over--but it's time I were used to it--never mind about me, missy. I'm sure it was most obligin' of you to bring the shoe, but won't your mamma and your nurse scold you?" "My mamma's gone away, and so has my nurse," said Peggy. "I'm all alone." All the eyes looked up with sympathy. "Deary me, who'd a thought it?" said Brown Smiley. "But there must be somebody to do for you, miss." "To what?" asked Peggy. "Of course there's cook, and Fanny, and my brothers, and my papa when he comes home." Brown Smiley looked relieved. She was only a very little girl, not more than three years older than Peggy herself, though she seemed so much more, and she had really thought that the little visitor meant to say she was quite, quite by herself. "Oh!" she said, "that's not being real alone." "But it is," persisted Peggy. "It is very alone, I can tell you. I've nobody to play with, and nothing to do 'cept to look out of the window at you playing, and at the nother window at----" "The winder to the front," said Lizzie, eagerly. "It must be splendid at your front, miss. Father told me onst you could see the 'ills--ever so far right away in Brackenshire. Some day if I could but get along a bit better I'd like fine to go round to your front, miss. I've never seed a 'ill." Lizzie was quite out of breath with excitement. Peggy answered eagerly, "Oh I do wish you could come to our day nursery window. When it's fine you can see the mountings--that's old, no, big hills, you know. And--on one of them you can see a white cottage; it does so shine in the sun." "Bless me," said Lizzie, and both the Smileys, for Sarah had come back by now, stood listening with open mouths. "Father's from Brackenshire," said Light Smiley, whose real name was Sarah. She spoke rather timidly, for she was well kept in her place by her four elder sisters. For a wonder they did not snub her. "Yes, he be," added Matilda, "and he's told us it's bee-yutiful over there. He lived in a cottage, he did, when he were a little lad." "Mebbe 'tis father's cottage miss sees shining," ventured Sarah. But this time she was not so lucky. "Rubbish, Sarah," said Lizzie. "There's more'n one cottage in Brackenshire." "And there's a mamma and a baby--and a papa who goes to work, in my cottage," said Peggy. "So I don't think it could be----" but here she grew confused, remembering that all about the white cottage was only fancy, and that besides the Smileys' father _might_ have lived there long ago. She got rather red, feeling somehow as if it was not very kind of her not to like the idea of its being his cottage. She had seen him once or twice; he looked big and rough, and his clothes were old--she could not fancy him ever having lived in her dainty white house. Just then came a loud voice from the upper story, demanding Sarah. "'Tis Mother Whelan," said Brown Smiley, starting up. "Rebecca said as how I was to run of an errant for her. It's time I were off." Peggy turned to go. "I must go home," she said. "P'raps I'll come again some day. If mamma was at home I'd ask her if you mightn't come to look out of the nursery window," she added, turning to Lizzie. "Bless you," said the poor girl, "I'd never get up the stairs; thank you all the same." And with a deep sigh of regret at having to leave such pleasant company, Peggy ran across the street home. CHAPTER VII A BUN TO THE GOOD "The little gift from out our store." THE yard door was still open; so was the house door. Peggy met no one as she ran in. "Fanny's upstairs, p'raps," she said to herself. But no, she saw nothing of Fanny either on the way up or in the nursery. She did not feel dull or lonely now, however. She went to the back window and stood there for a minute looking at Crippley and Light Smiley, who were still there with the two babies. How funny it seemed that just a moment or two ago she had been down there actually talking to them! She could scarcely believe they were the very same children whom for so long she had known by sight. "I am so glad I found the shoe," thought Peggy. "I wish, oh I do wish I could have a tea-party, and 'avite them all to tea. I daresay the father could carry Crippley upstairs--he's a very big man." The thought of the father carried her thoughts to Brackenshire and the cottage on the hill, and she went into the day-nursery to look if the white spot was still to be seen. Yes, it was very bright and clear in the sunshine. Peggy gazed at it while a smile broke over her grave little face. "How I do wish I could go there," she thought. "I wonder if the Smileys' father 'amembers about when he was a little boy, quite well. If he wasn't such a 'nugly man we might ask him to tell us stories about it." Then she caught sight of the little scarlet shoes patiently standing on the window-sill. "Dear little shoes," she said. "Peggy was neely forgetting you," and she took them up and kissed them. "Next time I go to see the Smileys," she thought, "I'll take the red shoes with me to show them. They _will_ be pleased." Then she got out her work and sat down to do it, placing her chair where she could see the hills from, the little shoes in her lap, feeling quite happy and contented. It seemed but a little while till Fanny came up to lay the cloth for Peggy's dinner. She had been working extra hard that morning, so as to be ready for the afternoon, and perhaps her head was a little confused. And so when Peggy began telling her her adventures she did not listen attentively, and answered "yes" and "no" without really knowing what she was saying. "And so when I couldn't find you, Fanny, I just runned over with the 'nother shoe myself. And the poor little boy what was playing with the--the _not_ the 'nother one, you know, did so cry, but I think he soon left off. And some day I'm going to ask mamma to let me 'avite them all to tea, for them to see the hills, and----" but here Peggy stopped, "the hills, you know, out of the window." "Yes, dear; very nice," said Fanny. "You've been a good little girl to amuse yourself so quietly all the morning and give no trouble. I do wonder if the washerwoman knows to come for the nursery things, or if I must send," she went on, speaking, though aloud, to herself. So Peggy felt perfectly happy about all she had done, not indeed that she had had the slightest misgiving. The afternoon passed very pleasantly. It was quite a treat to Peggy to go a walk in a grown-up sort of way with Fanny, trotting by her side and talking comfortably, instead of having to take Hal's hand and lugging him along to keep well in front of the perambulator. They went up the Ferndale Road--a good way, farther than Peggy had ever been--so far indeed that she could scarcely understand how it was the hills did not seem much nearer than from the nursery window, but when she asked Fanny, Fanny said it was often so with hills--"nothing is more undependable." Peggy did not quite understand her, but put it away in her head to think about afterwards. And when they came home it was nearly tea-time. Peggy felt quite comfortably tired when she had taken off her things and began to help Fanny to get tea ready for the boys, and when they arrived, all three very hungry and rather low-spirited at the thought of mamma and nurse being away, it was very nice for them to find the nursery quite as tidy as usual--indeed, perhaps, rather tidier--and Peggy, with a bright face, waiting with great pride to pour out tea for them. "I think you're a very good housekeeper, Peg," said Terence, who was always the first to say something pleasant. "Not so bad," agreed Thorold, patronisingly. Baldwin sat still, looking before him solemnly, and considering his words, as was his way before _he_ said anything. "I think," he began at last, "I think that when I'm a big man I'll live in a cottage all alone with Peggy, and not no one else." Peggy turned to him with sparkling eyes. "A _white_ cottage, Baldwin dear; do say a white cottage," she entreated. "I don't mind--a white cottage, but quite a tiny one," he replied. "Hum!" said Thor, "that's very good-natured, I must say. There'll be no room for visitors, do you hear, Terry?" "Oh yes; p'raps there will sometimes," said Peggy. "You'll let your poor old Terry come, won't you, Peg-top?" said Terence, coaxingly. "Dear Terry," said Peggy. "Haven't you been very dull all day alone, by the bye?" Terence went on. "Not very," Peggy replied. "Fanny took me a nice walk, and this morning----" But she stopped short before telling more. She was afraid that Thorold would laugh at her if she said how much she liked the children at the back, and then she had another reason. She wanted to "surprise" her brothers with a present of pipes for soap-bubbles, and very likely if she began talking about the back street at all it would make them think of Mrs. Whelan's, and then they might think of the pipes for themselves, which Peggy did not wish at all. She felt quite big and managing since she had paid a visit to the Smileys, and had a plan for going to buy the pipes "all by my own self." "To-morrow," said Thorold, "there's to be a party at our school. We're all three to go." Peggy's face fell. "It's Saturday," she said. "I thought you'd have stayed with me." Terence and Baldwin looked sorry. "_I'll_ stay at home," said Terry. "No," said Thor, "I really don't think you can. They're counting on you for some of the games. Peg won't mind much for once, will you? I'm sorry too." But before Peggy had time to reply, Baldwin broke in. "I'll stay at home with Peg-top," he said, in his slow, distinct way. "It won't matter for me not going. I'm one of the little ones." "And we'll go a nice walk, won't we, Baldwin?" said Peggy, quite happy again. "And I daresay we may have something nice for tea. I'll ask papa," she added to herself. "I'm sure he'll give me some pennies when he hears how good Baldwin is." Miss Earnshaw came the next morning, and in the interest of being measured for her new spring frock, and watching it being cut out, and considering what she herself could make with the scraps which the young dressmaker gave her, the time passed very pleasantly for Peggy. Miss Earnshaw admired the red shoes very much, and was interested to hear the story of the unknown lady who had given them to Peggy, and told a story of a similar adventure of her own when she was a little girl. And after dinner she, for Fanny was very busy, took Peggy and Baldwin out for a walk, and on their way home they went to the confectioner's and bought six halfpenny buns with the three pennies papa had given Peggy that morning. At least the children thought there were only six, but greatly to their surprise, when they undid the parcel on the nursery table, out rolled seven! "Oh dear!" said Peggy, "she's gave us one too many. Must we go back to the shop with it, do you think, Miss Earnshaw? It's such a long way." "I'll go," said Baldwin, beginning to fasten his boots again. But Miss Earnshaw assured them it was all right. "You always get thirteen of any penny buns or cakes for a shilling," she said; "and some shops will give you seven halfpenny ones for threepence. That's how it is. Did you never hear speak of a baker's dozen?" Still Peggy did not feel satisfied. "It isn't comfable," she said, giving herself a little wriggle--a trick of hers when she was put out. "Six would have been much nicer--just two for each," for Miss Earnshaw was to have tea with her and Baldwin. The young dressmaker smiled. "You _are_ funny, Miss Peggy," she said. "Well, run off now and get ready for tea. We'll have Fanny bringing it up in a minute." Peggy, the seventh bun still much on her mind, went slowly into the night nursery. Before beginning to take off her hat she strolled to the window and looked out. She had seen none of the children to-day. Now, Brown Smiley was standing just in front of the house, a basket on her arm, staring up and down the street. She had been "of an errant" for Mrs. Whelan, but Mrs. Whelan's door was locked; she was either asleep or counting her money, and the little girl knew that if she went on knocking the old woman would get into a rage, so she was "waitin' a bit." She liked better to do her waiting in the street, for she had been busy indoors all the morning, and it was a change to stand there looking about her. Peggy gazed at her for a moment or two. Then an idea struck her. She ran back into the nursery and seized a bun--the odd bun. "They're all mine, you know," she called out to Baldwin; "but we'll have two each still." Baldwin looked up in surprise. "What are you going to do with it?" he began to say, but Peggy was out of sight. She was soon downstairs, and easily opened the back door. But the yard door was fastened; she found some difficulty in turning the big key. She managed it at last, however, and saw to her delight that Brown Smiley was still there. "Brown," began Peggy, but suddenly recollecting that the Smileys had real names, she stopped short, and ran across the street. "I can't 'amember your name," she exclaimed, breathlessly, "but I've brought you this," and she held out the bun. Brown Smiley's face smiled all over. "Lor', miss," she exclaimed. "You are kind, to be sure. Mayn't I give it to Lizzie? She's been very bad to-day, and she's eat next to nought. This 'ere'll be tasty-like." "Lizzie," repeated Peggy, "which is Lizzie? Oh yes, I know, it's Crippley." Brown Smiley looked rather hurt. "It's not her fault, miss," she said. "I'd not like her to hear herself called like that." Peggy's face showed extreme surprise. "How do you mean?" she said. "I've made names for you all. I didn't know your real ones." Brown Smiley looked at her and saw in a moment that there was nothing to be vexed about. "To be sure, miss. Beg your pardon. Well, she that's lame's Lizzie, and me, I'm Matilda-Jane." "Oh yes," interrupted Peggy. "Well, you may give her the bun if you like. It's very kind of you, for I meant it for you. I'd like----" she went on, "I'd like to give you more, but you see papa gaved me the pennies for us, and p'raps he'd be vexed." "To be sure, to be sure, that'd never do," replied Matilda, quickly. "But oh, miss, we've been asking father about Brackenshire, and the cottages. 'Tis Brackenshire 'ills, sure enough, that's seen from your front." "I knew that," said Peggy, in a superior way. But Brown Smiley was too eager to feel herself snubbed. "And oh, but he says it is bee-yutiful there--over on the 'ills. The air's that fresh, and there's flowers and big-leaved things as they calls ferns and brackens." "And white cottages?" asked Peggy, anxiously. "There's cottages--I didn't think for to ask if they was all white. My! If we could but go there some fine day. Father says it's not so far; many's the time he's walked over there and back again the next morning when he first comed to work here, you see, miss, and his 'ome was still over there like." "Yes, in the white cottage," said Peggy. She had made up her mind that it was unkind not to "let it be" that the Smileys' father had lived in that very cottage, for he did seem to be a nice man in spite of his bigness and his dingy workman's clothes. If he wasn't nice and kind she didn't think the children would talk of him as they did. [Illustration: "I can't 'amember your name," she exclaimed breathlessly, "but I've brought you this," and she held out the bun. Brown Smiley's face smiled all over. "Lor', miss," she exclaimed. "You are kind to be sure. Mayn't I give it to Lizzie? She's been very bad to-day, and she's eat next to nought. This 'ere'll be tasty-like." * * * * * But suddenly a window above opened, and Mother Whelan's befrilled face was thrust out. "What are ye about there then, and me fire burning itself away, and me tea ready, waiting for the bread? What's the young lady chatterin' to the like o' you for? Go home, missy, darlin', go home." P.P. 107-9] But she spoke absently; Matilda-Jane's words had put thoughts in her head which seemed to make her almost giddy. Brown Smiley stared at her for a minute. "How she do cling to them cottages being white," she thought to herself, "but there--if it pleases her! She's but a little one." "White if you please, miss," she replied, "though I can't say as I had it from father." But suddenly a window above opened, and Mother Whelan's befrilled face was thrust out. "What are ye about there then, and me fire burning itself away, and me tea ready, waiting for the bread? What's the young lady chatterin' to the likes o' you for? Go home, missy, darlin', go home." The two children jumped as if they had been shot. "Will she beat you?" whispered Peggy, looking very frightened. But Brown Smiley shook her little round head and laughed. "She won't have a chance, and she dursn't not to say beat us--father'd be down on her--but she doesn't think nought of a good shakin'. But I'll push the basket in and run off if she's in a real wax." "Good-bye, then. You must tell me lots more about the hills. Ask your father all you can," and so saying, Peggy flew home again. "Where've you been, what did you do with the bun?" asked Baldwin, as soon as she came in to the nursery. "I runned down with it, and gaved it to a little girl I saw in the street," said Peggy. "Very kind and nice, I'm sure," said Miss Earnshaw. "Was it a beggar, Miss Peggy? You're sure your mamma and nurse wouldn't mind?" she added, rather anxiously. "Oh no," said Peggy. "It's not a _beggar_. It's a proper little poor girl what nurse gives our nold clothes to." "Oh," said Baldwin, "one of the children over the cobbler's, I suppose. But, Peggy," he was going on to say he didn't think his sister had ever been allowed to run down to the back street to speak to them, only he was so slow and so long of making up his mind that, as Fanny just then came in with the tea, which made a little bustle, nobody attended to him, and Miss Earnshaw remained quite satisfied that all was right. The buns tasted very good--all the better to Peggy from the feeling that poor lame Lizzie was perhaps eating hers at that same moment, and finding it "tasty." "Does lame people ever get quite better?" she asked the young dressmaker. "That depends," Miss Earnshaw replied. "If it's through a fall or something that way, outside of them so to say, there's many as gets better. But if it's _in_ them, in the constitution, there's many as stays lame all their lives through." Peggy wriggled a little. She didn't like to think about it much. It sounded so mysterious. "What part's that?" she asked; "that big word." "Constitootion," said Baldwin, as if he was trying to spell "Constantinople." Miss Earnshaw laughed. She lived alone with her mother, and was not much used to children. But she was so pleasant-tempered and gentle that she easily got into their ways. "I shouldn't use such long words," she said. "Our constitution just means ourselves--the way we're made. A strong, healthy person is said to have a good constitution, and a weakly person has a poor one." Baldwin and Peggy both sat silent for a minute, thinking over what she said. "I don't see how that's to do with crippling," said Peggy at last. "Does you mean," she went on, "that p'raps lame people's legs is made wrong--by mistake, you know. _In course_ God wouldn't do it of purpose, would he?" Baldwin looked rather startled. "Peggy," he said, "I don't think you should speak that way." Peggy turned her gray eyes full upon him. "I don't mean to say anything naughty," she said. "_Is_ it naughty, Miss Earnshaw?" The young dressmaker had herself been rather taken aback by Peggy's queer speech, and for a moment or two scarcely knew what to say. But then her face cleared again. "God can't make mistakes, Miss Peggy," she said, "and He is always kind. All the same there's many things that seem like one or the other, I know. It must be that there's reasons for them that we can't see--like when a doctor hurts anybody, it seems unkind, but it's _really_ to do them good." "Like when our doctor cutted poor Baby's tooths to make them come through," said Peggy, eagerly. "They was all _bleeding_, bleeding ever so, Miss Earnshaw. Baby didn't understand, and he was _very_ angry. He always sc'eams at the doctor now. I almost think he'd like to kill him." Baldwin opened his mouth wide at these bloodthirsty sentiments of Baby's. He was too shocked to speak. "But it is only 'cos he doesn't understand," Peggy went on, placidly. "_I_ don't sc'eam at the doctor. I speak to him quite goodly, 'cos, you see, _I_ understand." Baldwin closed his mouth again. He looked at Peggy with admiring respect. "Yes," agreed Miss Earnshaw, greatly relieved at the turn their talk had taken, "that's just it, Miss Peggy. You couldn't have put it better." "Peggy," said Baldwin, "when you're big you should be a clergymunt." CHAPTER VIII UNDER THE BIG UMBRELLA "As I was going up Pippin Hill, Pippin Hill was dirty, There I met a pretty miss, And she dropped me a curtsey." _Old Nursery Rhyme._ NOTHING particular happened during the next few days. Peggy's little life went on regularly and peacefully. Miss Earnshaw came every morning, and either she or Fanny took Peggy a walk every afternoon, except twice when it rained, to the little girl's great disappointment. The second of these wet days happened to be Friday. Peggy stood at the front nursery window that morning looking out rather sadly. There were no hills--no white spot to be seen, of course. "I wonder what the Smileys do when it rains all day," she said to herself. "I think I'll go to the back window and look if I can see any of them." She had scarcely caught sight of her neighbours for some days. Only now and then she had seen the little ones tumbling about on the pavement, and once or twice the elder girls had brought their chairs down and sat there sewing. Lizzie had never come out. Peggy feared she must be still ill, and perhaps that made the others extra busy. It was not likely any of them would come out to-day, as it was raining so; but _sometimes_ she was able to see their faces at the window. And on a rainy day some of the little ones at least would perhaps be looking out. She turned to go to the other nursery when Miss Earnshaw spoke to her. "I wouldn't be so vexed at its being wet to-day, Miss Peggy, if I was you," she said. "It'll be much worse if it's wet to-morrow, for it's your brothers' half-holiday." "Is to-morrow Saturday?" asked Peggy. "To be sure it is. And I'm afraid I can't possibly stay here in the afternoon. I've got to go to see a lady some way off about some work. I wish she hadn't fixed for Saturday. If it's fine it won't matter so much. Fanny and I were saying you could all go a nice walk--the young gentlemen and you, with her. But if it's wet I don't know however she'll manage you all in the house." Suddenly Peggy's eyes began to sparkle. "Miss Earnshaw," she said, "I've thought of something. If you'll ask Fanny, I'm sure she'll say we can; we've not had them for such a long time, and I've got my four pennies and a halfpenny--that'll get six, you know, in case any's brokened." Miss Earnshaw looked at her and then began to laugh. "Miss Peggy dear, you must tell me first what you mean," she said. "Your thoughts come so fast that they run ahead of your words. What is it you mean to get six of--not buns?" "Buns!" repeated Peggy. "You can't blow bubbles with buns. No, of course I meant pipes. Nice white pipes to blow soap-bubbles." "Oh, to be sure," said Miss Earnshaw. "That's a very good idea, Miss Peggy, in case to-morrow afternoon's wet, and I shouldn't wonder if it was." "And you'll ask Fanny?" "Of course; you can ask her yourself for that matter. I'm sure she's the last to grudge you anything that'd please you and the young gentlemen. And even if soap-bubbles are rather messy sometimes, it's easy to wipe up. It's not like anything dirty." "Soap must be clean, mustn't it?" said Peggy, laughing. "But don't tell the boys, pelease, dear Miss Earnshaw. I do so want to 'apprise them. I can get the pipes to-morrow morning. I know where to get them," and quite happy, Peggy trotted off to take out her money-box and look to be quite sure that the three pennies and three halfpennies were there in safety, where for some weeks they had been waiting. "Bless her heart," said the young dressmaker. "She is the sweetest little innocent darling that ever lived." After looking over her pennies Peggy turned to the window. No, none of the Smileys were to be seen. "Never mind," said Peggy to herself. "I'll p'raps see them to-morrow when I go for the pipes. I almost hope it'll be a wet day. It will be so nice to blow soap-bubbles. Only," and she sighed a little, "it does seem such a very long time since I sawed the white cottage." To-morrow _was_ rainy, very rainy, with no look of "going to clear up" about it. The boys grumbled a good deal at breakfast at the doleful prospect of a dull half-holiday in the house. "And papa's going away to-day till Monday," said Thorold; "so there'll be no going down to the dining-room to sit beside him while he's at dinner for a change." "Poor papa," said Peggy, "he'll get very wet going such a long way." "Nonsense, you little goose," said Thor, crossly. "People don't get wet in cabs and railway carriages." "I forgot," said Peggy, meekly. "You shouldn't call her a goose, Thor," said Terence. "It's very disagreeable to travel on a very rainy day. I've often heard people say so." "I wish I was going to travel, rainy or not, I know that," grumbled Thorold. "Here we shall be mewed up in this stupid nursery all the afternoon with nothing to do." "There's lots of things to do," said Baldwin. "I think I'll write a letter to mamma for one thing. And I want to tidy my treasure-box and----" "You're a stupid," said Thorold. "You're too fat and slow to have any spirit in you." "Now, Thorold, I say that's not fair," said Terry. "Would it show spirit to grumble? You'd be down upon him if he did. There's no pleasing you." "_I_ know something that would please him," said Peggy, who was trembling between eagerness to tell and determination _not_ to tell her "surprise." "What?" said Thor, rather grumpily still. "I'm not going to tell you till you come home. And it'll only be if it's a rainy afternoon," said Peggy. Terence and Baldwin pricked up their ears. "Oh, do tell us, Peg-top," they said. But the little girl shook her head. "No, no," she replied. "I've promised myself--_quite_ promised not." "There's a reason for you," said Thor. But his tone was more good-natured now. He felt ashamed of being so cross when the little ones were so kind and bright. "I'll really, _truly_ tell you when you come back from school," said Peggy, and with this assurance the boys had to content themselves. Miss Earnshaw arrived as usual, or rather not as usual, for she was dripping, poor thing, and had to leave her waterproof downstairs in the kitchen. "What weather, Miss Peggy," she said, as she came in. "I thought it would be a wet day, but not such a pour. It is unfortunate that I have to go so far to-day, isn't it? And I'm sorry to leave you children alone too." "Never mind," said Peggy, cheerily; "we'll be quite happy with the soap bubbles. I've got my money quite ready. Mayn't I go and get the pipes now?" "Out, my dear? In such weather!" exclaimed Miss Earnshaw. "Oh, but it's _quite_ near," said Peggy. "Just hop out of the door and you're there. The boys always buy their pipes there, and mamma goes there herself sometimes to see the old woman." "Well, wait a bit, any way. It can't go on raining as fast as this all the morning surely. It's real cats and dogs." Peggy looked up in surprise. "Cats and dogs, Miss Earnshaw?" she repeated. "Oh, bless you, my dear, it's only a way of speaking," said the dressmaker, a little impatiently, for she was not very much accustomed to children. "It just means raining _very_ hard." Peggy went to the window to look out for herself. Yes indeed it was raining very hard. The little girl could not help sighing a little as she gazed at the thick even gray of the clouds, hiding like a curtain every trace of the distant hills she was so fond of. "I won't put out the little red shoes to-day," she said to herself, "there's nothing for them to see." Then other thoughts crept into her mind. "I wonder if it's raining at the white cottage too," she said to herself. And aloud she asked a question. "Miss Earnshaw, pelease, does it ever rain in the country?" she said. "Rain in the country! I should rather think it did. Worse than in town, you might say--that's to say, where there's less shelter, you'll get wetter and dirtier in the country, only of course it's not the same kind of really black sooty rain. But as for mud in country lanes! I shall see something of it this afternoon, I expect." "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Peggy. "I thought it never rained in the country. I thought it was always quite pretty and lovely," and she sighed deeply. "I wonder what people who live in little cottages in the country do all day when it rains," she said. "Why, my dear, much the same as other folk, I should say. They have their rooms to clean, and their dinner to cook, and their children to look after. Still I daresay it'd be a bit drearier in the country of a right-down wet day like this, even than in town. I've never lived there myself, except for a week at a time at most, but mother was all her young days in the country." "Everybody's fathers and mothers lived there," said Peggy, rather petulantly. "Why don't peoples let their children live there now?" Miss Earnshaw laughed a little. Peggy did not like her to laugh in that way, and she gave herself a little wriggle, though poor Miss Earnshaw certainly did not mean to vex her. "There are plenty of children in the country too, Miss Peggy," she said. "Mother's youngest sister has twelve." "Twelve," repeated Peggy, "_how_ nice! at least if there's lots of sisters among them, and no very little babies. Do they live over in that country?" she went on, pointing in the direction of the invisible hills, "that country called Brack---- You know the name." "Brackenshire," said Miss Earnshaw, "no, my mother comes from much farther off. A very pretty place it must be by what she says. Not but what Brackenshire's a pretty country too. I've been there several times with the Sunday school for a treat." "And did you see the hills and the white cottages?" asked Peggy breathlessly. "Oh yes, the hills are beautiful, and there's lots of cottages of all kinds. They look pretty among the trees, even though they're only poor little places, most of them." "The white ones is the prettiest," said Peggy, as if she knew all about it. "Yes, I daresay," said Miss Earnshaw, without paying much attention; she had got to rather a difficult part of the sleeve she was making. "Did you ever walk all the way there when you was a little girl?" Peggy went on. "Oh yes, of course," Miss Earnshaw replied, without the least idea of what she was answering. "Really!" said Peggy, "how nice!" Then seeing that the dressmaker was absorbed in her work: "Miss Earnshaw," she said, "I'm going for the pipes now. It isn't raining _quite_ so fast, and I'll not be long." "Very well, my dear," Miss Earnshaw replied, and Peggy went off to fetch her pennies from the drawer in the other nursery where she kept them. She had a new idea in her head, an idea which Miss Earnshaw's careless words had helped to put there, little as she knew it. "If I see the Smileys," thought Peggy, "I'll tell them what she said." She glanced out of the window, dear me, how lucky! There stood Brown Smiley looking out at the door, as if she were hesitating before making a plunge into the dripping wet street. It did seem at the back as if it were raining faster than in front. Peggy opened the cupboard and took out her little cloak which was hanging there. "I won't put on my hat," she thought, "'cos nurse says the rain spoils the feavers. I'll get a numbrella downstairs, and then I _can't_ get wet, and here's my pennies all right in my pocket. I do hope Brown Smiley will wait till I get down." She made all the haste she could, and found, as she expected, an umbrella in the stand downstairs. It was not very easy to open, but she succeeded at last, then came, however, another difficulty, she could not get herself and the umbrella through the back door together. "Dear me," thought Peggy, "I wonder how people does with their numbrellas. They _must_ open them in the house, else they'd get wet standing outside while they're doing it. I never looked to see how nurse does, but then we almost never go out when it's rainy. I 'appose it's one of the hard things big peoples has to learn. Oh, dear! _won't_ it come through?" No, she couldn't manage it, at least not with herself under it. At last a brilliant idea struck Peggy; anything was better than closing the tiresome thing now she _had_ got it opened--she would send it first and follow after herself. So the umbrella was passed through, and went slipping down the two or three steps that led into the yard, where it lay gaping up reproachfully at Peggy, who felt inclined to call out "Never mind, poor thing, I'm coming d'reckly." And as "d'reckly" as possible she did come, carefully closing the door behind her, for fear the rain should get into the house, which, together with the picking up of the umbrella, far too big and heavy a one for a tiny girl, took so long that I am afraid a good many drops had time to fall on the fair uncovered head before it got under shelter again. But little cared Peggy. She felt as proud as a peacock, the umbrella representing the tail, you understand, when she found herself outside the yard door, which behaved very amiably, fairly under weigh for her voyage across the street. She could see nothing before her; fortunately, however, no carriages or carts ever came down the narrow back way. Half-way over Peggy stopped short--she had forgotten to look if Brown Smiley was still standing there. It was not easy to get a peep from under the umbrella, without tilting it and herself backwards on to the muddy road, but with great care Peggy managed it. Ah dear, what a disappointment! There was no little girl in front of the cobbler's window, but glancing to one side, Peggy caught sight of the small figure with a shawl of "mother's" quaintly drawn over the head, trotting away down the street. With a cry Peggy dashed after her. "Oh, Brown Smiley," she called out, "do come back. I'm too frightened to go to buy the pipes alone," for what with her struggles and her excitement, the little damsel's nerves were rather upset. "Oh, Brown Smiley--no--no, that's not her name, oh what _is_ your name, Brown Smiley?" and on along the rough pavement behind the little messenger she rushed, if indeed poor Peggy's toddling, flopping from one side to another progress, could possibly be called "rushing." [Illustration: "But an umbrella rolling itself about on the pavement, an umbrella from which proceeds most piteous wails, an umbrella from underneath which, when you get close to it, you see two little feet sticking out, and by degrees two neat black legs, and then a muddle of short skirts, which by rights should be draping the legs, but have somehow got all turned upside down like a bird's feathers ruffled up the wrong way--_such_ an umbrella, or perhaps I should say an umbrella in such circumstances, may certainly be called a strange sight, may it not?" P. 127] It came to an end quickly--the paving-stones were rough and uneven, the small feet had only "my noldest house-shoes" to protect them, and the "numbrella" was sadly in the way; there came suddenly a sharp cry, so piercing and distressful that even Matilda-Jane, accustomed as she was to childish sounds of woe of every kind and pitch, was startled enough to turn round and look behind her. "Can it be Halfred come a-runnin' after me?" she said to herself. But the sight that met her eyes puzzled her so, that at the risk of Mother Whelan's scoldings for being so long, she could not resist running back to examine for herself the strange object. This was nothing more nor less than an umbrella, and an umbrella in itself is not an uncommon sight. But an umbrella rolling itself about on the pavement, an umbrella from which proceeds most piteous wails, an umbrella from underneath which, when you get close to it, you see two little feet sticking out and by degrees two neat black legs, and then a muddle of short skirts, which by rights should be draping the legs, but have somehow got all turned upside down like a bird's feathers ruffled up the wrong way--_such_ an umbrella, or perhaps I should say an umbrella in such circumstances, certainly may be called a strange sight, may it not? Matilda-Jane Simpkins, for that was Brown Smiley's whole long name, thought so any way, for she stood stock still, staring, and the only thing she could collect herself enough to say was, "Lor'!" But her state of stupefaction only lasted half a moment. She was a practical and business-like little person; before there was time for another cry for help, she had disentangled the umbrella and its owner, and set the latter on her feet again, sobbing piteously, and dreadfully dirty and muddy, but otherwise not much the worse. Then Matilda-Jane gave vent to another exclamation. "Bless me, missy, it's _you_!" she cried. "Whatever are you a-doing of to be out in the rain all alone, with no 'at and a humbrella four sizes too big for the likes of you, and them paper-soled things on yer feet? and, oh my! ain't yer frock muddy? What'll your folk say to you? Or is they all away and left you and the cat to keep 'ouse?" "I was running after you, Brown Smiley," sobbed Peggy. She could not quite make out if Matilda-Jane was making fun of her or not, and, indeed, to do Matilda justice, she had no such intention. "I was running after _you_," Peggy repeated, "and you _wouldn't_ stop, and I couldn't run fast 'cos of the numbrella, and so I felled down." "Never mind, missy dear, you'll be none the worse, you'll see. Only, will they give it you when you go home for dirtying of your frock?" "Give it me?" repeated Peggy. "Yes, give it you; will you get it--will you catch it?" said Matilda, impatiently. "I don't know what you mean," Peggy replied. Matilda wasted no more words on her. She took her by the arm, umbrella and all, and trotted her down the street again till they had reached the Smiley mansion. Then she drew Peggy inside the doorway of the passage, whence a stair led up to Mrs. Whelan's, and to the Simpkins's own rooms above that again, and having shut up the umbrella with such perfect ease that Peggy gazed at her in admiration, she tried to explain her meaning. "Look 'ere now, miss;" she said, "which'll you do--go straight over-the-way 'ome, just as you are, or come in along of _huz_ and get yerself cleaned up a bit?" "Oh, I'll go in with you, pelease," sobbed Peggy. "P'raps Miss Earnshaw wouldn't scold me. She let me come, and I didn't fell down on purpose. But I _know_ she wouldn't let me come out again--I'm sure she wouldn't, and I do so want to get the pipes my own self. You'll take me to Mrs. Whelan's, won't you, dear Brown Smiley?" "I'll catch it when she sees I haven't done her errant," said Matilda. "But never mind; she'll not be so bad with you there, maybe. Come up with me, missy, and I'll get Rebecca to wipe you a bit," and she began the ascent of the narrow staircase, followed by Peggy. CHAPTER IX THE OPPOSITE HOUSE "There was an old woman that lived in a shoe, She had so many children she didn't know what to do." _Nursery Rhymes._ IN spite of her misfortunes, Peggy could not help feeling very pleased at finding herself at last inside the house she had watched so often from the outside. It was certainly not a pretty house--a big person would probably have thought it a very poor and uninteresting one; but it was not dirty. The old wooden steps were scrubbed down once a week regularly, so there was nothing to strike the little girl as disagreeable, and it seemed delightfully queer and mysterious as she climbed the steep, uneven staircase, which grew darker and darker as they went on, so that but for Brown Smiley's voice in front, Peggy would not have had the least idea where she was going. "There's Mother Whelan's door," Matilda said in a half whisper, as if afraid of the old woman's pouncing out upon them, and Peggy wondered how she knew it, for to her everything was perfectly dark; "but we'll go upstairs first to Rebecca," and on they climbed. Suddenly, what seemed for a moment a blaze of brilliant light from the contrast with the darkness where they were, broke upon them. Peggy quite started. But it was only the opening of a door. "Is that you, Matilda-Jane? My, but you have been sharp. I should think old Whelan 'ud be pleased for onst." The speaker was Reddy; she stood in the doorway, her bare red arms shining, as they always did, from being so often up to the elbows in soap and water. "Oh, Rebecca, don't say nothin', but I've not been of my errant yet. Now, don't ye begin at me--'tweren't of my fault. I was a-'urryin' along when I saw miss 'ere a-rollin' in the wet with her humberellar, and I 'ad to pick her up. She's that muddy we were afeard they'd give it her over the way--her mar's away. So I told her as you'd tidy her up a bit. Come along, missy. Rebecca's got a good 'eart, has Rebecca; she'll clean you nicely, you'll see." For at the sound of Rebecca's sharp voice poor Peggy had slunk back into the friendly gloom of the staircase. But she came creeping forward now, so that Reddy saw her. "Lor'!" said the big girl, "little miss from the hopposite winder to be sure." This quite restored Peggy's courage. "Have you seen me at the window?" she said. "How funny! I've looked at you lotses and lotses of times, but I never thought of you looking at me." To which both sisters replied with their favourite exclamation, "Lor'!" Just then came a voice from inside. "Shut the door there, Rebecca, can't you? If there's one thing I can't abide, and you might know it, it's a hopen door, and the draught right on baby's head." Rebecca took Peggy by the hand and drew her into the room, and while she was relating the story of little missy's misfortunes to her mother, little missy looked round her with the greatest interest. It was a small room, but oh, how full of children! Dinner was being got ready "against father and the boys coming home," Matilda said, but where father and the boys could possibly find space to stand, much less to sit, Peggy lay awake wondering for a long time that night. She counted over all those already present, and found they were all there except Lizzie, the lame girl. And besides the two babies and Alfred, whom she knew by sight, she was amazed to see a fourth, a very tiny doll of a thing--the tiniest thing she had ever seen, but which they all were as proud of as if there had never been a baby among them before. At this moment it was reposing in the arms of Mary-Hann; Light Smiley, whose real name was Sarah, you remember, was taking charge of the two big babies in one corner, while Reddy and her mother were busy at the fire, and "Halfred" was amusing himself quietly with some marbles, apparently his natural occupation. What a lot of them! Peggy began to feel less sure that she would like to have as many sisters as the Smileys. Still they all looked happy, and their mother, whom Peggy had never seen before, had really a very kind face. "I'll see to the pot, Rebecca," she said; "just you wipe missy's frock a bit. 'Twill be none the worse, you'll see. And so your dear mar's away missy. I 'ope the change'll do her good." "Yes, thank you," said Peggy. "She's gone to the country. Did you ever live in the country? And was it in a white cottage?" Mrs. Simpkins smiled. "No, missy, I'm town-bred. 'Tis father as knows all about the country; he's a Brackenshire man." "Oh yes," said Peggy, "I forgot. It's Miss Earnshaw's mother I was thinking of." "But father," said Matilda, "_he_ can tell lots of tales about the country." "I wish he was at home," said Peggy. "But I must go, now my frock's cleaned. Some day p'raps I'll come again. Thank you, Reddy," at which Rebecca, who had been vigorously rubbing Peggy's skirts, stared and looked as if she were going to say "Lor'!" "I'm going to buy soap-bubble pipes at Mrs. Whelan's," Peggy went on, for she was losing her shyness now; "that's what I comed out in the rain for. We're going to play at soap-bubbles this afternoon, 'cos it's too wet to go out a walk." All the Smileys listened with great interest. "Mayn't Brown--I mean Matilda-Jane--come with me, pelease?" said Peggy. "I'm _razer_ frightened to go to buy them alone; sometimes that old woman does look so cross." "She looks what she is then," said Reddy, "'cept for one thing; she's awful good to Lizzie. She's a-sittin' down there this very minute as is, is Lizzie, to be out o' the way like when mother and me's cleaning, you see, miss." Brown Smiley's face had grown grave. "I dursn't let Mother Whelan see as I've not gone," she said, "but if missy doesn't like to go alone--not as she'd be sharp to the likes of you, but still----" "_I'll_ go," said little Sarah, Light Smiley, that is to say. "Jest you see to the childer will ye, Mary-Hann?" she shouted to the deaf sister. "I won't be harf a minute." "And you, Matilda-Jane, off with you," said Rebecca, which advice Brown Smiley instantly followed. Sarah took Peggy's hand to escort her down the dark staircase again. Light Smiley was, of all the family perhaps, Peggy's favourite. She was two years or so older than her little opposite neighbour, but she scarcely looked it, for both she and Brown Smiley were small and slight, and when you came to speak to them both, Sarah seemed a good deal younger than Matilda; she was so much less managing and decided in manner, but on the present occasion Peggy would have preferred the elder Smiley, for to tell the truth her heart was beginning to beat much faster than usual at the thought of facing Mrs. Whelan in her den. "Isn't you frightened, Light Smiley?" asked the little girl when the two stopped, and Peggy knew by this that they must be at the old woman's door. "Oh no," Sarah replied. "Tisn't as if we'd been up to any mischief, you see. And Lizzie's there. She's mostly quiet when Lizzie's there." So saying she pushed the door open. It had a bell inside, which forthwith began to tinkle loudly, and made Peggy start. This bell was the pride of Mrs. Whelan's heart; it made such a distinction, she thought, between her and the rest of the tenants of the house, and the more noisily it rang the better pleased she was. Sarah knew this, and gave the door a good shove, at the same time pulling Peggy into the room. "What's it yer afther now, and what's become of Matilda-Jane?" called out the old woman, not, at the first moment, catching sight of Peggy. "It's little missy from over-the-way," Sarah hastened to explain; "she's come to buy some pipes of you, Mother Whelan." [Illustration: "To be sure," she said in her most gracious tone. "'Tis the beautiful pipes I have. And 'tis proud I am to say the purty young lady," and on she went with a long flattering speech about Peggy's likeness to her "swate mother," and inquiries after the lady's health, all the time she was reaching down from a high shelf an old broken cardboard box, containing her stock of clay pipes. P. 138.] Mrs. Whelan looked at Peggy where she stood behind Sarah, gravely staring about her. "To be sure," she said in her most gracious tone. "'Tis the beautiful pipes I have. And 'tis proud I am to say the purty young lady," and on she went with a long flattering speech about Peggy's likeness to her "swate mother," and inquiries after the lady's health, all the time she was reaching down from a high shelf an old broken cardboard box, containing her stock of clay pipes. Peggy did not answer. In the first place, thanks to the old woman's Irish accent and queer way of speaking she did not understand a quarter of what she said. Then her eyes were busy gazing all about, and her nose was even less pleasantly occupied, for there was a very strong smell in the room. It was a sort of mixed smell of everything--not like the curious "everything" smell that one knows so well in a village shop in the country, which for my part I think rather nice--a smell of tea, and coffee, and bacon, and nuts, and soap, and matting, and brown holland, and spices, and dried herbs, all mixed together, but with a clean feeling about it--no, the smell in Mrs. Whelan's was much stuffier and snuffier. For joined to the odour of all the things I have named was that of herrings and tobacco smoke, and, I rather fear, of whisky. And besides all this, I am very much afraid that not only a spring cleaning but a summer or autumn or winter cleaning, were unknown events in the old woman's room. No wonder that Peggy, fresh from the soft-soap-and-water smell of the Simpkins's upstairs, sniffed uneasily and wished Mrs. Whelan would be quick with the pipes; her head felt so queer and confused. But looking round she caught sight of a very interesting object; this was Lizzie, rocking herself gently on her chair in a corner, and seeming quite at home. Peggy ran--no she couldn't run--the room was so crowded, for a counter stood across one end, and in the other a big square old bedstead, and between the two were a table and one or two chairs, and an old tumble-down chest of drawers--made her way over to Lizzie. "How do you do, Crip--Lizzie, I mean? I hope your pains aren't very bad to-day?" "Not so very, thank you, miss," said the poor girl. "It's nice and quiet in here, and the quiet does me a deal o' good." Peggy sighed. "I don't like being very quiet," she said. "I wish you could come over to the nursery; now that Hal and baby and nurse are away it's dreffully quiet." "But you wouldn't care to change places with me, would you, missy?" said Lizzie. "I'm thinking you'd have noise enough if you were upstairs sometimes. My--it do go through one's head, to be sure." Peggy looked very sympathising. "Aren't you frightened of _her_?" she whispered, nodding gently towards Mrs. Whelan. "Not a bit of it," said Lizzie, also lowering her voice; "she's right down good to me, is the old body. She do scold now and then and no mistake, but bless you, she'd never lay a finger on me, and it's no wonder she's in a taking with the children when they kicks up a hextra row, so to say." Peggy's mouth had opened gradually during this speech, and now it remained so. She could not understand half Lizzie's words, but she had no time to ask for an explanation, for just then Light Smiley called to her to come and look at the pipes which were by this time waiting for her on the counter. They were the cleanest things in the room--the only clean things it seemed to Peggy as she lifted them up one by one to choose six very nice ones. And then she paid her pennies and ran back to shake hands with Lizzie and say good-bye to her--she wondered if she should shake hands with Mrs. Whelan too, but fortunately the old woman did not seem to expect it, and Peggy felt very thankful, for her brown wrinkled hands looked sadly dirty to the little girl, dirtier perhaps than they really were. "I like your house much better than hers," said Peggy, when she and Light Smiley were down at the bottom of the stairs again; "it smells much nicer." "Mother and Rebecca's all for scrubbing, that's certing," replied Sarah, with a smile of pleasure--of course all little girls like to hear their homes praised--"but she's not bad to Lizzie, is old Whelan," as if that settled the whole question, and Peggy felt she must not say any more about the dirty room. Light Smiley felt it her duty to see "missy" safe across the street. Peggy's hands were laden with the precious pipes, and Sarah carried the big umbrella over the two of them. They chattered as they picked their way through the mud and stood for a minute or two at the yard-door of Peggy's house. Light Smiley peeped in. "Lor'," she said, expressing her feelings in the same way as her sisters, "yours must be a fine house, missy. All that there back-yard for yerselves." "You should see the droind-room, and mamma's room; there's a marble top to the washing-stand," said Peggy, with pride. "Lor'," said Sarah again. "Some day," Peggy went on, excited by Sarah's admiration, "_some_ day when my mamma comes home, I'm going to ask her to let me have a tea-party of you _all_--in the nursery, you know. The nursery's nice too, at least I daresay you'd like it." "Is that the winder where you sees us from?" asked Sarah. "Matilda-Jane says as how we could see you too quite plain at it if you put your face quite close to the glass." "I can't," said Peggy. "There's the toilet-table close to the window--at least, it's really a chest of drawers, you know, but there's a looking-glass on the top and a white cover, so it's like a toilet-table for nurse, though it's too high up for me. I have to stand on a chair if I want to see myself popperly." "Dear!" said Sarah sympathisingly. "And I can only see you by scrooging into the corner, and the curting's there. No, you couldn't ever see me well up at the window. But that's not the nursery where we'd have tea. That's only the night nursery. The other one's to the front; that's the window where you can see the hills far away." "In the country, where father used to live. Oh yes, I know. I heerd Matilda-Jane a-asking 'im about it," said Sarah. "Oh, and did he tell you any more? Do ask him if it's really not far to get there," said Peggy, eagerly. Sarah nodded. "I won't forget," she said; "and then, missy, when you axes us to the tea-party, I'll be able to tell you all about it." She did not mean to be cunning, poor little girl, but she was rather afraid Peggy might forget about the tea-party, and she thought it was not a bad plan to say something which might help to make her remember it. "Yes," Peggy replied, "that would be lovely. Do make him tell all you can, Light Smiley. Oh, I do wish mamma would come home now, and I'd ask her about the tea-party immediately. I'm sure she'd let me, for she likes us to be kind to poor people." Sarah drew herself up a little at this. "We're not--not to say _poor_ folk," she said, with some dignity. "There's a many of us, and it's hard enough work, but still----" "Oh, don't be vexed," said Peggy. "I know you're not like--like beggars, you know. And I think _we're_ rather poor too. Mamma often says papa has to work hard." Sarah grew quite friendly again. "I take it folks isn't often rich when they've a lot of children," she began, but the sound of a window opening across the street made her start. "Bless me," she said, "I must run. There's Rebecca a-going to scold me for standing talking. Good-bye, miss, I'll not forget to ask father." And Sarah darted away, carrying with her the umbrella, quite forgetting that it was Peggy's. Peggy forgot it too, and it was not raining so fast now, so there was less to remind her. She shut the door and ran across the yard. The house door still stood open, and she made her way up to the nursery without meeting any one. CHAPTER X "SOAP-BUBBLING" "And every colour see I there." _The Rainbow_, CHARLES LAMB. THERE was no one upstairs. Miss Earnshaw had gone down to the kitchen to iron the seams of her work, without giving special thought to Peggy. If any one had asked her where the child was she would have probably answered that she was counting over her money in the night nursery. So she was rather surprised when coming upstairs again in a few minutes she was met by Peggy flying to meet her with the pipes in her hand. "I've got them, Miss Earnshaw; aren't they beauties?" she cried. "And I don't think my frock's reely spoilt? It only just looks a _little_ funny where the mud was." "Bless me!" exclaimed the young dressmaker, "wherever have you been, Miss Peggy? No, your frock'll brush all right; but you don't mean to say you've been out in the rain? You should have asked me, my dear." She spoke rather reproachfully; she was a little vexed with herself for not having looked after the child better, but Peggy was one of those quiet "old-fashioned" children, who never seem to need looking after. "I did ask you," said Peggy, opening wide her eyes, "and you said, 'Very well, my dear.'" Miss Earnshaw couldn't help smiling. "I must have been thinking more of your new frock than of yourself," she said. "However, I hope it's done you no harm. Your stockings aren't wet?" "Oh no," said Peggy; "my slippers were a weeny bit wet, so I've changed them. My frock wouldn't have been dirtied, only I felled in the wet, Miss Earnshaw, but Brown--one of the little girls, you know, that lives in the house where the shop is--picked me up, and there's no harm done, is there? And I've got the pipes, and won't my brothers be peleased," she chirruped on in her soft, cheery way. Miss Earnshaw could not blame her, though she determined to be more on the look-out for the future. And soon after came twelve o'clock, and then the young dressmaker was obliged to go, bidding Peggy "Good-bye till Monday morning." The boys came home wet and hungry, and grumbling a good deal at the rainy half-holiday. Peggy had hidden the six pipes in her little bed, but after dinner she made the three boys shut their eyes while she fetched them out and laid them in a row on the table. Then, "You may look now," she said; "it's my apprise," and she stood at one side to enjoy the sight of their pleasure. "Hurrah," cried Terry, "pipes for soap-bubbles! Isn't it jolly? Isn't Peggy a brick?" "Dear Peggy," said Baldwin, holding up his plump face for a kiss. "Poor old Peg-top," said Thor, patronisingly. "They seem very good pipes; and as there's six of them, you and I can break one a-piece if we like, Terry, without its mattering." Peggy looked rather anxious at this. "Don't try to break them, Thor, pelease," she said; "for if you beginned breaking it might go on, and then it would be all spoilt like the last time, for there's no fun in soap-bubbling by turns." "No, that's quite true," said Terry. "You remember the last time how stupid it was. But of course we won't break any, 'specially as they're yours, Peggy. We'll try and keep them good for another time." "Did you spend all your pennies for them?" asked Baldwin, sympathisingly. "Not quite all," said Peggy. "I choosed them myself," she went on, importantly. "There was a lot in a box." "Why, where did you get them? You didn't go yourself to old Whelan's, surely?" asked Thor, sharply. "Yes, I runned across the road," said Peggy. "You always get them there, Thor." "But it's quite different. I can tell you mamma won't be very pleased when she comes home to hear you've been so disobedient." Poor Peggy's face, so bright and happy, clouded over, and she seemed on the point of bursting into tears. "I weren't disobedient," she began. "Miss Earnshaw said, 'Very well, dear,' and so I thought----" [Illustration: "They were soon all four very happy at the pretty play. The prettiness of it was what Peggy most enjoyed the most; the boys, boy-like, thought little but of who could blow the biggest bubbles, which, as everybody knows, are seldom as rich in colour as smaller ones." P. 149] "Of course," interrupted Terry; "Peggy's never disobedient, Thor. We'll ask mamma when she comes home; but she won't be vexed with you, darling. You won't need to go again before then." "No," said Peggy, comforted, "I don't want to go again, Terry dear. It doesn't smell very nice in the shop. But the _children's_ house is very clean, Terry. I'm sure mamma would let us go _there_." "Those Simpkinses over old Whelan's," said Terry. "Oh yes, I know mother goes there herself sometimes, though as for that she goes to old Whelan's too. But we're wasting time; let's ask Fanny for a tin basin and lots of soap." They were soon all four very happy at the pretty play. The prettiness of it was what Peggy enjoyed the most; the boys, boy-like, thought little but of who could blow the biggest bubbles, which, as everybody knows, are seldom as rich in colour as smaller ones. "I like the rainbowiest ones best," said Peggy. "I don't care for those 'normous ones Thor makes. Do you, Baldwin?" Baldwin stopped to consider. "I suppose very big things aren't never so pretty as littler things," he said at last, when a sort of grunt from Terry interrupted him. Terry could not speak, his cheeks were all puffed out round the pipe, and he dared not stop blowing. He could only grunt and nod his head sharply to catch their attention to the wonderful triumph in soap-bubbles floating before his nose. There was a big one, as big as any of Thorold's, and up on the top of it a lovely every-coloured wee one, the most brilliant the children had ever seen--a real rainbow ball. They all clapped their hands, at least Peggy and Baldwin did so. Thorold shouted, "Hurrah for Terry's new invention. It's like a monkey riding on an elephant." But Peggy did not think that was a pretty idea. "It's more like one of the very little stars sitting on the sun's knee," was her comparison, which Baldwin corrected to the moon--the sun was too yellow, he said, to be like a no-colour bubble. Then they all set to work to try to make double-bubbles, and Thor actually managed to make three, one on the top of the other. And Terry made a very big one run ever so far along the carpet without breaking, bobbing and dancing along as he blew it ever so gently. And as a finish-up they all four put their pipes into the basin and blew together, making what they called "bubble-pudding," till the pudding seemed to get angry and gurgled and wobbled itself up so high that it ended by toppling over, and coming to an untimely end as a little spot of soapy water on the table. "Pride must have a fall, you see," said Thor. "It's like the story of the frog that tried to be as big as an ox," said Terence, at which they all laughed as a very good joke. Altogether Peggy's pipes turned out a great success, and the rainy afternoon passed very happily. The Sunday that came after that Saturday was showery, sunny, and rainy by turns, like a child who having had a great fit of crying and sobbing can't get over it all at once, and keeps breaking into little bursts of tears again, long after the sorrow is all over. But by Monday morning the world--Peggy's world, that is to say--seemed to have quite recovered its spirits. The sun came out smiling with pleasure, and even the town birds, who know so little about trees, and grass, and flowers, and all those delightful things, hopped about and chirruped as nicely as could be. The boys set off to school in good spirits, and while Fanny was taking down the breakfast-things Peggy got out the little red shoes, and set them on the window-sill, where they had not been for several days. "There, dear little red shoes," she said, softly, "you may look out again at the pretty sun and the sky, and the fairy cottage up on the mounting. You can see it quite plain to-day, dear little shoes. The clouds is all gone away, and it's shinin' out all white and beautiful, and I daresay the mamma's standin' at the door with the baby--or p'raps," Peggy was never very partial to the baby, "it's asleep in its cradle. Yes, I think that's it. And the hens and cocks and chickens is all pecking about, and the cows moo'in. Oh, _how_ I do wish we could go and see them all, don't you, dear little shoes?" She stood gazing up at the tiny white speck, to other eyes almost invisible, as if by much gazing it would grow nearer and clearer to her; there was a smile on her little face, sweet visions floated before Peggy's mind of a day, "some day," when mamma should take her out "to the country," to see for herself the lovely and delightful sights that same dear mamma had described. Suddenly Fanny's voice brought her back to present things. Fanny was looking rather troubled. "Miss Peggy, love," she said, "cook and I can't think what's making Miss Earnshaw so late this morning. She's always so sharp to her time. I don't like leaving you alone, but I don't know what else to do. Monday's the orkardest day, for we're always so busy downstairs, and your papa was just saying this morning that I was to tell Miss Earnshaw to take you a nice long walk towards the country, seeing as it's so fine a day. It will be right down tiresome, it will, if she don't come." "Never mind, Fanny," said Peggy. "I don't mind much being alone, and I daresay Miss Earnshaw will come. I _should_ like to go a nice walk to-day," she could not help adding, with a longing glance out at the sunny sky. "To be sure you would," said Fanny, "and it stands to reason as you won't be well if you don't get no fresh air. I hope to goodness the girl will come, but I doubt it--her mother's ill maybe, and she's no one to send. Well, dear, you'll try and amuse yourself, and I'll get on downstairs as fast as I can." Peggy went back to the window and stood there for a minute or two, feeling rather sad. It did seem hard that things should go so very "contrarily" sometimes. "Just when it's such a fine day," she thought, "Miss Earnshaw doesn't come. And on Saturday when we _couldn't_ have goned a walk she did come. Only on Saturday it did rain very badly in the afternoon and she didn't stay, so that wasn't a pity." Then her thoughts went wandering off to what the dressmaker had told her of having to go a long way out into the country on Saturday afternoon, and of how wet and muddy the lanes would be. Peggy sighed; she _couldn't_ believe country lanes could ever be anything but delightful. "Oh how _very_ pretty they must be to-day," she said to herself, "with all the little flowers coming peeping out, and the birds singing, and the cocks and hens, and the cows, and--and----" she was becoming a little confused. Indeed she wasn't _quite_ sure what a "lane" really meant--she knew it was some kind of a way to walk along, but she had heard the word "path" too,--were "lane" and "path" quite the same? she wondered. And while she was wondering and gazing out of the window, she was startled all of a sudden by a soft, faint tap at the door. So soft and faint that if it had been at the window instead of at the door it might have been taken for the flap of a sparrow's wing as it flew past. Peggy stood quite still and listened; she heard nothing more, and was beginning to think it must have been her fancy, when again it came, and this time rather more loudly. "Tap, tap." Yes, "certingly," thought Peggy, "there's somebody there." She felt a little, a _very_ little frightened. Should she go to the door and peep out, or should she call "Come in"? she asked herself. And one or two of the "ogre" stories that Thorold and Terry were so fond of in their "Grimm's Tales," _would_ keep coming into her head--stories of little princesses shut up alone, or of giants prowling about to find a nice tender child for supper. Peggy shivered. But after all what was the use of standing there fancying things? It was broad, sunny daylight--not at all the time for ogres or such-like to be abroad. Peggy began to laugh at her own silliness. "Very likely," she thought, "it's Miss Earnshaw playing me a trick to 'apprise me, 'cos she's so late this morning." This idea quite took away her fear. "It's you, Miss Earnshaw, I'm quite sure it's you," she called out; "come in quick, you funny Miss Earnshaw. Come in." But though the door slowly opened, no Miss Earnshaw appeared. Peggy began to think this was carrying fun too far. "Why don't you come in quick?" she said, her voice beginning to tremble a little. The door opened a little farther. "Missy," said a low voice, a childish hesitating voice, quite different from Miss Earnshaw's quick bright way of speaking, "Missy, please, it's me, Sarah, please, miss." And the door opened more widely, and in came, slowly and timidly still, a small figure well known to Peggy. It was none other than Light Smiley. Peggy could hardly speak. She was so very much astonished. "Light Smiley--Sarah, I mean," she exclaimed, "how did you come? Did you see Fanny? Did she tell you to come upstairs?" Sarah shook her head. "I don't know who Fanny is, missy. I just comed in of myself. The doors was both open, and I didn't meet nobody. I didn't like for to ring or knock. I thought mebbe your folk'd scold if I did--a gel like me. Mother knows I've comed; she said as how I'd better bring it myself." And she held up what Peggy had not noticed that she was carrying--the big umbrella that had caused so much trouble two days before. "The numbrella," cried Peggy. "Oh thank you, Sarah, for bringing it back. I never thought of it! How stupid it was of me." "Mother told me for to bring it to the door and give it in," Sarah went on. "I didn't mean to come upstairs, but, the door was open, you see, miss, and I knowed your nussery was at the top, and--I 'ope it's not a liberty." "No, no," said Peggy, her hospitable feelings awaking to see that her little visitor was still standing timidly in the doorway, "I'm _very_ glad you've comed. You don't know how glad I am. It's so lonely all by myself--Miss Earnshaw hasn't come this morning. Come in, Light Smiley, do come in. Oh how nice! I can show you the mountings and the little white cottage shining in the sun." She drew Sarah forwards. But before the child looked out of the window, her eyes were caught by the tiny red slippers on the sill. "Lor'," she said breathlessly, "what splendid shoes! Are they for--for your dolly, missy? They're too small for a baby, bain't they?" "Oh yes," said Peggy, "they're too small for our baby, a great deal. But then he's very fat." "They'd be too small for ours too, though she's not a hextra fine child for her age. She were a very poor specimint for a good bit, mother says, but she's pickin' up now she's got some teeth through. My--but them shoes is neat, to be sure! They must be for a dolly." "_I've_ no doll they'd do for," said Peggy, "but I like them just for theirselves. _I_ always put them to stand there on a fine day; they like to look out of the window." Sarah stared at Peggy as if she thought she was rather out of her mind!--indeed the children at the back had hinted to each other that missy, for all she was a real little lady, was very funny-like sometimes. But Peggy was quite unconscious of it. "Lor'," said Sarah at last, "how can shoes see, they've no eyes, missy?" "But you can _fancy_ they have. Don't you ever play in your mind at fancying?" asked Peggy. "I think it's the nicest part of being alive, and mamma says it's no harm if we keep remembering it's not real. But never mind about that--do look at the hills, Sarah, and oh, _can_ you see the white speck shining in the sun? _That's_ the cottage--I call it my cottage, but _p'raps_," rather unwillingly, "it's the one your papa lived in when he was little." "D'ye really think so?" said Sarah, eagerly. "It's Brackenshire over there to be sure, and father's 'ome was up an 'ill--deary me, to think as it might be the very place. See it--to be sure I do, as plain as plain. It do seem a good bit off, but father he says it's no more'n a tidy walk. He's almost promised he'll take some on us there some fine day when he's an 'oliday. I axed 'im all I could think of--missy--all about the cocks and 'ens and cows and pigses." "Not pigs," interrupted Peggy. "I don't like pigs, and I won't have them in my cottage." "I wasn't a-talking of your cottage," said Sarah, humbly. "'Twas what father told us of all the things he seed in the country when he were a boy there. There's lots of pigses in Brackenshire." "Never mind. We won't have any," persisted Peggy. "But oh, Light Smiley, do look how splendid the sky is--all blue and all so shiny. I never sawed such a lovely day. I would so like to go a walk." "And why shouldn't you?" asked Sarah. "There's no one to take me," sighed Peggy. "It's Monday, and Fanny's very busy on Mondays, and I told you that tiresome Miss Earnshaw's not comed." Sarah considered a little. "Tell you what, missy," she said, "why shouldn't we--you and me--go a walk? I'm sure mother'd let me. I've got my 'at, all 'andy, and I did say to mother if so as missy seed me I might stop a bit, and she were quite agreeable. I'm a deal older nor you, and I can take care of you nicely. Mother's training me for the nussery." Peggy started up in delight. She had been half sitting on the window-sill, beside the shoes. "Oh, Light Smiley," she said, "how lovely! Of course you could take care of me. We'd go up Fernley Road, straight up--that's the way to Brackenshire, you know, and p'raps we might go far enough to see the white cottage plainer. If it's not a very long way to get there, we'd be sure to see it much plainer if we walked a mile or two. A mile isn't very far. Oh, do let's go--quick! quick!" But Sarah stopped her. "You'd best tell your folks first, missy," she said. "They'll let you go and be glad of it, I should say, if they're so busy, and seein' as they let you come over to our 'ouse, and your mar knowin' us and all." "It was Miss Earnshaw that let me go," said Peggy, "and then she said she didn't know I'd goned. And Thor said--oh no, he only said I shouldn't have goned to the shop. But I'll ask Fanny--I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll put on my boots and my hat and jacket--you shall help me, Sarah, and then we'll go down and I'll call to Fanny from the top of the kitchen stairs and ask her if I may go out with you, Sarah, dear. I'm sure she'll say I may." So the two little maidens went into the night nursery, where Light Smiley was greatly interested in looking at her own dwelling-place from other people's windows, and quite in her element too, seeing that she was being trained for the nursery, in getting out Peggy's walking things, buttoning her boots, and all the rest of it. CHAPTER XI UP FERNLEY ROAD "But the way is long and toilsome, And the road is drear and hard; Little heads and hearts are aching, Little feet with thorns are scarred." _The Children's Journey._ LIGHT SMILEY kept looking round the room with great satisfaction. "It is nice in 'ere and no mistake," she said at last. "Your 'ats and coats and frocks all in a row, as neat as neat, and these little white beds a sight to be seen. I should love for Rebecca and Matilda-Jane to see it." "They will," said Peggy, "when I avite you all to a tea-party, you know." Sarah drew a deep breath. A tea-party in these beautiful nurseries seemed almost too good ever to come true. "Is there a many nusseries as nice as this 'un, do you think, missy? I do 'ope as I'll get into a nice one when I'm big enough. One 'ud take a pride in keeping it clean and tidy." "I don't think this is at all a _grand_ one," Peggy replied. "Mamma's was much grander when she was little, I know. But, of course, she's very pertickler, and so's nurse, about it being very tidy." And then, Peggy being ready, the quaint pair of friends took each other's hands and set off to the top of the kitchen stairs. "Should we take the humberellar?" said Sarah, suddenly stopping at the foot of the first little flight of stairs. "I don't think it looks any ways like rain, still one never knows, and I can carry it easy." In her heart she hoped Peggy would say yes. For to Sarah's eyes the clumsy umbrella was a very "genteel" one indeed, and she felt as if it would add distinction to their appearance. Peggy, not looking at it from this point of view, hesitated. "P'raps it would do to keep the sun off us," she said. "My parasol's wored out, so I can't take it. Mamma's going to get me a new one." Sarah ran back and fetched the umbrella. When they got to the door at the top of the kitchen stairs, Peggy opened it and called down softly, "Fanny, are you there? Can you hear me?" for she was not allowed to go down to the kitchen by herself. But no one answered. Fanny was busy washing in the back kitchen with both doors shut to keep in the steam, and the cook had gone out to the butcher's. "Fanny," called Peggy again. Then a voice came at last in return. "Is it anything I can tell the cook when she comes in, please, miss?" and a boy came forward out of the kitchen and stood at the foot of the steep stone stairs. "I'm the baker's boy, and I met cook and she told me to wait; she'd be back with change to pay the book in a minute. There's no one here." Peggy turned to Sarah in distress. "Fanny must be out too," she said. "Well, it'll be all right if the boy 'ull tell her, won't it, missy? 'Tisn't the cook," she went on, speaking to the boy herself, "'tis t'other one. Jest you tell her when she comes in that miss has gone out a little walk with me--Sarah Simpkins--she'll know. I'll take good care of missy." "All right," said the boy, with no doubt that so it was, and thinking, if he thought at all, that Sarah Simpkins must be a little nurse-girl, or something of the kind about the house, though certainly a small specimen to be in service! He whistled as he turned away, and something in the cheerful sound of his whistle helped to satisfy Peggy that all _was_ right! "He's a nice boy," she said to Sarah. "He won't forget, will he?" "Not he," Sarah replied. "He'll tell 'em fast enough. And as like as not we'll meet 'em along the street as we go. Is Webb's your butcher, missy--'tis just at the corner of Fernley Road?" Peggy shook her head. "I don't know," she said, feeling rather ashamed of her ignorance; "but I'd like to meet Fanny, so, pelease, let us go that way." And off the two set, by the front door this time, quite easy in their minds though, as far as they knew, the baker's boy was the only guardian of the house. They trotted down the street in the sunshine; it was very bright and fine--the air, even there in the smoky town, felt this morning deliciously fresh and spring-like. "How nice it is," said Peggy, drawing a deep breath; "it's just like summer. I'd like to go a quite long walk, wouldn't you, Sarah?" Light Smiley looked about her approvingly. "Yes," she said, "I does enjoy a real fine day. And in the country it must be right-down fust-rate." "Oh, the country!" said Peggy; "oh dear, how I do wish we could go as far as the country!" "Well," said Sarah, "if we walk fast we might come within sight of it. There's nice trees and gardings up Fernley Road, and that's a sort of country, isn't it, missy?" They were at the corner of the road by this time, but there was no sign of Fanny or cook. "Webb's" shop stood a little way down the other side, but as far as they could see it was empty. "P'raps your folk don't deal there," said Sarah, to which Peggy had nothing to say, and they stood looking about them in an uncertain kind of way. "We may as well go on a bit," said Sarah at last, "that there boy's sure to tell." Peggy had no objection, and they set off along Fernley Road at a pretty brisk pace. They had not very far to go before, as Sarah said, the road grew less town-like; the houses had little gardens round them, some of which were prettily kept, and after a while they came to a field or two, not yet built upon, though great placards stuck up on posts told that they were waiting to be sold for that purpose. They were very towny sort of fields certainly, still the bright spring sunshine made the best of them as of everything else this morning, and the two children looked at them with pleasure. "There's nicer fields still, a bit farther on," said Sarah. "I've been along this 'ere road several times. It goes on and on right into the country." "I know," said Peggy, "it goes on into the country of the mountings. But, Sarah," she said, stopping short, and looking rather distressed, "I don't think we see them any plainer than from the nursery window, and the white cottage doesn't look even as plain. Are you sure we're going the right way?" "We couldn't go wrong," answered Sarah, "there's no other way. But we've come no distance yet, missy, and you see there's ups and downs in the road that comes between us and the 'ills somehow. I suppose at the window we could see straight-forward-like, and then we was 'igher up." "Yes, that must be it," said Peggy; "but I would like to go far enough to see a _little_ plainer, Sarah, wouldn't you? I've got the red shoes in my pocket, you know, and when we come to a place where we can see very nice and clear I'll take them out and let them see too." "Lor'," said Sarah, "you _are_ funny, missy." But she smiled so good-naturedly that Peggy did not mind. After a bit they came to a place where another road crossed the one they were on. This other road was planted with trees along one side, and the shade they cast looked cool and tempting. "I wish we could go along that way," said Peggy, "but it would be the wrong way. It doesn't go on to the mountings." Sarah did not answer for a minute. She was trying to spell out some letters that were painted up on the corner of a wall, which enclosed the garden of a house standing in the road they were looking down. "'B, R, A,'" she began, "'B, R, A, C, K:' it's it, just look, missy. Bain't that Brackenshire as large as life? 'Brackenshire Road.' It must be this way," and she looked quite delighted. "But how can it be?" objected Peggy. "This road _doesn't_ go to the hills, Sarah. They're straight in front." "But maybe it slopes round again after a bit," said Sarah. "Lots of roads does that way, and runs the same way really, though you wouldn't think so at the start. It stands to reason, when it's got the name painted up, it must lead Brackenshire way;" and then suddenly, as a man with a basket on his arm appeared coming out of one of the houses, she darted up to him. "Please, mister, does this road lead to Brackenshire?" she asked. The man did not look very good-natured. "Lead to where?" he said, gruffly. "To Brackenshire--it's painted up on the wall, but we want to be sure." "If it's painted up on the wall, what's the sense of askin' me?" he said. "If you go far enough no doubt you'll get there. There's more'n one road to Brackenshire." Sarah was quite satisfied. "You see," she said to Peggy, running back to her, "it's all right. If we go along this 'ere road a bit, I 'specs it'll turn again and then we'll see the 'ills straight in front." Peggy had no objection. Fernley Road was bare and glaring just about there, and the trees were very tempting. "It's really getting like the country," said Peggy, as they passed several pretty gardens, larger and much prettier than the small ones in Fernley Road. "Yes," Light Smiley agreed, "but though gardings is nice, I don't hold with gardings anything like as much as fields. Fields _is_ splendid where you can race about and jump and do just as you like, and no fears of breakin' flowers or nothink." "Do you think we shall come to fields like that soon?" said Peggy. "If there was a very nice one we might go into it p'raps and rest a little, and look at the mountings. I wish we could begin to see the mountings again, Sarah, it seems quite strange without them, and I'm getting rather tired of looking at gardens when we can't go inside them, aren't you?" Sarah was feeling very contented and happy. She was, though a little body for her age, much stronger than Peggy, as well as two years older, and she looked at her companion with surprise when she began already to talk of "resting." "Lor', missy, you bain't tired already," she was beginning, when she suddenly caught sight of something which made her interrupt herself. This was another road crossing the one they were on at right angles, and running therefore in the same direction as Fernley Road again. "'Ere's our way," she cried, "now didn't I tell you so? And this way goes slopin' up a bit, you see. When we get to the top we'll see the 'ills straight 'afore us, and 'ave a beeyutiful view." Peggy's rather flagging steps grew brisker at this, and the two ran gaily along the new road for a little way. But running uphill is tiring, and it seemed to take them a long time to get to the top of the slope, and when they did so, it was only to be disappointed. Neither mountains nor hills nor white cottage were to be seen, only before them a rather narrow sort of lane, sloping downwards now and seeming to lead into some rather rough waste ground, where it ended. Peggy's face grew rather doleful, but Sarah was quite equal to the occasion. A little down the hill she spied a stile, over which she persuaded Peggy to climb. They found themselves in a potato field, but a potato field with a path down the middle; it was a large field and at the other end of the path was a gate, opening on to a cart track scarcely worthy the name of a lane. The children followed it, however, till another stile tempted them again, this time into a little wood, where they got rather torn and scratched by brambles and nettles as they could not easily find a path, and Sarah fancied by forcing their way through the bushes they would be sure to come out on to the road again. It was not, however, till they had wandered backwards among the trees and brambles for some time that they got on to a real path, and they had to walk a good way along this till they at last came on another gate, this time sure enough opening into the high road. Sarah's spirits recovered at once. "'Ere we are," she said cheerfully, "all right. 'Ere's Fernley Road again. Nothink to do but to turn round and go 'ome if you're tired, missy. _I'm_ not tired, but if you'd rayther go no farther----" Peggy did not answer for a moment; she was staring about her on all sides. The prospect was not a very inviting one; the road was bare and ugly, dreadfully dusty, and there was no shade anywhere, and at a little distance some great tall chimneys were to be seen, the chimneys of some iron-works, from which smoke poured forth. There were a good many little houses near the tall chimneys, they were the houses of the people who worked there, but they were not sweet little cottages such as Peggy dreamed of. Indeed they looked more like a very small ugly town, than like rows of cottages on a country road. "This isn't a pretty road at all," said Peggy at last, rather crossly I am afraid, "it is very nugly, and you shouldn't have brought me here, Sarah. I can't see the mountings; they is quite goned away, more goned away than when it rains, for then they're only behind the clouds. This isn't Fernley Road, Light Smiley. I do believe you've losted us, and Peggy's so tired, and very, very un'appy." It was Peggy's way when she grew low-spirited to speak more babyishly than usual; at such times it was too much trouble to think about being a big girl. Poor Sarah looked dreadfully distressed. "Oh, missy dear, don't cry," she said. "If it bain't Fernley Road, it's _a_ road any way, and there's no call to be frightened. We can ax our way, but I'd rayther not ax it at the cottages, for they might think I was a tramp that'd stoled you away." "And what would they do then?" asked Peggy, leaving off crying for a minute. "They'd 'av me up mebbe, and put us in the lock-ups." "What's that?" "The place where the pl'ice leaves folk as they isn't sure about." "Prison, do you mean?" said Peggy, growing very pale. "Well, not ezackly, but somethin' like." Peggy caught hold of Sarah in sudden terror. "Oh come along, Light Smiley, quick, quick. Let's get back into the fields and hide or anything. Oh come quick, for fear they should catch us." And she tugged at Sarah, trying to drag her along the road. "Stop, missy, don't take on so; there's no need. We'll just go along quietly and no one'll notice us, only you stop crying, and then no one'll think any 'arm. We'll not go back the way we came, it's so drefful thorny, but we'll look out for another road or a path. I 'spects you're right enough--this 'ere bain't Fernley Road." Peggy swallowed down her sobs. "I don't think you look quite big enough to have stolened me, Sarah," she said at last. "But I would like to get back into the fields quick. If only we could see the mountings again, I wouldn't be quite so frightened." They had not gone far before they came upon a gateway and a path leading through a field where there seemed no difficulties. Crossing it they found themselves at the edge of the thorny wood, which they skirted for some way. Peggy's energy, born of fear, began to fail. "Sarah," she said at last, bursting into fresh tears, "Peggy can't go no farther, and I'm so hungry too. I'm sure it's long past dinner-time. You must sit down and rest; p'raps if I rested a little, I wouldn't feel so very un'appy." Sarah looked at her almost in despair. She herself was worried and vexed, very afraid too of the scolding which certainly awaited her at home, but she was not tired nor dispirited, though very sorry for Peggy, and quite aware that it was she and not "missy" who was to blame for this unlucky expedition. "I'd like to get on," she said, "we're sure to get back into a road as'll take us 'ome before long. Couldn't I carry you, missy?" "No," said Peggy, "you're far too little. And I can't walk any more without resting. You're very unkind, Light Smiley, and I wish I'd never seen you." Poor Sarah bore this bitter reproach in silence. She looked about for a comfortable seat in the hedge, and settled herself so that Peggy could rest against her. The sunshine, though it had seemed hot and glaring on the bare dusty road was not really very powerful, for it was only late April, though a very summerlike day. Peggy left off crying and said no more, but leant contentedly enough against Sarah. "I'm comf'able now," she said, closing her eyes. "Thank you, Light Smiley. I'll soon be rested, and then we'll go on." But in a moment or two, by the way she breathed, Sarah saw that she had fallen asleep. [Illustration: "And at last, though she was really so anxious and distressed, the quiet and the milder air, and the idleness perhaps, to which none of the Simpkins family were much accustomed, all joined together and by degrees hushed poor Light Smiley to sleep, her arms clasped round Peggy as if to protect her from any possible danger." P. 177] "Bless us," thought the little guardian to herself, "she may sleep for hours. Whatever 'ull I do? She's that tired--and when she wakes she'll be that 'ungry, there'll be no getting her along. She'll be quite faint-like. If I dared leave her, I'd run on till I found the road and got somebody to 'elp carry her. But I dursn't. If she woked up and me gone, she'd be runnin' who knows where, and mebbe never be found again. Poor missy--it'll be lock-ups and no mistake, wusser I dessay for me, and quite right too. Mother'll never say I'm fit for a nussery after makin' sich a fool of myself." And in spite of her courage, the tears began to trickle down Sarah's face. Peggy looked so white and tiny, lying there almost in her arms, that it made her heart ache to see her. So she shut her own eyes and tried to think what to do. And the thinking grew gradually confused and mixed up with all sorts of other thinkings. Sarah fancied she heard her mother calling her, and she tried to answer, but somehow the words would not come. And at last, though she was really so anxious and distressed, the quiet and the mild air, and the idleness perhaps, to which none of the Simpkins family were much accustomed, all joined together and by degrees hushed poor Light Smiley to sleep, her arms clasped round Peggy as if to protect her from any possible danger. It would have been a touching picture, had there been any one there to see. Unluckily, not merely for the sake of the picture, but for that of the children themselves, there was no one. CHAPTER XII THE SHOES-LADY AGAIN "I'll love you through the happy years, Till I'm a nice old lady." _Poems written for a Child._ WHEN they woke, both of them at the same moment it seemed, though probably one had roused the other without knowing it, the sun had gone, the sky looked dull, it felt chilly and strange. Peggy had thought it must be past dinner-time before they had sat down to rest; it seemed now as if it must be past tea-time too! Sarah started up, Peggy feebly clinging to her. "Oh dear, dear," said Sarah, "I shouldn't have gone to sleep, and it's got that cold!" She was shivering herself, but Peggy seemed much the worse of the two. She was white and pinched looking, and as if she were half stupefied. "I'm so cold," she said, "and so hungry. I thought I was in bed at home. I do so want to go home. I'm sure it's very late, Light Smiley; do take me home." "I'm sure, missy, it's what I want to do," said poor Sarah. "I'm afeared it's a-going to rain, and whatever 'ull we do then? You wouldn't wait 'ere a minute, would you, while I run to see if there's a road near?" "No, no," said Peggy, "I won't stay alone. I'm very, very frightened, Light Smiley, and I think I'm going to die." "Oh Lor', missy, don't you say that," said Sarah, in terror. "If you can't walk I'll carry you." "I'll try to walk," said Peggy, picking up some spirit when she saw Sarah's white face. And then the two set off again, dazed and miserable, very different from the bright little pair that had started up Fernley Road that morning. Things, however, having got to the worst, began to mend, or at least were beginning to mend for them, though Peggy and Sarah did not just yet know it. Not far from the edge of the field where they were, a little bridle-path led into a lane, and a few yards down this lane brought them out upon Fernley Road again at last. "I see the mountings," cried Peggy, "oh, Light Smiley, Peggy sees the mountings. P'raps we won't die, oh p'raps we'll get home safe again." But though she had been trying to be brave, now that she began to hope again, it was too much for her poor little nerves--Peggy burst into loud sobbing. "Oh, dear missy, try not to cry," said Sarah. "There--there--where's your hankercher?" and she dived into Peggy's pocket in search of it. And as she pulled it out, out tumbled at the same time the two little scarlet shoes, falling on the ground. "Oh Light Smiley, my red shoes. They'll be all spoilt and dirtied," said Peggy, as well as she could, for Sarah was dabbing the handkerchief all over her face. Sarah stooped to pick them up; both children were too much engaged to notice the sound of wheels coming quickly along the quiet road. But the sight of a speck of dirt on one of the shoes set Peggy off crying again, and she cried for once pretty loudly. The wheels came nearer, and then stopped, and this made Sarah look round. A pony-carriage driven by a lady had drawn up just beside them. The groom, sitting behind, jumped down, though looking as if he did not know what he was to do. "What is the matter, little girls?" said the lady. "It's, please'm--we've lost our road--it's all along o' me, mum--but I didn't mean no 'arm, only missy's that wore out'm, and----" but before Sarah could get farther, she was stopped by a sort of cry from both the lady and Peggy at once. "Oh, oh," called out Peggy, "it's the shoes-lady--oh, pelease, pelease, take me home," and she seemed ready to dart into the lady's arms. "I do believe," _she_ said, "I do believe it's the little girl I saw at the bootmaker's, and--yes, of course it is--there are the shoes themselves! My dear child, whatever are you doing to be so far from home--at least I suppose you live in the town?--and what have you got the dolly's shoes with you for?" "I brought them for them to see the mountings and the white cottage," sobbed Peggy; "but I'm so cold and hungry, pelease take me home, oh, pelease, do." The lady seemed rather troubled. Even if she had not remembered Peggy, she would have seen in a moment that she was a little lady, though Peggy looked miserable enough with her torn clothes, and scratched and tear-stained face. "Poor child," she said, "tell me your name, and where you live." "I'm Peggy, but I don't 'amember my nother name, 'cos I'm tired and it's very long," she said. The lady looked at Sarah. Sarah shook her head. "No, mum, I don't know it neither, but I knows the name of the street. 'Tis Bernard Street'm--off Fernley Road, and their back winders looks over to us. We're Simpkinses'm, and missy's mar knows as we're 'speckable, and mother she never thought when she told me to take back the humberellar, as I'd lead missy sich a dance. I'll never do for the nussery, no never. I'm not steady enough," and here Light Smiley gave signs of crying herself. It was not easy for the lady to make out the story, but by degrees, with patience she did so. But while talking she had lifted Peggy into the carriage beside her, and wrapped her up in a shawl that lay on the seat, Peggy nestling in, quite contentedly. "Now," said the lady, "you get in too, Sarah Simpkins, and I'll drive you both home. I was on my way home out into the country, but I can't leave you here on the road. This is Fernley Road, but it's quite four miles from the town." In scrambled Sarah, divided between fear of her own and Peggy's relations' scoldings when they got home, and the delight and honour of driving in a carriage! The groom would have liked to look grumpy, I am quite sure, but he dared not. Peggy, for her part, crept closer and closer to the lady, and ended by falling asleep again, so that it was a good thing Light Smiley was sitting on the other side, to keep her from falling out. The four miles seemed very short to Sarah, and as they got into the outskirts of the town her face grew longer and longer. "I'm more'n half a mind to run away, I 'ave," she said to herself, quite unaware she was speaking aloud. "It'll be more'n I can stand, mother and Rebecca and all on 'em down on me, for I didn't mean no 'arm. I'd best run away." The lady turned to her, hitherto she had not taken much notice of Sarah, but now she felt sorry for the little girl. "What are you saying, my dear?" she said gently, though all the same her voice made Sarah jump. "Are you afraid of going home? You have not done anything naughty, exactly, as far as I understand. It was only thoughtless. I will go with you to your home if you like, and explain to your mother how it was." "Oh thank you, mum," said Sarah, eagerly, her spirits rising again at once; "you see, mum, I do so want to be in the nussery onst I'm big enough, and I was so afeared mother'd never think of it again. I only wanted to please little missy, for she seemed so lonely like, her mar and all bein' away and no one for to take her a walk. She's a sweet little missy, she is, but she's only a baby, so to say; she do have such funny fancies. 'Twas all to see the cottage on the 'ills she wanted to come up Fernley Road so badly." "The cottage--what cottage?" asked the lady. Sarah tried to explain, and gradually the lady got to understand what little Peggy had meant about bringing the red shoes "to see the mountings and the cottage." "She's always a-talking of the country, and father lived there when he was a boy, and missy had got it in her 'ead that he lived in a white cottage, like the one she fancies about," Sarah went on. "I would like to take her out into the real country, poor little pet," said the lady, looking tenderly at the sweet tiny face of the sleeping child. She loved all children, but little girls of Peggy's age were especially dear to her, for many years before she had had a younger sister who had died, and the thought of her had come into her mind the first time she had seen Peggy at the door of the shoe shop. "If I can see any of her friends I will ask them to let her spend a day with me," she went on, speaking more to herself than to Sarah. As they turned into Bernard Street a cab dashed past them coming very fast from the opposite direction. It drew up in front of the house which Sarah was just that moment pointing out to the lady as Peggy's home, and a gentleman, followed by a young woman, sprang out. The door was opened almost as soon as they rang, and then the three, the other servant who had answered the bell, the young woman and the gentleman, all stood together on the steps talking so anxiously and eagerly that for a moment or two they did not notice the pony-carriage, and though the groom knew the whole story by this time and had jumped down at once, he was far too proper to do anything till he had his lady's orders. "Ask the gentleman to speak to me," said the lady, "and you jump out, little Sarah. I think he must be Peggy's father." He had turned round by this time and came hurrying forward. The moment the lady saw him she knew she had guessed right. He was so like Peggy--fair and gray-eyed, and with the same gentle expression, and very young looking to be the father not only of Peggy, but of _big_ little boys like Thor and Terry. His face looked pale and anxious, but the moment he caught sight of the little sleeping figure leaning against the lady it all lighted up and a red flush came into his cheeks. "Oh--thank God," he exclaimed, "my little Peggy! You have found her! How good of you! But--she is not hurt?--she is all right?" "Yes--yes--only cold and hungry and tired," said the lady eagerly, for Peggy did look rather miserable still. "Will you lift her out?" and as he did so, she got out herself, and turned to Sarah. "May I bring this other child in for a moment," she said, "and then I can explain it all?" Sarah followed gladly, but a sudden thought struck her, "Please'm," she said, bravely, though the tears came to her eyes as she spoke, "p'raps I'd best run 'ome; mother'll be frightened about me." "But I promised you should not be scolded," said the lady; "stay," and she turned to Fanny, "she lives close to, she says." "At the back--over the cobbler's," said Sarah, readily. "Can you let her mother know she's all right, then? And say I am coming to speak to her in a moment," said the lady, and Fanny went off. She had been so terrified about Peggy, and so afraid that she would be blamed for carelessness, that she dared not wait, though she was dying with curiosity to know the whole story and what one of the Simpkins children could have had to do with it. Peggy awoke by the time her father had got her into the dining-room, where cook had made a good fire and laid out Peggy's dinner and tea in one to be all ready, for the poor woman had been hoping every instant for the last few hours that the little girl would be brought home again. It had been difficult to find Peggy's father, as he was not at his office, and Fanny had been there two or three times to fetch him. "Oh dear papa," were Peggy's first words, "I'm so glad to be home. I'll never go up Fernley Road again; but I did so want to see the cottage and the mountings plainer. And it wasn't Light Smiley's fault. She was very good to me, and I was very cross." This did not much clear up matters. Indeed Peggy's papa was afraid for a minute or two that his little girl was going to have a fever, and that her mind was wandering. But all such fears were soon set at rest, and when the lady went off with Sarah, she left Peggy setting to work very happily at her dinner or tea, she was not sure which to call it. "And you will let her come to spend the day with me to-morrow?" said the lady, as she shook hands with Peggy's father. "I shall be driving this way, and I can call for her. I should not be happy not to know that she was none the worse for her adventures to-day." Then the lady took Sarah by the hand and went round with her to her home in the back street, telling the groom to wait for her at the corner. It was well she went herself, for otherwise I am afraid poor Light Smiley would not have escaped the scolding she dreaded. Her mother and sisters had been very unhappy and frightened about her, and when people--especially poor mothers like Mrs. Simpkins, with "so many children that they don't know what to do"--are anxious and frightened, I have often noticed that it makes them very cross. As it was, however, the lady managed to smoothe it all down, and before she left she got not only Sarah's mother, but Rebecca and Mary-Hann and all of them to promise to say no more about it. "'Tisn't only for myself I was feelin' so put about, you see, ma'am," said Mrs. Simpkins, "but when I sent over the way and found the little missy was not to be found it flashed upon me like a lightenin' streak--it did that, ma'am--that the two was off together. And if any 'arm had come to the little lady through one of mine, so to say, it would 'ave gone nigh to break my 'art. For their mar is a sweet lady--a real feelin' lady is their mar." "And a kind friend to you, I daresay," said the stranger. "Couldn't be a kinder as far as friendly words and old clotheses goes," said Mrs. Simpkins. "But she's a large little fam'ly of her own, and not so very strong in 'ealth, and plenty to do with their money. And so to speak strangers in the place, though she 'ave said she'd do her best to get a place in a nice fam'ly for one of my girls." The lady glanced at the group of sisters. "Yes," she said, "I should think you could spare one or two. How would you like to be in a kitchen?" she added, turning to Rebecca. The girl blushed so that her face matched her arms, and she looked more "reddy" than ever. But she shook her head. "I'm afraid----" she began. "No, ma'am, thank you kindly, but I couldn't spare Rebecca," the mother interrupted. "If it were for Mary-Hann now--Matilda-Jane's coming on and could take her place. Only, for I couldn't deceive you, ma'am, she's rather deaf." "I shouldn't mind that," said the lady, who was pleased by Mary-Ann's bright eyes and pleasant face. "I think deaf people sometimes work better than quick-hearing ones, besides, it may perhaps be cured. I will speak about her to my housekeeper and let you know. And you, Sarah, you are to be in the nursery some day." Sarah grinned with delight. "Not just yet," said Mrs. Simpkins; "she 'ave a deal to learn, 'ave Sarah. Schooling and stiddiness to begin with. She don't mean no 'arm, I'll allow." "No; I'm sure she wants to be a very good girl," said the lady. "She was very kind and gentle to little Miss Peggy. So I won't forget you either, Sarah, when the time comes." And then the lady said good-bye to them all, and Mrs. Simpkins's heart felt lighter than for long, for she was sure that through this new friend she might get the start in life she had been hoping for, for her many daughters. Peggy slept off her fatigue, and by the next morning she was quite bright again and able to listen to and understand papa's explanation of how, though without meaning to be disobedient, she had done wrong the day before in setting off with Sarah Simpkins as she had done. Two or three tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as she heard what he said. "I meant to be so good while mamma was away," she whispered. "But I'll never do it again, papa. I'll stay quiet in the nursery all alone, even if Miss Earnshaw doesn't come back at all." For a message had come from the dressmaker that her mother was very ill, as Fanny had feared, and that she was afraid she would not be able to leave her for several days. "It won't be so bad as that, dear," said her father. "Mamma will be back in five days now, and I don't think you are likely to be left alone in the nursery--certainly not to-day;" and then he told her about the lady having asked her to spend the day out in the country with her, and that Peggy must be ready by twelve o'clock, not to keep her new friend waiting. Peggy's eyes gleamed with delight. "Out into the country?" she said. "Oh, how lovely! And oh, papa, do you think _p'raps_ she lives in a white cottage?" Papa shook his head. "I'm afraid it's not a cottage at all where she lives," he said. "But I'm sure it is a very pretty house, and let us hope it is a white one." "No," said Peggy, "you don't understand, papa--not as well as mamma does. I don't care what colour it is if it's only an 'ouse." And she couldn't understand why papa laughed so that he really couldn't correct her. "I'm afraid, Peggy," he said, "you've been taking lessons from little Miss Simpkins. It's time mamma came home again to look after you." "Yes, I wish mamma was come home again," said Peggy. "We can't do without her, can we, papa?" But when the dear little pony carriage came up to the door, and Peggy got in and drove off with her kind friend, she was so happy that she had not even time to wish for mamma. And what a delightful day she had! The lady's house was very pretty, and the gardens and woods in which it stood even prettier in Peggy's opinion. And though it was not a cottage, there were all the country things to see which Peggy was so fond of--cocks and hens, and cows, and in one field lots of sheep and sweet little lambkins. There were pigs too, which Peggy would not look at, but ran away to the other end of the yard as soon as she heard them "grumphing," which amused the lady very much. And in the afternoon she went a walk with her friend through the village, where there were several pretty cottages, but none that quite fitted Peggy's fancy. When they came in again Peggy stood at the drawing-room window, which looked out towards Brackenshire, without speaking. "You like that view, don't you, dear?" said the lady. "You can see the hills?" "Yes," said Peggy, "I can see the mountings, but not the white cottage. It's got turned wrong somehow, from here. I can only see _it_ from the nursery window at home," and she gave a very little sigh. "Some day," said the lady, "some day in the summer when the afternoons are very long, I will drive you right out a long way among the hills, and perhaps we'll find the cottage then. For I hope your mamma will often let you come to see me, my little Peggy." "Yes," said Peggy, "that would be lovely. I _wonder_ if we'd find the white cottage." No, they never did! The sweet long summer days came, and many a bright and happy one Peggy spent with her kind friend, but they never found the white cottage on the hill. Peggy knew it so well in her mind, she felt she could not mistake it, but though she saw many white cottages which any one else _might_ have thought was it, she knew better. And each time, though she sighed a little, she hoped again. But before another summer came round Peggy and her father and mother, and Thor, and Terry, and Hal, and Baldwin, and Baby had all gone away--far away to the south, many hours' journey from the dingy town and the Fernley Road, and the queer old house in the back street where lived the cobbler and old Mother Whelan and Brown Smiley and Light Smiley and all the rest of them. Far away too from the hills and the strange white speck in the distance which Peggy called her cottage. So it never was more than a dream to her after all, and perhaps--perhaps it was best so? For nothing has ever spoilt the sweetness and the mystery of the childish fancy--she can see it with her mind's eye still--the soft white speck on the far-away, blue hills--she can see it and think of it and make fancies about it even now--now that she has climbed a long, long way up the mountain of life, and will soon be creeping slowly down the other side, where the sun still shines, however, and there are even more beautiful things to hope for than the sweetest dreams of childhood. THE END _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh._ * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 16, caption of illustration, "accomodate" changed to "accommodate" (to accommodate the whole) Page 47, word "a" added to text (it a waste of time) Page 101, the text mentions a "Ferndale Road". There are many references elsewhere to "Fernley Road" so this might be a misprint. It was retained. 
42230	----	[Illustration: "They shouted and cheered; then Mr. Trelawny put his hand on her head." Page 310. _Esther's Charge._] ESTHER'S CHARGE A STORY FOR GIRLS BY E. EVERETT-GREEN AUTHOR OF "SQUIB AND HIS FRIENDS," "THE YOUNG PIONEERS," "IN THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY," ETC, ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ NEW YORK A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER CONTENTS. I. A Little Manager, 1 II. The Boys, 26 III. An Anxious Charge, 52 IV. The Sweets of Freedom, 78 V. At the Crag, 104 VI. The Shorn Sheep, 130 VII. Days of Sunshine, 156 VIII. The City of Refuge, 182 IX. The Magician's Cave, 208 X. Confessions, 234 XI. Mr. Trelawny, 262 XII. A New Charge, 291 ESTHER'S CHARGE. CHAPTER I. A LITTLE MANAGER. "Where is Miss Esther, Genefer?" "I think she's at the linen-press, marm, putting away the things from the wash." "Tell her to come to me when she has done that. I want to speak to her." "Yes, marm, I will. Can I do anything else for you?" "No, thank you. I have all I want. But send Miss Esther to me quickly." Mrs. St. Aiden was lying on a couch in a very pretty, dainty, little room, which opened upon a garden, blazing with late spring and early summer flowers. The lawn was still green, and looked like velvet, and the beds and borders of flowers were carefully tended, as could be seen at a glance. The gravel paths were rolled and weeded, and everything was in exquisite order, both within and without the house. Everything also was on a very small scale; and the lady herself, who was clad in deep widow's weeds, was small and slim also, and looked as if she were somewhat of an invalid, which indeed was the case. Rather more than a year ago her husband had died after a very short illness, and she had never been well since, although she was not exactly ill of any disease. She was weak and easily upset, and she had to depend a good deal upon her servants and her only daughter. She had never been accustomed to think for herself. Captain St. Aiden had always done the thinking and the managing as long as he lived, and the poor lady felt very helpless when he was taken from her. When the servant had gone she took up again a letter which she had been reading, and kept turning the leaves of it over and over again, sighing, and seeming troubled and perplexed. She also kept looking across the room towards the door at short intervals, sometimes saying half aloud as she did so,-- "I wish Esther would come!" Presently the door opened, and a little girl came into the room with very quiet steps. She was dressed daintily in a white frock, with black sash and bows. She had a grave little face, that was generally rather pale, and looked small beneath the wide brow and big gray eyes. Perhaps it looked smaller for the flowing mass of wavy hair, a dusky chestnut color, that flowed over the child's shoulders and hung below her waist. It was very beautiful hair, soft and silky, with a crisp wave in it that made it stand off from her face like a cloud. It looked dark in the shadow, but when the sun shone upon it, it glistened almost like gold. Mrs. St. Aiden was very proud of Esther's hair, and considered it her chief beauty; but it was a source of considerable trouble to the little girl herself, for it took a great deal of brushing and combing to keep it in order, and tangled dreadfully when she played games. Then often the weight and heat of it made her head ache, especially at night; and she used to long to have a cropped head like other little children she sometimes saw, or, at least, to have only moderately long hair, like her two little friends at the rectory, Prissy and Milly Polperran. "Did you want me, mama?" asked Esther, coming forwards towards the couch. "Yes, dear, I did. I want to talk to you about something very serious. I have a letter here from your Uncle Arthur. He wants to send his two little boys here for three years, because he has just got an appointment that will take him out of the country all that time. I don't know what to think about it; it is so very sudden." It was sudden, and Mrs. St. Aiden looked rather piteously at Esther. It seemed so hard for her to have to decide upon such a step in a hurry, and her brother wanted an answer at once. He had to make his own arrangements very quickly. Esther was quite used to being her mother's confidante and adviser. Even in her father's lifetime she had often been promoted to this post during his frequent absences. When he lay dying, he had taken Esther's hands in his, and looking into her serious eyes, so like his own, had told her to take great care of mama always, and try to be a help and comfort to her. Her father had often called her his "wise little woman," and had talked to her much more gravely and seriously than most fathers do to their young children. Esther, too, having no brothers or sisters, had grown up almost entirely with her elders, and, therefore, she had developed a gravity and seriousness not usual at her age, though she was by no means lacking in the capacity for childish fun on the rare occasions when she was free to indulge in it. She was ten years old at this time, and she was not taller than many children are at seven or eight; but there was a thoughtful look upon the small face and in the big gray eyes which was different from what is generally to be seen in the eyes of children of that age. "Two little boys!" repeated Esther gravely; "they will be my cousins, I suppose. How old are they, and what are their names, mama?" "The elder is nine, and the other rather more than a year younger. He does not mention their names, but I know the elder is called Philip, after our grandfather. I'm not quite sure about the second. Arthur is such a very bad correspondent, and poor Ada died when the second boy was born. You see it was like this, Esther. The grandmother on the mother's side kept house for him, and took care of the children after their mother died--she was living with him then. She died a year ago, and things have been going on in the same groove at his house. But now comes this appointment abroad, and he can neither take the boys nor leave them at home alone. They are not fit for school yet, he says. Of course they are not ready for public school, but I should have thought they might--well, never mind that. What he says is that they want taking in hand by a good governess or tutor, and suggests that they should come to me, and that I should find such a person, and that you should share the lessons, and get a good start with your education." Esther's eyes began to sparkle beneath their long black lashes. She had an ardent love of study, and hitherto she had only been able to pick up such odd crumbs as were to be had from the desultory teaching of her mother, or from the study of such books as she could lay hands upon in that little-used room that was called the study, though nobody ever studied there save herself. In her father's lifetime Esther had been well grounded, but since his death her education had been conducted in a very haphazard fashion. She had a wonderful thirst after knowledge, and in her leisure hours would almost always be found poring over a book; but of real tuition she had now hardly any, and the thought of a regular governess or tutor made her eyes sparkle with joy. "O mama! could we?" "Could we what, Esther?" "Have a governess or tutor here as well as two boys?" "Not in the house itself, of course. But he or she could lodge in the place, I suppose, and come every day. Your uncle is very liberal in his ideas, Esther. He is going to let his own big house. He has had an offer already, and he suggests paying over three or four hundred pounds a year to me, if I will undertake the charge of the two boys. Of course that would make it all very easy in some ways." Esther's eyes grew round with wonder. She knew all about her mother's affairs, and how difficult it sometimes was to keep everything in the dainty state of perfection expected, upon the small income they inherited. To have this income doubled at a stroke, and only two boys to keep and a tutor's salary to pay out of it! Why, that would be a wonderful easing of many burdens which weighed heavily sometimes upon Esther's youthful shoulders. She had often found it so difficult to satisfy her delicate mother's wishes and whims, and yet to keep the weekly bills down to the sum Genefer said they ought not to exceed. "O mama, what a lot of money!" "Your uncle is a well-to-do man, my dear, and he truly says that terms at good private schools, where the holidays have to be provided for as well, run into a lot of money. And he does not think the boys are fit for school yet. He says they want breaking in by a tutor first. They have had a governess up till now, but he thinks a tutor would be better, especially as there is no man in this house. I hope he does not mean that the boys are very naughty and troublesome. I don't know what I shall do with them if they are." The lady sighed, and looked at Esther in that half helpless way which always went to the little girl's heart. She bent over and kissed her brow. "Never mind, mama dear. I will take care of the boys," she said, in her womanly way. "They are both younger than I. I think it will be nice to have regular lessons again. I think papa would have been pleased about that. And perhaps I shall like having boys to play with too; only it will be strange at first." "We could keep a girl, then, to help Genefer and Janet," said Mrs. St. Aiden. "The boys will have to have the big attic up at the top of the house, and the study to do lessons in. I hope they will not be very noisy; and there is the garden to play in. But they must not break the flowers, or take the fruit, or spoil the grass, or cut up the gravel. You will have to keep them in order, Esther. I can't have the place torn up by a pair of riotous boys." "I will take care of them, mama dear," answered Esther bravely, though her heart sank just a little at the thought of the unknown element about to be introduced into her life. She had had so little experience of boys--there was only little Herbert at the rectory who ever came here, and he was quite good, and under the care of his elder sisters. Would these boys let her keep them in order as Bertie was kept by Prissy and Milly? She hoped they would, and she said nothing of her misgivings to her mother. "Do you think you will say 'yes' to Uncle Arthur?" "I think I must, my dear. I don't like to refuse; and, of course, there are advantages. Your education has been a difficulty. I have not the health myself, and we cannot afford a governess for you, and this is the first time Arthur has ever asked me to do anything for him. And, really, I might be able to keep a little pony carriage, and get out in the summer, with this addition to our income. I always feel that if I could get out more I should get back my health much quicker." Esther's eyes sparkled again at these words, and a little pink flush rose in her cheeks. It was the thing of all others she had always wished for her mother--a dear little pony, and a little low basket carriage in which she could drive her out. In father's days they had had one, and Esther had been allowed to drive the quiet pony when she was quite a little child. But that belonged to the old life, before the father had been taken away and they had come here to live, right down in Cornwall, at this little quaint Hermitage, as the house was called. Since then no such luxury could be dreamed of. It had been all they could do to make ends meet, and keep the mother content with what could be done by two maids, and one man coming in and out to care for the garden. And even so, Esther often wondered how they would get on, if it were not for all that Mr. Trelawny did for them. "O mama!" she cried, "could we really have a pony again?" "We will think about it. I should like to, if we could. It seems a pity that that nice little stable should stand empty; and there is the little paddock too. The pony could run there when he wasn't wanted, and that would save something in his keep. I have always been used to my little drives, and I miss them very much. But, of course, I shall not make up my mind in a hurry. I should like to see Mr. Trelawny about it all even before I write to Uncle Arthur." A little shadow fell over Esther's face. She felt sure she knew what was coming. "I wish, dear, you would just run up to the Crag and ask Mr. Trelawny if he would come down and see me about this." The shadow deepened as the words were spoken, but Esther made only one effort to save herself the task. "Couldn't Genefer go, mama? It is so hot!" "It will be getting cooler every hour now, and there is plenty of shade through the wood. Have you had a walk to-day?" "No, mama; I have been busy. Saturday is always a busy day, you know." "Then a walk will do you good, and you will go much quicker than Genefer. Bring Mr. Trelawny back with you if you can. You can tell him a little about it, and he will know that it is important. You have time to go and come back before your tea-time." Esther did not argue the matter any more. She had never betrayed to any living creature this great fear which possessed her. She was half ashamed of it, yet she could never conquer it. She was more afraid of Mr. Trelawny than of anything in the world beside. He was like the embodiment of all the wizards, and genii, and magicians, and giants which she had read of in her fairy story-books, or of the mysterious historic personages over whom she had trembled when poring over the pages of historical romance. He was a very big man, with a very big voice, and he always talked in a way which she could not fully understand, and which almost frightened her out of her wits. It was the greatest possible penance to have to go up to his great big house on the hill, and she never approached it without tremors and quakings of heart. She fully believed that it contained dungeons, oubliettes, and other horrors. She had been told that the crags beneath were riddled with great hollow caves, where monks had hidden in times of persecution, and where smugglers had hidden their goods and fought desperate battles with the excise officers and coast-guardsmen. The whole place seemed to her to be full of mystery and peril, and the fit owner and guardian was this gigantic Cornish squire, with his roiling voice, leonine head, and autocratic air. He was always asking her why she did not oftener come to see him, but Esther would only shrink away and answer in her low, little voice that she had so much to do at home. And then he would laugh one of his big, sonorous laughs, that seemed to fill the house; and it was he who had given her the name of the "little manager," and when he called her by it he did so with an air of mock homage which frightened her more than anything else. At other times he would call her "Goldylocks," and pretend he was going to cut off her hair to make a cable for his yacht, which lay at anchor in the bay; and he would tell her a terrible story about a man who sought to anchor in the middle of a whirlpool, the cable being made of maidens' hair--only the golden strand gave way, and so he got drowned instead of winning his wife by his act of daring boldness. This story was in verse, and he would roll it out in his big, melodious voice; and she was always obliged to listen, for the fascination was strong upon her. And then in the night she would lie shivering in her bed, picturing Mr. Trelawny and his yacht going round and round in the dreadful whirlpool, and her own chestnut-brown hair being the cable which had failed to hold fast! And yet Mr. Trelawny was a very kind friend to them. He was a relation, too, though not at all a near one, and had been very fond of Esther's father, who was his kinsman. When the widow and child had been left with only a small provision, Mr. Trelawny had brought them to this pretty house at the foot of the hill upon which his big one stood. He had installed them there, and he would not take any rent for it. And he sent down his own gardener several times a week to make the garden trim and bright, and keep it well stocked with flowers and fruit. Once a week he always came down himself and gave an eye to everything. Mrs. St. Aiden looked forward to these visits, as they broke the monotony of her life, and Mr. Trelawny was always gentle to the helpless little widow. But Esther always tried to keep out of the way when she could, and the worst of it was that she was afraid Mr. Trelawny had a suspicion of this, and that it made him tease her more than ever. However, she never disobeyed her mother, or refused to do what was asked of her, and she knew that such a step as this one would never be taken without Mr. Trelawny's approval. Indeed, she saw that he ought to be asked, since the house was his; and, perhaps, he would not like two boys to be brought there. Esther had heard that boys could be very mischievous beings, and, though she could not quite think what they did, she saw that the lord of the manor had a right to be consulted. The Hermitage lay nestling just at the foot of a great craggy hill, that was clothed on one side with wood--mostly pine and spruce fir; but on the other it was all crag and cliff, and looked sheer down upon the tumbling waves of the great Atlantic. Near to the Hermitage, along the white road, lay a few other houses, and the little village of St. Maur, with its quaint old church and pretty village green. There were hills and moors again behind it, wild, and bleak, and boundless, as it seemed to the little girl whenever she climbed them. But St. Maur itself was a sheltered little place; the boom of the sea only sounded when the surf was beating very strong, and it was so sheltered from the wind that trees grew as they grew nowhere else in the neighborhood, and flowers flourished in the gardens as Esther had never seen them flourish in the other places where she had lived. Geraniums grew into great bushes, and fuchsias ran right up the houses as ivy did in the north, and roses bloomed till Christmas, and came on again quite early in the spring, so that they seemed to have flowers all the year round. That was a real delight to the little girl, who loved the garden above any other place; and with a book and an apple, crouched down in the arbor or some pleasant flowery place, she would find a peace and contentment beyond all power of expression. As she climbed the path through the pine woods leading to Mr. Trelawny's great house, she began to wonder what it would be like to have her precious solitude invaded by a pair of little boys. "I wish they were rather littler, so that I could take care of them," said Esther to herself. "I should like to be a little mother to them, and teach them to say their prayers, and wash their hands and faces, and keep their toys nice and tidy. But perhaps they are too big to care for being taken care of. If they are, I don't quite know what I shall do with them. But we shall have lessons a good part of the day, I suppose, and that will be interesting. Perhaps I shall be able to help them with theirs. Only they may know more than I do." Musing like this, Esther soon found herself at the top of the hill, and coming out of the wood, saw the big, curious house right in front of her. She never looked at it without a little tremor, and she felt the thrill run through her to-day. It was such a very old house, and there were such lots of stories about it. Once it had been a castle, and people had fought battles over it; but that was so long, long ago that there was hardly anything left of that old building. Then it had been a monastery, and there were lots of rooms now where the monks had lived and walked about; and the gardens were as they made them, and people said that at night you could still see the old monks flitting to and fro. But for a long time it had been a house where people lived and died in the usual way, and Trelawnys had been there for nearly three hundred years now. Esther had a private belief that this Mr. Trelawny had been there for almost all that time, and that he had made or found the elixir of life which the historical romances talked about, so that he continued living on and on, and knew everything, and was strange and terrible. He always did seem to know everything that had happened, and his stories were at once terrifying and entrancing. If only she could have got over her fear of him, she would have enjoyed listening; as it was, she always felt half dead with terror. "Hallo, madam! and whither away so very fast?" cried a great deep voice from somewhere out of the heart of the earth; and Esther stopped short, with a little strangled cry of terror, for it was Mr. Trelawny's voice, and yet he was nowhere to be seen. "Wait a minute and I'll come!" said the voice again, and Esther stood rooted to the spot with fear. There was a curious little sound of tap, tap, tapping somewhere underground not far away, and in another minute a great rough head appeared out of one of those crevices in the earth which formed one of the many terrors of the Crag, and a huge man dragged himself slowly out of the fissure, a hammer in his hand and several stones clinking in one of his big pockets. He was covered with earth and dust, which he proceeded to shake off as a dog does when he has been burrowing, whilst Esther stood rooted to the spot, petrified with amazement, and convinced that he had come up from some awful subterranean cavern, known only to himself, where he carried on his strange magic lore. "Well, madam?" he said, making her one of his low bows. When he called her madam and bowed to her Esther was always more frightened than ever. "To what happy accident may I attribute the honor of this visit?" "Mama sent me," said Esther, seeking to steady her voice, though she was afraid to speak more than two or three words at a time. "Ah, that is it--mama sent you. It was no idea of your own. Alas, it is ever so! Nobody seeks the poor old lonely hermit for his own sake. So mama has sent you, has she, Miss Goldylocks? And what is your errand?" "Mama asks if you will please read this letter, and then come and see her and advise her what to do." Mr. Trelawny took the letter, gave one of his big laughs, and looked quizzically at Esther. "Does your mama ever take advice, my dear?" Esther's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "Yes, of course she does. Mama never does anything until she has been advised by everybody." The big, rolling laugh sounded out suddenly, and Esther longed to run away. She never knew whether she were being laughed at herself, and she did not like that thought. "May I say you will come soon?" she asked, backing a little way down the hillside. "Wait a moment, child; I will come with you," answered the big man, turning his fossils out of his pocket, and putting them, with his hammer, inside a hollow tree. "Do you know what this letter says?" "Oh yes; mama read it to me." "Ah, of course. The 'little manager' must be consulted first. Well, and what does she say about it?" "Mama? Oh, I think----" "No, not mama; the 'little manager' herself. What do you want to do about it?" Esther summoned up courage to reply sedately,-- "I think perhaps it might be a good plan. You see, I should get a good education then, and I should like that very much. It would be a great advantage in many ways----" But Esther left off suddenly, for Mr. Trelawny was roaring with laughter again. "Hear the child!" he cried to the empty air, as it seemed; "she is asked if she likes boy-playfellows, and she replies with a dissertation on the advantages of a liberal education! Hear that, ye shades of all the sages! A great advantage!--Yes, my dear, I think it will be a great advantage. You will learn to be young at last, perhaps, after being grown-up ever since you were shortened. A brace of boys will wake you up a bit, and, if I read between the lines correctly, this pair are going to turn out a precious pair of pickles." Esther understood very little of this speech, but she tingled from head to foot with the consciousness that fun was being poked at her. "I think mama will do as you advise about it," she said, not being able to think of anything else to say. The big man in the rough clothes was looking down at her with a twinkle in his eyes. He got hold of her hand and made her look up at him. "Now tell me, child--don't be afraid to speak the truth--do you want these young cubs to come, or don't you? Would it make life pleasanter to you or only a burden?" "I don't think I can quite tell till I've tried," said Esther, shaking all over, but striving to keep her fears to herself; "but I think it might be nice to have two little boys to take care of." "To take care of, eh? You haven't enough on your hands as it is?" "I used often to wish I'd a brother or a sister to play with; that was before papa died. Since then I haven't had so much time to think about it, but perhaps it would be pleasant." "You do play sometimes then?" "Yes; when the little Polperrans come to see me, or when I go to see them." "And you know how to do it when you try?" Esther was a little puzzled, and answered doubtfully,-- "I know how to play the games they play. I don't know any besides." Mr. Trelawny suddenly flung her hand away from him and burst into a great laugh. "I think I shall advise your mother to import these two young monkeys," he said over his shoulder; and to Esther's great relief, she was allowed to walk the rest of the way home by herself, Mr. Trelawny striding on at a great rate, and muttering to himself all the while, as was his habit. Later on, when he had gone back again, and Esther crept in her mouse-like fashion to her mother's side, she found her closing a letter she had just written. "Mr. Trelawny advises me to have the boys, dear," she said; "so I have been writing to your uncle. I suppose it is the best thing to do, especially as Mr. Trelawny has undertaken to find a suitable tutor. That would have been difficult for me; but he is a clever man, and knows the world. He will be sure to select the right person." "Yes, mama," said Esther gently; but she shook in her shoes the while. A tutor selected by Mr. Trelawny might surely be a very terrible person. Suppose he came from underground, and was a sort of magician himself! CHAPTER II. THE BOYS. It was growing very exciting. The life of the little house, which had hitherto run so quietly in its grooves, now seemed all at once changed and expanded. There was an air of bustle pervading the upper regions. Genefer, and a stout young maid lately engaged as joint-helper to her and the cook, were busy for two whole days in turning out a great attic which formed the top story of the little house, making room in other holes and corners for the boxes and odds and ends which had been stored there, and furbishing up this place as a bedroom for the boys, who were expected in a week's time. Esther was immensely interested. She had always thought the big attic a very charming place, only when it was dusty and dark there had not been much to attract her there. Now the dormer windows stood open to sun and air, and commanded wide views in many directions over the valley in which St. Maur stood. Two little white beds and the needful furniture did not take up a great deal of space, and there would be ample room for the boys to frisk about, collect treasures, and range them on the various shelves and ledges, without inconveniencing anybody, or bringing disorder into the rest of the house. Moreover there was an access to the attic from the back staircase, so that nothing dirty or disagreeable need be brought into the mistress's part of the house at all. Genefer regarded this arrangement as a great boon, though Esther sometimes wondered why. The answer she got to her questions was generally the same, though it did not greatly enlighten her. "Boys will be boys, all the world over, Miss Esther," Genefer would say with a shake of the head; and when she repeated this aphorism to her mother, Mrs. St. Aiden would sometimes sigh and say rather plaintively,-- "Oh, I hope we shall not find we have made a great mistake!" and that used to set Esther wondering still more. For her own part, she looked forward to the advent of these cousins with a great amount of interest. She had told the little Polperrans all about it, and they were greatly excited too. "I am glad they are younger than you," said Prissy, as they walked home from church together. When Esther's mother was not able to get to church, Esther sat in the rectory pew, and her little friends generally walked with her as far as her own gate, which was about a quarter of a mile farther off than the rectory. "You will be able to keep them in order. Boys want that. They get obstreperous if they are left alone. Bertie is sometimes a little bit like that, but I never let him get the upper hand. It would never do." Prissy was twelve years old, and had helped her mother at home and in the parish for quite a long time now. She was more grown-up in her ways than Esther, though not perhaps so thoughtful. She used to tell Esther that when she was old enough she meant to marry a clergyman and have a parish of her own; and Esther would listen with a sense of great respect and admiration, for she certainly felt that she should be very sorry to have a parish to care for. It was quite enough to have to help her mother to manage one little house. "I hope they will be good boys," she said rather timidly; "I should think they are. They have had a grandmother and a governess as well as their father." "I think grandmothers often spoil boys," Prissy answered, with her customary air of decision. "Ours does; I don't much like when she comes. She is often quite rude to me, and doesn't listen to what I say; but she pets Bertie, and gives him things, and lets him talk to her as much as he likes. I call that showing favoritism; I don't approve of it at all. In the parish mother never lets that sort of thing be." "Who was that funny man in spectacles sitting in Mr. Trelawny's pew?" asked Milly, who was walking in front with Bertie, but who suddenly turned back to ask the question. Esther had not even noticed him. She never looked towards Mr. Trelawny if she could help it. Often his great, deep-set eyes would be fixed upon her face, and that made her blush and tremble, and so she never glanced his way willingly. She had not even seen that there had been a stranger with him. "I don't know," answered Prissy, as Esther evidently had no information to give; "I've never seen him before. I suppose he's a friend of Mr. Trelawny's, but he doesn't often have a visitor at the Crag. He's a queer man, mother says; though father always likes him." "The other man looked like an owl; his spectacles were quite round," remarked Herbert; "most people's are oval. When the sun got on them they looked as if they were made of fire--like a big cat's eyes shining in the dark." "Oh, don't," cried Esther quickly. "Don't what?" asked Herbert, staring. Esther colored and looked half ashamed. "I don't know quite. I felt afraid. I always do feel a little afraid of Mr. Trelawny. I wonder who the other gentleman is." Esther was soon to know. She had spent her Sunday afternoon curled up in the garden with a book, and she had not even heard the bell when it rang. She had no idea there were visitors with her mother, and when she came in at half-past four to pour out her afternoon tea, which on Sunday they shared together, she gave a great jump and dropped her book, for there was Mr. Trelawny sitting beside her mother, and a strange gentleman standing looking out of the window, and he had on round spectacles, just such as Herbert had described. He stepped forward and picked up Esther's book, and gave it into her hands with a smile; and as she stepped timidly forward to shake hands with Mr. Trelawny, she heard him say,-- "This is one of your future pupils, Earle." So this was the tutor. It had never occurred to Esther that he would come so soon, or that he would be a friend of Mr. Trelawny's. Somehow the whole thing frightened her a good deal. She was shaking all over as she gave her hand to Mr. Earle; and he seemed to notice it, for he laughed and said,-- "So you seem to think that tutor spells ogre, little Miss Esther. We shall have to see if we can't get over that impression somehow." Then Mr. Trelawny's great laugh rang out through the room, and he exclaimed in his big voice,-- "Oh, you won't have much trouble with her ladyship here. She will only want the birch-rod occasionally. She's a mighty hand at books, as it is--quite a budding blue-stocking, if that isn't a mixed metaphor. It's the boys you'll want that cane of mine for.--Eh, Esther? A pair of young pickles, I take it, that will take a deal of breaking-in. You tell them when they come that I've a fine array of sticks and canes from all parts of the world for Mr. Earle to take his choice of. He'll thrash some discipline into them, never you fear. You shan't have all the breaking-in to do. He's a fine hand at swishing, you'll see." Then the other gentleman said something in a language Esther did not understand, at which Mr. Trelawny broke out into one of his rolling laughs, and Esther got away behind the tea-table, and began pouring out the tea with very shaking hands; and though Mr. Earle came and took the cups, and talked to her quite kindly, her heart was all in a flutter, for she thought he was like the cruel old witch in the fairy-tale, who was so kind to the little boys and girls till she had got them into her house and into the cage, and then began to beat and starve them. The thought of the array of sticks and canes up at the Crag, of which the tutor was to have the choice, seemed to swim before her eyes all the while. "It is a pity you are always so shy and awkward with Mr. Trelawny, Esther," said her mother a little plaintively when the gentlemen had gone. "He is really very kind, and would make a great pet of you if you would let him; but you're always so cold and distant, and seem frightened out of your wits. It's really very silly of you. And you never will call him uncle, though he has asked you more times than I can count." "I can never remember," answered Esther in a very small voice. "It always goes out of my head. Besides, he isn't my uncle." "No, not exactly; but he's a kind of cousin, and you might just as well do as he asks. It vexes me when your manners are so bad just when he comes. I thought you were going to cry or to faint just now. It is so silly to be frightened when gentlemen have a little bit of fun. It doesn't mean anything." There were tears in Esther's eyes, but she held them bravely back. "I can't help being frightened at Mr. Trelawny, mama. I know he is kind but he does frighten me. Is Mr. Earle a friend of his? And is he really our tutor?" "He will be soon. But the boys are to have a week to settle down first before beginning lessons. Yes, Mr. Earle is the son of an old friend of Mr. Trelawny's; and he is very clever, and a great lover of the same things that interest Mr. Trelawny so much. So, for a time, at least, he will live up at the Crag, and come down every day for your lessons. The rest of the time he and Mr. Trelawny can spend together in their laboratory, or whatever they call it. There are a lot of experiments they want to make together." Esther tried hard to subdue the tremor which took hold of her at this thought, but it really was rather terrible to think that their tutor would be another of those mysterious magicians, such as she had read about in romances, who lived all day, when they could manage it, shut up with crucibles and other strange things, trying all sorts of experiments, and seeking after the elixir of life, or other mysterious compounds, that would change everything into gold, or give them power such as no men possessed before. But it was no use trying to seek sympathy from her mother, or even from Genefer. They could not understand her fear of Mr. Trelawny. They did not believe that he had subterranean places where he lived when he was alone, or that he could see through the earth, and come up just where he chose, and know everything that was going on overhead. Grown-up people never seemed to understand these things. Even Prissy would say, "Oh, nonsense!" when Esther tried to explain the source of her fears. But Millie and Bertie would listen open-mouthed; and when the children met the next day, Prissy being with her mother, the little boy broke out at once with a piece of startling intelligence. "He's Mr. Earle, and he's going to be your tutor; and he's very clever, and he's found out a great many things, and he's going to find out a lot more with Mr. Trelawny. I heard father say they were going to have an electric eye, that could see through walls and things. I expect he's got electric eyes in his head now, and that's why he wears those funny spectacles. I suppose he's going to make a pair for Mr. Trelawny, and then he'll be able to see everything too. It won't be any use trying to run away from them then. Why, they'll see you right through the hillside." Esther began to quake all over. "O Bertie, they couldn't!" "But they can!" he argued stoutly. "I heard father trying to explain to mother. He said they had things that went right through the hill, and could ring bells or something on the other side. But you can't see it. I suppose it's a sort of familiar spirit that does it, but the electric eye has got something to do with it. It's going to be very queer up there, I think. Perhaps they'll want children's blood for some of their experiments, like the old wizard of the mountains. I'll lend the book to you again, if you like. It tells you lots of things about him." "No, please, don't," said Esther, who already remembered more than she desired of the blood-curdling story; "besides, I thought your mother had taken the book away." "Yes, but we found it again when the house was cleaned, and it's in our cupboard now. I like it awfully." "I don't," replied Esther, whose imagination was considerably more vivid than that of the stolid and horror-loving Herbert. "I don't want to read it any more. Mr. Trelawny's quite bad enough alone." "Only he's not alone any more," said Milly; "he's got your tutor with him." Esther went home in a very subdued frame of mind. She had so looked forward to regular lessons with a tutor, who could really explain things to her, and teach her the things she longed to know; and it was hard that he should turn out to be a strange and mysterious being, second only in terrors to Mr. Trelawny himself. That's what came of trusting him with the task of choosing the tutor. Oh dear! it seemed as though life were going to be rather a hard thing for Esther in the future. However, there really was not much time to think about it all, for the boys were coming. They would be here very soon, and the preparations for their arrival filled up every bit of spare time, and occupied the whole household. Then came the afternoon upon which they were to arrive. They were to leave London very early in the morning, their father putting them in charge of the guard of the train, who was to see them safely to their journey's end; and Mr. Trelawny had volunteered to drive as far as the junction, twelve miles away, and save them the little slow piece upon the local line. The boys' father had hoped to have time to bring them down himself, but at the last it had proved impossible. However, they were to be dispatched under official escort, and were bound to turn up safe and sound. It was with a very fluttering heart that Esther stood at the gate looking down the stretch of white road which led up to the house. She pitied the little boys being met by the terrible Mr. Trelawny, and pictured them crouched up in the carriage like a pair of frightened mice watched over and guarded by a monster cat. Her mother had suggested that she should go to meet them also, but Esther's courage had not been equal to the ordeal of the long drive with Mr. Trelawny. So there she was waiting at the gate, her heart in her mouth each time the roll of wheels was heard upon the road, running indoors now and then, just to see that everything was in readiness for the travelers' tea, when the little fellows should have arrived, but never long away from her post beside the gate. At last she heard the unmistakable sound of the beat of a pair of horses' feet upon the hard road. That must be the carriage. The color came and went in her cheeks. She called out to Genefer that they were really coming at last, and then stood with the gate wide open behind her, whilst the odd-job man stood a little in the rear, ready to help with the luggage. Round the bend in the road dashed the carriage. Esther heard a clamor of voices before it had stopped. There were two heads poked far out of the window, and two shrill voices were exchanging a perfect hurricane of comment and question. She saw that each boy was being held from behind by a hand upon his collar; then the carriage stopped, and the voices became audible. "Let go, Old Bobby!" cried one voice. "Here we are!" "The carriage can't get through the gate," shrieked the other. "Oh, drive on, drive on, coachman, and let us stick fast. It would be such fun!" "There, get out with you, you young pickles!" spoke Mr. Trelawny's deep bass from within the carriage. "I'm thankful to deliver you up with sound skins and whole bones. Don't you see your cousin Esther waiting to speak to you? Take off your caps, and behave like little gentlemen, if you know how to." The boys were out in a trice, but they had not even a look for Esther. Both had darted round to the horses, and stood under their noses, reaching up to stroke them, perfectly fearless, and asking the coachman a hundred questions about them. Mr. Trelawny came behind and took them each by the collar once more. "Didn't you hear me tell you to go and speak to your cousin?" "Oh, she's only a girl, and she'll always be there. I like horses best," remarked one youngster in a perfectly audible voice; and sensitive little Esther bit her lip, though she felt no anger in her heart. After all, she was only a girl. "I don't want to stay in this poky little house. I'll go on with you, and live in your house instead." The next moment, to Esther's unspeakable astonishment and dismay, both the boys had scrambled back into the carriage, and were clinging tightly to the seats, shrieking out to the coachman,-- "Drive on! drive on! This isn't the house! We're going to live with the bobby man!" Esther stood perfectly aghast, unable either to speak or move. She did not know which impressed her most--the extraordinary behavior of her cousins, or their perfect fearlessness towards Mr. Trelawny, whom they treated without a particle of respect. His face was rather grim, though there was a humorous gleam in his eyes as he put out his long, strong arms, and hauled the obstreperous boys out of the carriage, amid much squealing, and kicking, and roars of laughter. It was all play, but a sort of play that Esther did not understand in the least. With a boy held fast in each hand, Mr. Trelawny turned to the grave-faced little girl and said,-- "I had meant to present these two young gentlemen to your mother myself, but I think the only thing I can do is to get away as fast as I can. Perhaps they will come to their senses then;" and so saying, he made a sudden dive into the carriage, which had now been relieved of the luggage with which it had been piled. The boys were after him like a shot, and Esther was in terror lest they should be run over before the carriage got safely away; but at last this was achieved, after much shouting and bawling and scrimmaging; and though both boys set off in pursuit like a pair of street Arabs, the horses soon left them behind, and they returned panting and breathless to the little gate. [Illustration: "How d'ye do? Hadn't time to speak to you before."--Page 43. _Esther's Charge._] "He's a jolly old buffer," said one of the boys; "I'd like to have gone with him." "I shall go and see him every day," remarked the other. "He said he lived close by." Then they reached the gate once more, and held out their rather smutty paws to Esther. "How d'ye do? Hadn't time to speak to you before. Are we all going to live in this funny little box of a place?" "It's our house," answered Esther shyly, much more afraid of the boys than they of her; indeed they did not seem to know what fear or shyness was. "I think you'll find there's plenty of room inside; and we have a very nice little garden." "Call this a garden!" said the boy, with a look round; "I call it a pocket-handkerchief!" Then they both laughed, and Esther laughed too, for there was something infectious about their high spirits, though they did talk in a fashion she had never heard before. "Come and see mama first," she said, "and then I'll take you up-stairs to wash your hands, and then we'll have tea together. I daresay you are hungry." They followed her into the little drawing-room where Mrs. St. Aiden lay. On her face there was a look of some perplexity, for she had heard a great deal of shouting and laughing, and was in some anxiety to know what it could mean. Now she was looking upon a couple of little boys, in plain dark-blue knickerbocker suits, both having round faces and curly hair, though that of the elder boy was dark brown, and his eyes were a bright hazel; whilst the younger was blue-eyed, his hair the color of burnished gold, and his face, when at rest, wore a sort of cherubic expression that went to his aunt's heart. "My dears, I am very glad to see you," she said. "Come and kiss me, and tell me which is Philip and which is Percy." The boys looked at each other, and a gleam came into their eyes. "We'll kiss you to-day," said the elder one, advancing, and speaking with the air of one making a great concession, "because we've just come, and Crump said we were to. But we're not going to kiss every day. That's like women and girls. Boys don't kiss like that. So you won't expect it, you know." Then the pair advanced simultaneously; each gave and received a kiss, and stood back again, the younger one wiping the salute from his face with the cuff of his jacket. "I hope you're not a kissing girl," he said in a low voice to Esther, who stood behind lost in amaze, "because I shan't let you kiss me." "And which is Philip and which is Percy?" asked Mrs. St. Aiden again, more disposed to be afraid of the boys than they of her. "Oh, we don't call ourselves by these affected names--nobody does," said the elder of the pair in lofty tones. "I suppose I'm Philip, but really I hardly know. They all call me Pickle, and him Puck. You'll have to do the same." "I am not very fond of nicknames," said Mrs. St. Aiden, not quite pleased. "I shall call you by your right names whilst you are in my house." "Call away; we shan't answer!" cried Pickle, with one of the ringing laughs which took off just a little from the bluntness of his speech.--"Come along, Puck, we've done it all now.--Oh, one thing more. Crump sent his love to you, and was sorry he couldn't come down and see you. I think that's all." "But I don't understand. Who is Crump?" asked Mrs. St. Aiden rather breathlessly. "Oh, only father," answered Puck, as he sidled out at the door; and then making a dash across into the dining-room, he set up a great whoop of delight, for there was a splendid tea set out--chicken, and ham, and tarts, and Devonshire cream, and several kinds of cake and jam; and the boys had scrambled on to their chairs in a twinkling, and were calling out to somebody to make haste and give them their tea, as they were just starving. "But you haven't washed your hands," said Esther aghast. They contemplated their grubby little paws with great equanimity. "Mine aren't dirty to speak of," said Pickle. "Mine are quite clean," asserted Puck, with an angelic smile. "We're not like cats and girls, who are always washing," added Pickle. "Do give us our tea. We're so hungry and thirsty!" "But you haven't said grace!" said Esther, whereupon the boys began to laugh. "Grown-up people don't say grace now. It's not the fashion. But fire away if you want to. Crump used to make us try, but we always burst out laughing in the middle, so we gave it up." Esther said grace gravely, and the boys did not laugh that time. Then she helped them to what they wanted, regarding them rather in the light of wild animals, upon whose next acts there was no depending. And yet it was rather interesting, and she wanted to know more about them and their odd ways. "Why do you call your father Crump?" she asked tentatively. "Well, we have to call him something," said Pickle, with his mouth full, and they both began to giggle. "It's my name," said Puck, after a short pause. "I thought of it in bed one night. We laughed for nearly an hour afterwards. We've called him it ever since." "Does he like it?" They stared at her round-eyed and amazed. "I don't know. We never asked him. We've always got some name for him. You've got to call people something." "Why don't you call him father?" asked Esther mildly; but at that question they both went off into fits of laughter, and she felt herself getting red without knowing why. "What's your name?" asked Puck, when he had recovered himself; but his brother cut in by saying,-- "You know it's Esther--Old Bobby told us that." "So he did; and he said you were frightened at him, and that we should have to teach you better. Fancy being frightened at an old buffer like that--a jolly one too!" Esther sat in silent amaze. She knew they were talking of Mr. Trelawny, but she was dumfounded at their audacity, and it was rather disconcerting to hear that he was aware of her feelings towards him. She hoped that he took her silence for a grown-up reserve. "You mustn't call Mr. Trelawny names," she said. "He's quite an old gentleman, and you must treat him with respect." "I said he was a nice old buffer," said Puck, as though after that nothing more could be expected of him. "But you call him 'Old Bobby,' and I can't think how you dare. It isn't at all respectful. I wonder he lets you." "Well, he shouldn't play the bobby on us then," answered Pickle. "He said he'd come to carry us off, and he marched us out of the station like a pair of prisoners. We had to call him bobby after that. I want to go and see his house. Can we go up after tea?" Esther shook her head. She was not prepared for such a move. "You'd better wait for another time for that," she said. "I'll show you our house when you're done with tea." "All right; but there isn't much to show, I should think. It's the funniest little box I was ever in. But perhaps we'll get some fun out of it, all the same. Crump said the sea was quite near. That'll be jolly fun. I like the sea awfully." "I don't go there very often," said Esther. "Mama does not care about it. The coast is rather dangerous, you know." But both boys began to laugh, as they seemed to do at whatever she said; and Esther let them finish their tea in silence, and then took them the round of the small premises. They liked their attic, which was a comfort; and they liked the stable and little coach-house, and the bit of paddock and orchard beyond; and they looked with great approval at the pine wood stretching upwards towards the craggy heights between them and the sea, where Esther told them Mr. Trelawny's house stood. It could not be seen from there, but she showed them the path which led up to it and they cried, "Jolly, jolly, jolly!" and hopped about from one foot to another, and Esther wondered if it would be possible for them to go to that strange old house upon the summit of the crag, and not feel afraid of it. It was a comfort to Esther that they were not unkind to her cat. They were rather disgusted that there was no dog belonging to the house; but they seemed kind-hearted boys, and left the cat in peace by the kitchen fire. They had been up so early that morning that they were sleepy before their usual bed-time; and Esther was rather relieved when, at last, they were safely shut into their room for the night, having indignantly declined the offices of Genefer as nursery-maid, saying that they could do everything for themselves and each other. Esther showed them up to their room herself, half fascinated, half repelled by their odd words and ways. Their parting good night, shouted through the door to her, was characteristic in the extreme. "We're going to call you Tousle," one of them bawled through the key-hole; "you've got such a mop of hair hanging down, you know." CHAPTER III. AN ANXIOUS CHARGE. "How quiet they are!" thought Esther, as she dressed herself next morning. "I daresay they are fast asleep still. They must be tired after that long journey yesterday. They shall sleep as long as they like this morning. I will tell Genefer not to call them. They are funny boys, but I think I shall soon get fond of them. Puck is so pretty, and looks as though he could be very good by himself. I hope we shall be happy together soon. I shall take care of them, and show them everything; and perhaps they will teach me some new games." Genefer came in at this moment to brush out Esther's mane of hair. The little girl had dispensed with other help at her toilet, but the great, thick, waving mass of curly hair was beyond her strength, and Genefer took great pride in brushing and combing it. She was almost as proud of Esther's hair as Mrs. St. Aiden herself. "O Genefer," said the little girl, "I think we won't call the boys yet. They seem quite quiet, and I daresay they are asleep. We will let them have their sleep out this first morning." Genefer made a sound between a snort and a laugh. "Lord love you, miss, them boys have been up and out this two hours! They were off before ever I was down, and I'm no lie-a-bed. They had got the door opened and were away to the pine wood. Old Sam he saw them scuttling up the path like a pair of rabbits. There'll be no holding that pair, I can see. Boys will be boys, as I always did say." Esther's face was full of anxiety and trouble. "O Genefer! and they don't know their way about a bit! And all the holes, and crags, and rocks on the other side! Perhaps some harm will come to them, and I promised to take care of them! Oh, please, let me go, and I'll run after them and see if I can't fetch them home! They said something about the sea last night. Suppose they fall into one of the pools and get drowned!" But Genefer only gave another snort. "You take my word for it. Miss Esther, them boys isn't born to be drowned. Now don't you worrit so, child. They'll be all right. That sort never comes to any harm. You might as well go looking for a needle in a haystack, as for a boy out on the spree, as they call it. You go down and get your breakfast, and take up your mama's. We'll have them down again safe and sound, and as hungry as hunters, before you're done. It's not a bit of good your worriting after them. They can take good care of themselves, as one can see with half an eye." Esther always submitted to Genefer's judgment, but it was with an anxious heart that she went down-stairs, and gazed up at the pine-clad hillside, hoping to see some signs of the returning boys. But there was nothing visible, and she went into the dining-room with a grave face, feeling as though she had somehow been unfaithful to her charge. Breakfast at the Hermitage was at nine o'clock, and Esther always took up the tray to her mother's room. Mrs. St. Aiden seldom came down-stairs before noon, though she talked of getting up earlier now that the summer was coming. But Esther was fond of waiting on her, and she liked being waited upon. Afterwards Esther would eat her solitary breakfast, with a book propped up in front of her on the table; and she never thought of being lonely, especially as Smut always sat on a chair beside her, and had his saucer of milk replenished each time she poured out her own tea afresh. But to-day Esther did not get her book; she was much too anxious, and kept rising and walking over to the window every few minutes, rather to the discomfort of the placid cat, who could not think what had come to his little mistress that day. Esther was thankful that her mother had not seemed much alarmed by the news that the boys had gone out for a walk before breakfast. "Boys like that sort of thing, I suppose," she said. "Their father said they were active and independent, and that we must not make ourselves anxious over them needlessly." Then she had taken up her letters and begun to read them; and Esther stole away, wishing she could be as calm and tranquil over the disappearance of the boys as other people were. "I'm sure they have gone up to the Crag," she kept saying to herself, "and they may have got into some awful place, and all sorts of things may be happening!" Esther could not have explained to Genefer or anybody grown up her horror and misgiving respecting the vicinity of the Crag; but it was a very real terror to her, and it had become greater since she had heard Bertie's account of the electric eye, and other awful things which were likely to be going on there now. Mr. Trelawny had an assistant now, and was going to do still stranger things. Suppose he wanted blood, or brains, or something human for his experiments! She shivered at the bare thought. Suddenly she jumped up with a stifled cry. Through the open window she heard the sound of steps and voices; but before she had time to reach it again, the sunlight was darkened by the approach of a tall figure, and Esther saw that the missing boys were being led home by Mr. Earle, who had his hand upon the collar of each, as though he had found them a slippery pair of customers, and was resolved that they should not escape him. "Here are your boys, Miss Esther," he remarked, walking in and depositing each of them upon the chair set ready at table for him. "I hope you have not been anxious about this pair of young rascals; and will you tell your mother, with my compliments, that I am ready to begin regular study with you all any day she may like to send word! You need not wait till next week unless you like." There was rather a grim smile upon Mr. Earle's face, and the round spectacles glinted in the sunshine till Esther thought they must certainly be "electric eyes"--though what electric eyes were she had not the faintest notion, which, however, did not tend to allay her uneasiness. "Thank you, sir," she said rather faintly; "I will tell mother." Then she plucked up her courage to add, "May I give you a cup of coffee after your walk?" "Thank you; but I have breakfasted already," answered Mr. Earle with a smile, which made Esther just a little less afraid of him. "We keep early hours up at the Crag; and a good thing too for these young sinners!" and he threw a scathing look at the boys, who were sitting marvelously quiet in their places, looking exceedingly demure, not to say sheepish, though they stole glances across the table at each other, showing that the spirit of mischief within them was only temporarily in abeyance. Mr. Earle nodded to them all and walked off through the window, and Esther looked curiously at her two charges as she poured out the coffee. "Where did you go?" she asked. "Why, up to Old Bobby's of course!" answered Pickle, his mouth full of bread and butter. "Why can't we live up there, instead of in this little band-box? It's no end of a jolly place. Do you go often?" "Not very," answered Esther with a little shiver. "That's what he said," remarked Puck indistinctly, "but you'll have to come oftener now." "Why?" "Oh, because he said we might come as often as you brought us. I want to go every day." "I don't think Mr. Trelawny would like that." "Oh, he wouldn't mind. He said he didn't mind how many visits you paid him. He said little girls were worth twice as much as boys, but that's all tommy rot." Esther's eyes opened rather wider. "I don't know what tommy rot is," she said. Puck burst out laughing. "She doesn't know much, does she, Pickle?" he cried. "I wonder why Old Bobby likes girls better than boys?" "Perhaps they're nicer to eat," suggested Pickle; and the two boys went off into fits of laughter, whilst Esther shook silently, wondering if that could have anything to do with it. To judge by their appetites, the boys were none the worse for their morning's walk--they put away the food in a fashion that astonished Esther; but as she sat watching them at their meal, she noticed some very queer marks upon their clothes, which she did not think had been there last night--stains, and little holes, looking rather like burns; and presently she asked,-- "What have you been doing to yourselves?" and pointed to the marks. Puck began to giggle, and Pickle answered boldly,-- "Oh, I suppose that must have been some of the stuff that smelt so nasty in the tanks." "What tanks?" "Don't you know? Haven't you ever been down there? In that jolly old cave under Old Bobby's house." Esther felt a cold thrill creeping through her. "I don't know what you mean," she said faintly. "Well, you must be a precious ninny!" laughed Pickle, with a good-humored contempt; "fancy living here all these years, and not knowing that!" "We haven't been here so very long," said Esther. "Well, you've been here longer than we have anyhow. And we've found it out already." She was shivering a little, yet was consumed by curiosity. "Tell me about it," she said. Pickle was quite ready to do that. He had appeased his first hunger, and he loved to hear himself talk, especially when he had an appreciative audience; and Esther's eager and half-frightened face bespoke the keenness of her interest. "Well, you see, we woke up early, and didn't see any fun in lying in bed; so we got up and dressed and went out, and there was the path up through the wood, and we knew Old Bobby's house was somewhere up there. So it seemed a good plan just to go and look him up, you know." "We often go out early at home," added Puck, "and look people up. Sometimes we wake them up throwing things into their windows, or at them, if they're shut. Sometimes they throw water at us, and that's awful fun. One old fellow did that, and we went and got the garden-hose, and his window was wide open, and we just soused his room with water. You should have seen him rushing to shut it up! But there isn't always a hose and pump handy," and he looked pathetic for a moment. "Well," continued Pickle, "we got up the hill easy enough, and it was a jolly place. We forgot all about going to the house, there was such lots to see and explore. That was how we found the cave--poking about all over. There are no end of little crevasses and things--places you can swarm down and climb up again. We had a fine time amongst them; and then we found this one. We climbed down the chimney, but there are two more ways of getting in. Old Bobby came by one, and turned us out by the other." "I've heard him speak of an underground place," said Esther in a low voice. "He said he'd show it to me, but I didn't want to go." Puck stared at her in amaze. "Why on earth not?" he asked. "I thought it would be dark," she said, not caring to explain further; and both boys laughed. "It is rather dark; but not so very when you've got used to it," said Pickle, "and boys don't mind that sort of thing. I don't know where the light gets in; but there are cracks, he said. Anyhow we got down a queer, narrow hole like a chimney, and dropped right down into a sort of huge fireplace--big enough to cook half a dozen men." "O Pickle!" "Well, it was. I expect, perhaps, they did cook men there in the olden times--when people were persecuted, you know, and they had places for torturing them," remarked Pickle, who had a boy's relish for horrors. "That sort of place would be just the very thing. And afterwards smugglers had it, and I daresay they murdered the excisemen in there if they got a chance. I never saw such queer marks as there were on the stones--did you, Puck? I should think they must be human blood. You know that won't wash out if it has once been spilt when there's a murder. I've read lots of stories about that. If you only cut yourself, it doesn't seem to leave a stain; but that's different from murder." Esther's face was as white as her frock. Pickle enjoyed the impression he was producing. "Well, I don't know what they use the cave for now, but something very queer anyhow. I never saw such odd things as they have got; it was just like the places you read of about wizards and magicians and the things they do. And there were tanks with lids, and we took off the lids and looked in, and they did smell. We put our fingers into some of them, and they smelt worse. And one of them burnt me!" and Pickle held up a couple of bandaged fingers as though in proof of his assertion. "Old Bobby tied them up," said Puck. "He said it served Pickle right for meddling. He was in a rage with us for getting in and looking at his things. I expect he's got his enemies pickling in those tanks. I expect he's lured them to his cave and murdered them, and hidden them away, so that the stuff will eat them all up, and nobody will find their bodies. That's what I should like to do to all the nasty people when I'm a man. When you have a sort of castle on a crag, with underground caves to it, you can do just as you like, you know." "How did Mr. Trelawny find you?" asked Esther, who was all in a tremor at this confirmation of her own suspicions--suspicions she had scarcely dared to admit even to herself. "Well, I'm coming to that," said Pickle; "it wasn't very long after we'd been down. We heard a funny scrunching noise somewhere up overhead, and then a sort of hollow echoing sound. We couldn't make it out at first, but soon we knew what it must be. It was steps coming down-stairs--tramp, tramp, tramp--nearer and nearer." "O Pickle! weren't you frightened?" "Well, not exactly; but we thought we'd better hide in case it might be smugglers, or murderers, or something. There wasn't time to get up the chimney again, and I'm not sure if you can get out that way, though you can get down easy enough. Anyhow it would take some time. So we crouched behind a big stone and waited; and there were two men coming down talking to each other, and their voices echoed up and down and made such funny noises; and when they got down into the cave, it was Old Bobby himself, and that owl fellow who brought us home." "Mr. Earle," said Esther. "Earle or owl--what's the odds? I shall call him the Owl; he's just like one with those round gig-lamps. Well, they came down together, and then, of course, we knew it was all right; so out we jumped with a screech--and I say, Puck, didn't we scare them too?" Both boys went off into fits of laughter at the recollection of the start they had given their seniors, and then Pickle took up the thread of the tale. "But Old Bobby was in a jolly wax too. He boxed both of us on the ears, and told us we'd no business there--" "He was afraid we'd found out something about the pickled corpses," interrupted Puck. "People never like that sort of thing found out; but, of course, we shouldn't go telling about it--at least only to a few special people. "He went on at us ever so long, calling us little trespassers and spies, and wondering we had not killed ourselves; and then he led us along a funny sort of passage, and out through a door in the hillside right under the house. But they hadn't come in that way. They had come down a lot of steps; so we know that the cave is just under the house, and that Old Bobby and the Owl get to it by a private way of their own. But I could find the door we went out by easily, though there is a great bush in front of it, and you can't see it when you've got a few paces off." "And there's a path right down to the sea," cried Puck. "It's a regular smugglers' den. He got less cross when we were out, and told us a lot of things about smugglers. But he said we weren't ever to come there again--at least not alone. He said you might bring us, if we'd give our word of honor to obey you. He seemed to want you to come, Tousle. I'm sure I don't know why, for girls are no good in jolly places like that." "I don't think I want to go," answered Esther, putting it as mildly as possible; "I don't like underground places." But she wanted the boys to enjoy themselves; and after breakfast she asked leave to take them as far as the fishing village that nestled under the crags upon which Mr. Trelawny's house stood. Of course there was another way to it along the road, which, though longer, was easier walking than climbing the hill and scrambling down the crags on the other side. The boys were willing to go the less adventurous way, as they had explored the cliff already, and Esther felt more light of heart, thinking that along the road they could not come to any harm. But she was soon to realize that some boys find facilities for mischief and pranks wherever they are. The mercurial spirits of her charges kept her in a constant flutter of anxiety. They would get under horses' feet, climb up into strange carts to chat with the carters, jump over brooks, heedless of wet feet, chase the beasts at pasture as fearlessly as they chased butterflies, and make the acquaintance of every dog they met, whether amiable or the reverse. They even insisted upon taking an impromptu ride upon a pony out at grass, and enjoyed a gallop round the field on its bare back. Esther, whose life until recently had been passed mainly in garrison towns, and who had not acquired the fearlessness of the country child, looked on in wondering amaze at these pranks, and listened with a sense of wonder and awe as the boys described their exploits at their own home, the things they did, and the things they meant to do. Down by the shore there was no holding the pair. They tore about the little quay and landing place in the greatest excitement. They got into the boats lying beneath, and scrambled from one to the other, rocking them in a fashion that sent Esther's heart into her mouth. She felt like a hen with ducklings to rear. She had not courage to follow the boys into the swaying boats, and could only stand watching them with anxious eyes, begging them to be careful, and not to fall into the water. "Bless your heart, missie!" said an old fisherman whom Esther knew, because he often brought them fish and lobsters in his basket fresh from the sea, "they won't come to no harm. Bless you! boys allers will be boys, and 'tisn't no good fur to try and hold them back. Them's not the kind that hurts. You sit here and watch them comfortable like. They're as happy as kings, they are." The old man spoke in the soft, broad way which Esther was getting to understand now, but which puzzled her at first, as it would puzzle little people if I were to write it down the way the old man spoke it. She rather liked the funny words and turns of expression now, and she enjoyed sitting by old Master Pollard, as she called him, watching the boys and listening to his tales, which he was always ready to tell when he had a listener. The boys had a glorious morning, paddling and shrimping with some of the fisher lads of the place. They only returned to Esther when they were growing ravenous for their dinner. She was glad to get them home quickly, driven by the pangs of hunger; and she told them that Master Pollard had said he would take them out fishing one of these days, and show them how the lobster-pots were set, and various other mysteries. Esther knew something about lobster-pots, having been with the old man to visit his sometimes; so she rose in the estimation of her cousins, especially as some of the lads had told them that "old Pollard were once a smuggler himself, long ago, when he was a lad," though this Esther was disposed indignantly to deny. "Well, I hope he was, anyhow," said Puck; "I shall ask him to tell us all about it. I wonder if he knows all about the cave, and whether they pickled corpses up there in his time." The boys would have gone down to the shore again after their early dinner, but their aunt had another suggestion to make. "Mrs. Polperran has been in, and wants you all to go to the rectory for the afternoon, and have tea in the garden. I said I would send you all, so that you can make friends with your little playfellows." "Who is Mrs. Poll-parrot?" asked Pickles, with a sly look in his eyes. "Polperran, dear. Mr. Polperran is our clergyman, and his children are Esther's little friends, and will be your friends too." "The Rev. Poll-parrot," said Puck under his breath; and then both boys went off into fits of laughter. "I don't think you ought to speak like that, Puck," said Mrs. St. Aiden, with mild reproof. "You must remember he is a clergyman, and you must be respectful." Puck's blue eyes twinkled. It did not seem as though he had very much respectfulness in his composition; but he did not reply. Both the boys treated the gentle invalid with more consideration than they seemed disposed to bestow upon anybody else. They did nothing more free and easy than to dub her "Aunt Saint," and though Mrs. St. Aiden suggested that Aunt Alicia would be better, she did not stand out against the other appellation. "You look like a saint on a church window," Pickle remarked judicially, "so it seems to fit you better;" and Mrs. St. Aiden smiled indulgently, for it was less trouble to give way than to insist. It was with some trepidation that Esther conducted her young charges to the rectory that day. The little Polperrans had been so very well brought up, and were so "proper behaved"--as Genefer called it--themselves, that she was fearful of the effect that might be produced upon them by the words and ways of the newly-imported pair. Mrs. Polperran herself came out to welcome them upon their approach, and Pickle, when introduced, went boldly up to her with outstretched hand. "How do you do, Mrs. Poll-parrot? Is this the cage you live in?" Now Mrs. Polperran was just a little hard of hearing, so that she only caught the drift of the speech, and not the exact words, and she smiled and nodded her head. "Yes, dear; this is my house, and that is the garden where you will often come and play, I hope; and there is an orchard beyond with a swing in it; and here are your little friends all ready to make your acquaintance," and she indicated her three children, who had been close beside her all the time. Prissy's face was rather red, and Bertie had his handkerchief tucked into his mouth in a very odd way, whilst Milly was looking divided between the desire to laugh and the fear of Prissy; however, Mrs. Polperran did not observe these small signs, but told her children to take care of their little guests, and sailed back to the house herself, where there was always work to be done. "Pretty poll! pretty poll! Scratch a poll, polly!" cried Puck softly, capering on the grass-plot as the lady disappeared. "You are a very rude little boy," said Prissy with an air of displeasure and a glance at Esther, as much as to ask her why she did not reprove such impertinence; but Bertie made a dash at Puck, seized him by the hand, and cried out,-- "Come along! come along! Oh, won't we have some fun now!" Immediately the three boys dashed off together full tilt, and Milly, after a wavering glance in the direction of her sister and Esther, rushed headlong after them. The elder pair were left for the moment alone, and Prissy looked inquiringly into Esther's flushed face. "I don't think your cousins are very nice boys," she remarked with some severity; "I should think they have been very badly brought up." Esther felt a little tingle of vexation at hearing her cousins thus criticised, though after all she was not quite sure that she could deny Prissy's charge. "They have no mother, you see," she said. "Ah, well, perhaps that does make a difference. Fathers often spoil their children, when there is no mother; I've heard mama say so herself," she said. "You will have to be a little mother to them, Esther, and teach them better. I'm not going to hear my mother called names, and I shall tell them so." Prissy proceeded to do this with great firmness when the children met a little later. Pickle listened to her speech with most decorous gravity, while Puck's pretty face dimpled all over with laughter. "Pretty polly! pretty polly!--doesn't she talk well!" he exclaimed; and to Prissy's infinite astonishment and dismay, Milly and Bertie rolled to and fro in helpless mirth, whilst Pickle looked up in her flushed face and said,-- "You know little poll-parrots are called lovebirds. It isn't pretty-behaved at all to get so angry about it.--Scratch her poll, Tousle; perhaps that'll put her in a better temper. Why, she's sticking her feathers up all over; she'll peck somebody next!" and Pickle made a show of drawing back in fear, whilst his admirers became perfectly limp with laughter. It was the first time the younger pair had ever tasted of the sweets of liberty. Without exactly knowing it, they had been under Prissy's rule from their babyhood upwards. It had been as natural to them to obey her as to obey their mother, and they had come to regard her almost in the light of a grown-up person whose word must, as a matter of course, be law. And yet the germs of rebellion must surely have been in their hearts, or they would hardly have sprung up so quickly. "We never have any fun at home," said Bertie, in a subdued whisper, when the boys and Milly had had their tea and had taken themselves off to the farthest corner of the orchard; "whenever we think of anything nice to do, Prissy always says we mustn't." "Why do you tell her?" asked Puck, and at that Bertie and Milly exchanged glances. It had never occurred to them as possible to keep anything from Prissy. "We mean to have some fun here, Puck and I," said Pickle, "and we shan't go and tell everything beforehand. We tell when it's done. It's a much better way." Milly and Bertie sat open-mouthed in admiration at such audacity and invention. "I never thought of that!" said Milly softly. "We thought of it a long time ago," said Puck, with a touch of pride and patronage in his voice. "Well," said Pickle suddenly, "you don't seem such a bad pair of youngsters; so suppose we let you know when we've got our next plan on hand, and you come too." "Oh!" cried Milly, and "Oh!" cried Bertie. A look of slow rapture dawned upon their faces. They realized that a time of glorious emancipation was at hand, when they might be able to get into mischief like other happy little boys and girls. CHAPTER IV. THE SWEETS OF FREEDOM. "You can do as you like, Milly; but I shall go!" Small Herbert set his foot to the ground with a gesture of immovable firmness. Milly watched him with admiring eyes, still halting between two opinions. "Oh, but, Bertie, isn't it naughty?" "I don't care if it is. I'm going." It was like hoisting the signal of revolt--revolt from the rule of the elder sister. They both knew that Prissy would never go, or let them go either, if she knew of the plan. And to slip away unknown to her, though not a difficult matter upon a Saturday afternoon, would mark an epoch in the life of this pair of properly-brought-up children, as both instinctively felt, though they could not have expressed themselves upon the subject. "It's our holiday afternoon," said Bertie stoutly, his square face looking squarer than ever. "Nobody's told us never to go out of the orchard; we're allowed to know Pickle and Puck. They say they're going out for a lark on Saturday afternoon, and I'm going with them." Milly's eyes were growing brighter and brighter; she looked with open admiration upon Herbert. He was younger than herself, but at this moment he seemed the older of the pair. "Bertie," she asked, in a voice that was little above a whisper, "what _is_ a lark?" Bertie hesitated a moment. "It's something we don't ever get here," he answered, with a note of resentment in his voice; "but Pickle and Puck know all about it, and I mean to learn too." "O Bertie!--and so will I!" "That's right. I'd like you to come too. I don't see why you should be a little cockney any more than I!" "O Bertie! what's that?" "Well, I don't just exactly know; but it's something I heard father say." "What did he say?" "Well, I'll tell you. I was in his study learning my Latin declension; and I was behind the curtain, and I think he'd forgotten I was there. Mother came in, and they talked, and I stopped my ears and was learning away, when I heard them say something about Puck and Pickle. Then I listened." "What did they say?" "Mother was saying she was afraid they were naughty, rude boys, and would teach us mischief; and then father laughed and said he didn't much mind if they did." "O Bertie!" "He did, I tell you," answered Bertie, swelling himself out, as though he felt his honor called in question. "They talked a good while, and I couldn't understand it all; but I heard father say he'd rather I were a bold Cornish boy, even if I did get into mischief sometimes, than grow up a little timid cockney." "I wonder what he meant," said Milly in an awestruck tone; "I never heard of a cockney before." "I think it must mean something like a girl," said Bertie, with a note of perhaps unconscious contempt in his voice, "for mother said something, and then father said, 'You see, you were brought up a cockney yourself, my dear, and you can do as you like about the girls; but I want Herbert to be a true Cornish boy, and he doesn't seem to be one yet.' That's what he said; and now I'm going to find out what it is to be a Cornish boy, and I'm going to be one. You can go on being a cockney if you like." "But I won't!" cried Milly rebelliously; "I'll be a Cornish boy too!" "You can't be a boy, but you can come along with us if you like," said Bertie patronizingly; "Pickle and Puck said you could, though Puck did say he thought girls cried and spoiled things after a bit." "I don't cry!" answered Milly sturdily; and, indeed, she had most of her father in her of the three Polperran children. They had been brought up under the rule of a mother who had very strict ideas of training and discipline, and had lived the greater part of her life in towns, so that country ways would always be more or less strange to her. They had never run wild, even now that they had returned to their father's native county, and were in the midst of moors and crags, and almost within sound of the sea. They still kept to their prim little walks along the road, and if they played out of doors, it was always in the orchard--never on the open moorland, or by the rocks and pools of the shore. Prissy was really a little copy of her mother, and she had no taste for anything strange, and was rather afraid of solitude and of the boom of the sea. So she kept her younger pair well in hand, and they had never seriously thought of rebellion until the arrival upon the scene of Pickle and Puck. From that moment the horizon of their lives seemed to widen. Here were two boys who actually dared to call their mother Mrs. Poll-parrot to her face, and their father the Reverend Poll! They habitually spoke of their own father as Crump, and had dubbed the redoubtable Mr. Trelawny "Old Bobby"! These were flights of boldness beyond the wildest dreams of the little Polperrans. At first they had been almost overcome with fear, but familiarity had changed that feeling into one of growing wonder and admiration. For these boys were not only bold in word--they were daring beyond expression in deed. Already they had explored some of the hidden mysteries of the Crag; they had been out lobster-catching with old Pollard; and they had tumbled into one of the deep pools in the rocks, and had been hauled out dripping by a fisherman who luckily chanced to be near at hand. Now they were learning to swim, Mr. Trelawny having decided that that must be the next step in their education; and although they had not had many lessons, Pickle could already keep himself afloat several strokes, and Puck was not far behind. And all this had been done in three weeks, as well as other minor acts, of which the heroes themselves thought simply nothing, though Bertie and Milly were filled with admiration. Prissy disapproved of them utterly and entirely; nor was this very difficult to understand. She gave herself the sort of airs which Pickle and Puck openly ridiculed. They persisted in calling her "Pretty Polly," and she retaliated by calling them rude, ill-mannered boys, and openly pitying Esther for the infliction of their company. "If Prissy would be nice to them, they would be nice to her," Milly remarked sagely once, "and then things would be better. But they always get quarreling, and then it's no good trying to settle anything. Everything goes wrong." "That's because Prissy is such a cockney," cried Bertie, airing his new word with satisfaction; "Esther would never make half the fuss about every little thing. Pickle and Puck like Esther, though they do laugh at her rather. But they won't have either Esther or Prissy with them when we have our lark on Saturday afternoon. They'll only take you and me." "Well, I'll go!" cried Milly, throwing to the winds all allegiance to Prissy; "I want to see what a lark is like. I'm tired of being a cockney." "Hurrah!" cried Bertie, feeling all the glow that follows a bold stand against domestic tyranny; "we'll all have a regular lark together, and we'll tell father all about it afterwards. He won't scold, and then mother can't." Saturday afternoon was the children's holiday. At the Hermitage lessons went on regularly now on every morning of the week, and five afternoons; and it was the same at the rectory, where father and mother taught their children, or superintended their lessons when not able to be with them the whole time. But on Saturday afternoons all were free to do as they pleased. Prissy always went with her mother to give out the books at the lending library, of which she was practically librarian, and very proud of her position. Esther was always busy at home with little household duties, which she had less time for now during the week. This left the younger children quite free to follow out their own plans, and so far they had spent their holiday afternoon together. Once they had played in the orchard, and once they had gone down to the shore, where the pair from the Hermitage had displayed to their admiring companions the progress they had made in the art of swimming. "I mean to ask father to let me learn to swim too," said Herbert, whose ideas were soaring to untold heights. "I'm sure that would be one way of growing to be a Cornish boy. All the boys and men here can swim." Pickle and Puck, however, had no intention of wasting all half-holidays in such peaceful and unadventurous fashion, and they had given out very decidedly that on the following Saturday they should have "a lark." They had not further specified what form this lark was to take, but had merely declared their willingness that Herbert and Milly should share it, provided they wouldn't go and talk of it beforehand. "We don't want Miss Prig sticking her nose into our business anyhow," said Pickle, using a second name they had recently evolved for Prissy. "We'll go where we like, and do what we like, and when we get home we'll tell them all about it. That's what Puck and I always do, and it's much the best plan. Grown-ups are always worrying after you if you say a word. They'll be much happier if they think we are safe here in the orchard." It had been a moot point all the week with Bertie and Milly whether or not they should dare to join in the projected "lark"; but Bertie's resolution was now irrevocably taken, and Milly threw prudence and subservience to the four winds, and swore adhesion to the new league of liberty. They met in the rectory orchard, whither Pickle and Puck were supposed to be going to spend the Saturday afternoon. Esther was at ease about them there, for she had a belief that in that house everything went by routine, and that Herbert and Milly would restrain their comrades from any overt acts of independence and daring. There were rabbits to be visited, and cows to be driven in from the glebe pasture, and various other mild delights which always seemed quite exciting to her. She let her charges go with an easy mind; and as for Prissy, it never so much as occurred to her that after her admonition, "Mind you are very good!" Milly or Bertie would venture to dream of such a thing as leaving the premises unknown to anybody in the house, and without obtaining leave. Pickle and Puck arrived, brimming over with excitement and the delights of anticipation. "Where is everybody?" they asked at once. "They're all out," answered Milly, skipping about. "There's nobody to stop us or say 'don't.' What are we going to do? Have you decided?" "Of course we have. We're going to get a boat, and go out to that island where those jolly rocks are, and where nobody lives. We've got some jolly cakes and things in this basket. We shall light a fire of dried seaweed, and be castaways from a wreck, and have a scrumptious time till it's time to go home again." Bertie's eyes grew round with anticipation. Milly jumped into the air with delight; but then suddenly looking grave, she exclaimed,-- "But how shall we get there?" "In a boat, of course." "But then we shall have to have a man with us, and that costs such a lot of money." "Come along, silly-billy!" cried Pickle with good-humored scorn; "you'll soon see how we do things, Puck and I. A man, indeed! As though we'd have a great lumbering gowk to spoil all our fun, and have to pay him too! No fear!" Pickle took a short cut across country towards the shore. It was safer than the road in many ways, and the path he selected did not lead to the fishing village, but to a little cove half a mile away to the right. Milly danced beside him chattering gleefully. "O Pickle, can you row yourself?" "Of course I can. Puck and I rowed old Pollard's boat about for him the other day amongst the lobster-pots. Anybody can row--at least anybody with any sense. You only have to put the oar in the water and pull it out again. Even a girl could do that." "We've never been let try," said Milly. "We hardly ever go in a boat. Mother doesn't like it. Sometimes father takes us out on a fine evening, but not often. He's busy, and mother generally thinks it too cold or damp or something." "I'm glad I wasn't brought up in a poll-parrot's cage," was Pickle's remark; "your mother seems worse than Aunt Saint, and she's pretty silly about boys." "I believe mother was a cockney," said Milly gravely. "Perhaps that is why, though I don't quite know what a cockney is." Pickle laughed, but they were going too fast for much conversation. It was rough walking, but they did not want to lose time. "Here we are!" shouted Pickle, as they came suddenly upon a little cleft in the fringe of moorland they were skirting, and could see right down to the shining sea. "Here's the place, and here's the old boat. I've settled with the old fellow for it, and he promised to leave the oars and things in all ready. Oh, jolly! jolly! jolly! Now we'll have a lark!" This little creek was an offshoot of the bay, and a small tumble-down hut stood just beneath the overhanging crags. A boat lay rocking in the water, moored to a ring in the rock, and the owner had been true to his promise, and had left the oars and rudder and stretchers all in place. With shouts of ecstasy the children tumbled in. This was something like independence! Not a creature was there to say them nay. They were afloat in a boat of their very own, about to row over to that enchanted and enchanting island which Millie and Bertie had often gazed at wonderingly and wistfully, but had never dreamed of exploring in their own persons. The boat was a safe old tub, heavy and cumbersome, but steady in the water. The sea was very smooth, and the tide was falling, so that the efforts of the youthful rowers to get clear of the creek were crowned with success, although Pickle and Puck had only very elementary ideas as to rowing. Bertie took the rudder, and as he had sometimes steered the boat when his father rowed them about the bay, he had some idea of keeping a straight course, and avoiding rocks and buoys. The island looked quite near to shore from the cliffs above; but it seemed rather a long way off when the boat was on the water, slowly traveling out towards it. Pickle and Puck soon cast off their coats and waistcoats, and the drops stood upon their brows; but they would not be beaten, and pulled on manfully, though they did feel as though the island must be behaving in a very shabby manner, and retiring gradually from them as they approached. Still, the delight of being out in a boat by themselves made amends for much, and Milly, who had taken her place in the bows, screamed aloud with joy and excitement. She looked over the edge, and cried out that there were the loveliest things to be seen along the bottom. She would have been happy enough on the water the whole afternoon; but the two rowers were very glad when, after prolonged and gallant efforts on their part, they at last felt the keel of the boat grating upon the longed-for shore. "I'm hot and thirsty, I know!" cried Pickle; "I shall have a swim first thing. There's a jolly pool. I shall just swim about there, I can swim across it, I believe, and it isn't deep anywhere." "I'll come too!" cried Puck; "I'm just sweating all over!" "Prissy says people oughtn't to bathe when they're hot," remarked Milly doubtfully; but Pickle only laughed and said,-- "Pretty Polly talks an awful lot of rubbish. The hotter you are the jollier it is. You come along too, Bert." Bertie drew his breath hard. This was indeed freedom! Milly would have loved to join the party, but desisted from motives of propriety. She had not brought her bathing dress, and, indeed, she was hardly ever allowed to use it at any time. So she went off to explore the wonders of the island, leaving the boys to enjoy their bath and dry themselves in the hot sunshine afterwards. "I wish I were a boy too," she said to herself; "but anyhow I won't be a little cockney, even if I am a girl." Certainly the island was a most entrancing place. There were pools where sea-anemones displayed their flower-like beauty, and others lined with green seaweed that looked like moss, where little fishes swam about, and shrimps turned somersaults, and limpets stuck tight to the side, as though a part of the solid rock. Then on the top of the island, where the water never came, a coarse kind of grass grew, and some little flowers and sea-poppies; and Milly found many treasures in the way of tiny shells, which would make lovely decorations for the doll's house at home. She could have enjoyed herself for hours like this; but the boys turned up before very long, rosy and wet-headed from their bath, and declared they must have something to eat quick, and that they must make a fire and boil their very tiny kettle, just for the sake of feeling that they really were castaways upon a desert island. "I've found some water that isn't salt!" cried Milly; "it's in a deep pool above high-water mark. It must be rain-water, I suppose; but it's quite nice, for I drank some." And Pickle gave a shout of joy, for the boys were terribly thirsty, and though they had provided themselves with a kettle and some tea, they had never thought of bringing water. Puck said that sea-water boiled would be sure to be quite nice, for boiling was sure to take the salt out of it somehow. Milly, however, knew better, and was proud of her find; and she and Puck ran off to fill the kettle, whilst Pickle and Bertie set to gathering dry seaweed, and putting it in a hole in the rocks which was rather like a fire-grate, and over which they could easily put on the kettle to boil. It was tremendously exciting and interesting work--the sort of play the rectory children had never indulged in before, though they had secretly longed after it. [Illustration: "Pickle soon had a merry little fire burning."--Page 95. _Esther's Charge._] "I'm the captain, and you're the bo'sun, Bertie," explained Pickle; "Puck's the cabin-boy, and Milly's a passenger. Everybody else has been drowned dead, and we've been cast ashore on the island. So we have to light a fire as a signal to any passing ship to come and take us off." "Oh, but we don't want to be taken off!" shrieked Milly; "we want to stay all the afternoon! If they see our fire perhaps they'll come too soon. We don't want that." However, Pickle decreed that this risk must be run, as they must have their tea, and all castaways lighted a fire when they could. He had matches ready, and very soon the dry seaweed kindled, and a merry little fire was soon burning in the hole. It was not long before the kettle boiled, and very proud was Milly of being permitted to put in the tea, and officiate at the dispensing of the liquid. They had only one mug, and some lumps of sugar, and no milk; but that mattered very little. Castaways could not expect luxuries, and the cakes were excellent. Bertie was in rampant spirits. This was true liberty, and he was eager for remaining on the island permanently. There was a hole on the other side where they could sleep upon a bed of dried seaweed; and then in the mornings they could bathe in the pool, and he could learn to swim, and Milly could cook their food, and they would catch fish, and crabs, and shrimps, and live like princes. Puck was rather taken by the idea. "We shouldn't have any lessons then with the old Owl," he remarked. "I don't like lessons. It's such a waste of time, when one might be having fun. I can't see what good lessons are to anybody. I asked Crump once if he remembered the dates of all the kings and queens, and he said he was afraid he didn't, though he could have said them off pat when he was my age. If one may forget everything as soon as one grows up, what's the use of making such a fuss about learning them?" "Crump says it trains the mind to learn," said Pickle, jumping up; "but I should think living on an island and doing everything for oneself would train it much more. Let's go and see the hole, Bert. P'r'aps we won't stay to-day--we've not brought quite enough things; but we might collect them here for a bit, and then when we've got enough we might come over, and let the boat go adrift, and live like cave-men as long as we liked. It would do for our city of refuge, you know," and he looked across at Puck, who capered in great glee. "Of course, of course, of course!" he shouted; "we ought to have a city of refuge!" "What's that?" asked Bertie eagerly. "Oh, it's all in the Bible," answered Puck. "We found it one day, and told Crump; and we asked if we might have one, and he said yes, if we could find it; and so we made it. It was out on the stable roof--such a jolly place!--no avenger of blood could ever get up there. Crump did try once; but he stuck fast, and we sat and roared at him. It was a fine city of refuge. We always went there when people were angry. Once we were up there nearly all day; and if we'd had more gingerbread we'd never have come down till they'd promised not to punish us. But Miss Masters sat at the bottom of the ladder that time, and she whipped us when we had to come down. That was what I call being real mean. What's the good of a city of refuge if the avenger of blood sits waiting for you at the bottom of the ladder? We asked Crump to tell her never to do it again, but I don't know if he ever did. Soon after that we came here, and the old Owl teaches us instead." "And you haven't got a city of refuge here?" asked the breathless Milly. "No; but I think we shall want one," said Pickle seriously. "There's something about Old Bobby and the Owl that I don't quite like. They can be very jolly; but they seem to think they're going to have it very much their own way. I don't like giving in to a pair of old fogies like that. I think this island might come in very useful." "Prissy could never find us here!" cried Milly under her breath; "we could do the loveliest things! Oh, do let us have a city of refuge!" They explored the island with breathless interest. It seemed an excellent place for their design. There was no danger of its ever being covered at high tide; there was a rent in one side, not quite a cave, but a deep fissure, which would give protection from wind and some shelter from rain, and prove an excellent place of concealment. There was the big pool for bathing in, and little pools for keeping their treasures in the way of anemones and other sea-water creatures. And though the tides might wash away the old treasures, there would be new ones deposited instead, and altogether it seemed a most desirable sort of place. "We'll collect things here," said Pickle with decision. "That was the worst of our other city of refuge; there was no place to keep anything. We had just to carry up with us what we wanted, and unless we could get down into the house without being seen we couldn't get anything more. Once Jim, the stable-boy, brought us some apples; but he didn't generally know when we were up there. We'll lay in a regular store of things, and then if they get cross we can come here and stop for a week. They'll be so frightened by that time that they'll never think of being angry when we get back, if we don't stay here always." "Are you sure?" asked Milly eagerly. "I feel as though mother would get angrier and angrier the longer we stayed away." But Pickle looked immensely wise. "No, it isn't like that," he said; "they begin by getting angrier and angrier, but then they get frightened, and when they're just as frightened as they can be, then if you go back they don't scold--at least hardly at all. They're only all in a tremble lest you've got wet or something like that--as if one were a cat. It's very stupid of them, but it's very convenient for us. You get more fun and less scolding that way." "O Pickle! how do you know?" "Oh, we've tried it so often, and with different nurses and governesses, and with Granny and Crump. We know all about that sort of thing. Crump was the worst to reckon on. He would sometimes say very little that day, but take it out of you next. But then Crump was Crump, and one never minded much what he did. I wish we had him here now." "Would he let you have a city of refuge out here?" asked Milly wonderingly. "Of course he would. Crump isn't like a pack of silly women, who always think one is going to kill oneself. Crump likes boys to do things for themselves, and not be always hanging round and asking other people to take care of them. I'm going to be a soldier when I grow up, and soldiers have to learn how to do lots of things; and Puck will be either a soldier or a sailor. Crump said we might choose for ourselves; and when we had chosen we must stick to it like bricks, and so we will." "I'm going to be a Cornish boy!" cried Bertie; "my father said so. Cornish boys can all swim, and row boats, and wrestle, and things like that. We'll learn all about that at the city of refuge. It's the women who spoil everything. Let's pass a law that no woman shall ever be allowed to set foot on our island." "Then you mustn't count me a woman!" cried Milly appealingly. "Of course not!" answered all the boys at once; and Pickle went on judicially--"We shan't count all girls as women--only the very stupid ones like Pretty Polly. Tousle may come as a visitor sometimes; and you may come always, Milly, if you'll be jolly and not tell secrets. I don't count people like you women. You have some sense." "And perhaps if you get regularly jolly, you won't ever be a woman," added Puck consolingly. "I should think there must be some way of stopping it. When Old Bobby or the Owl are in good temper I'll ask them about it. They have all sorts of funny things in bottles and tanks, and they can do lots of queer things. I'll ask them if they can't do something to stop you always being a woman. You'd like that very much, wouldn't you?" "Oh yes!" cried Milly eagerly. "If I could be a Cornish boy I should be quite happy." But time was flying fast, and, unless the children wanted their secret to escape them too soon, they would have to be going back. They had had a fine time out on the island, and the tide had begun to flow again, and had floated their boat, which, for above an hour, had been lying stranded amid the rocks. So in they all tumbled, and rowed back homewards, reaching the creek as the clock in the village church chimed out the hour of six. "We shall just get home in time!" cried Milly, "and nobody will know we haven't been playing about near home all the time.--Pickle, may we tell father about the city of refuge--just as a secret? I'm sure he won't mind; and if he doesn't tell mother it will be all right." "Well, I'll think about it," answered Pickle, in his capacity of captain; "but don't you tell anything till I give you leave." CHAPTER V. AT THE CRAG. "You must come, Tousle; you must, you must, you must!" The boys were dancing round her like a pair of wild Indians, and Esther gave up the unequal struggle. "I'll come if you want me very much," she said rather wearily, "but I think you'd enjoy yourselves just as much without me." "Well, it's not so much that we couldn't do without you ourselves," returned Puck, with his habitual candor; "but Old Bobby says he won't have us without our keeper, and that means you, though I'm sure I don't know why he should call you that." "Nor I," answered Esther, shaking her head. She felt very little power over the mercurial pair whom she had vainly tried to make her charge. They were fond of her, in a fashion, and she was fond of them. Their arrival had brought a new element into her life; and there were many happy hours when they played together joyously, and Esther forgot her gravity and grown-up ways, and laughed and raced about and shouted gleefully, as other children do. Yet it could not be denied that the boys brought many new anxieties into her life, and the uncertainty as to what they would do next kept her upon tenter-hooks from week's end to week's end. They did not want to give trouble and pain; they only wanted to amuse themselves and to be left alone. They were accustomed to liberty and independence, and were on the whole very well able to take care of themselves. But they were full of spirit, and they delighted in mischief; and something in the prim and proper methods prevailing in this little place stirred up the spirit of mischief within them, and led them to commit more pranks, perhaps, than they would otherwise have thought of. Mrs. St. Aiden took things easily, fortunately for Esther. The boys amused her. She did not see very much of them, and on the whole they behaved nicely towards her, having received rather explicit commands on this point from their father. They could not always restrain their mischievous devices even where she was concerned. One morning when her breakfast-tray was brought up, and she uncovered the plate where some little hot dainty generally reposed, behold there was a large toad sitting upon an empty plate, and gazing at her with its jewel-like eyes; and the shout of laughter which followed upon her startled scream betrayed the presence of the lurking conspirators, who had deftly made an exchange of plates whilst Esther's back was turned, just before she took the tray up-stairs. Still, in spite of sundry tricks of this sort, Mrs. St. Aiden did not object on the whole to the presence of the boys in the house. She liked to hear their racy accounts of what they did from day to day, and there was always Mr. Trelawny to fall back upon if they threatened to become too much for her. A long afternoon at the Crag had been promised to the boys for some while, on the first half-holiday when their conduct through the week had won them the right to the treat. Mr. Earle was to be the judge on this point, and it was some time before he could honestly say it was deserved. Mr. Earle was exciting Esther's admiration by the way he was obtaining the upper hand of the restless and obstreperous boys. At first they had obviously regarded lesson hours as so much time for the invention of tricks for the interruption of study, and the playing off of practical jokes. But gradually they had come to an understanding that their tutor regarded matters differently, and that he had just as definite ideas as they upon the subject. Then had come a certain battle of wills between the belligerents, and little by little it became evident that the tutor was becoming the victor. He did not often have to resort to corporal chastisement, though he had once given Pickle a sound caning for insubordination, and Puck had had two or three good cuts across his grubby little hand. But he had other ways of showing that he meant to be master in study hours; and Esther had come to have a great admiration for him, and a sense of confidence in his presence, although the halo of dread which surrounded all persons connected with the Crag still continued to cling about him. It had been a great relief to her when Saturday after Saturday Mr. Earle had looked through his mark book and had shaken his head at the proposal of the promised treat. She did not want Pickle and Puck to be naughty, but she did not in the least want to go up with them to spend the afternoon at Mr. Trelawny's house. And yet it was understood that she was to accompany the boys, "to keep them in order," as the master of the house said, though Esther knew perfectly that if anybody succeeded in keeping the pair in order it would be himself or Mr. Earle. "He likes you, Tousle," said Pickle shrewdly; "he likes you a lot better than us. I don't think he cares for us a bit; but he's fond of you. I can't think why you don't like him." "I never said I didn't like him," said Esther nervously. "No; but anybody not a fool could see it with half an eye. I can't think why you don't. He's an awfully jolly old boy, for all he's so gruff and such an old tyrant. He'd like you to like him I'm sure. I can't think why you don't." "You'd much better," advised Puck, "or perhaps you'll make him angry, and then he might put you into one of his tanks and use you for his experiments. I think it's silly of you always to run away and hide when he comes. He's always asking where you have gone to, and when we tell him you're hiding away from him, he looks as if he didn't quite like it, though he always laughs his big, gruff laugh." "O Puck! why do you tell?" "Well, we must speak the truth," said Puck with an air of virtue; "and you know you do always scuttle away when he comes." "Never mind," cried Pickle, who was in a mighty hurry to be off; "come along now, and let's go up. We may go any time after dinner, you know." "It's so hot!" said Esther with a little sigh. "Would it do if I came a little later? The sun makes my head ache." "Oh, but it's all in the wood, and I don't believe he'll have us without you. Do come along. Boys never have headaches. I don't see why girls should have either." Esther yielded. She did not want to spoil the boys' holiday afternoon, but she did wish that her going with them had not been a condition. Her fears of the Crag and its master did not diminish from the things she heard dropped by older people about the things going on there, now that Mr. Trelawny had an assistant in his experiments. The scientific names she heard spoken sounded terrible in her ears; and she pictured the two men in their gloomy cave, sitting up all the night through pursuing wonderful and mysterious researches, and her books of historical romance, which told of the secret machinations of wizards and magicians, acquired for her a new fascination and a new terror. The three children started off through the pine woods, but Esther was soon left far behind. The boys clambered hither and thither, rushing about with the inexhaustible energy of children; but Esther's feet lagged wearily, and her small face was pale. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and she pulled off her hat and fanned herself with it, thinking the way to the Crag had never seemed so long before. Esther's head had taken to aching a good deal of late. At night she could not always sleep. Her lessons seemed to dance before her eyes, and she would dream about them even after she got off to slumber-land. It had been a great pleasure to Esther to have regular lessons with somebody like Mr. Earle, who could explain everything she wanted to know, and who never reproved her for asking questions; but perhaps the strain of regular work, in addition to that of the two boys in the house and the anxiety she was often in about them and their doings, was rather much for her. At any rate, she had been feeling her head a good deal for the past fortnight, and would so much rather have spent the afternoon quietly at home than have faced first the long walk up the hill and then all the tremors and excitements of the Crag. But Esther was not accustomed to think first of herself, and she plowed her way bravely upwards, till at last they arrived in front of the grim-looking old house perched upon its crag, and saw the two gentlemen sitting out on the terrace, rather as though waiting for their guests. The boys gave a whoop and a bound, and dashed towards them. When Esther reached the terrace they were both swarming about Mr. Trelawny like a pair of young monkeys. He was laughing in his rather grim fashion, and Esther heard him saying in his deep voice,-- "No, I won't have that impudence from you, you young jackanapes. If your father lets you behave so, he ought to know better. When I was a boy we were made to respect our elders, and if we couldn't do it, we had to keep it to ourselves. You may call me Uncle Bob, if you like, as my name happens to be Robert; but every time you call me Old Bobby you'll get a good sound box on the ear--so now you understand." The boys laughed, but they knew perfectly that Mr. Trelawny was in earnest, and that he would be as good as his word. They had found out that from Mr. Earle, who had absolutely forbidden the use of nicknames in school hours, and had insisted that they should speak of Esther by her proper name, and address him as Mr. Earle--a thing that seemed to astonish them not a little. Out of school hours, however, they considered that they had full liberty of speech, and the next minute Puck exclaimed,-- "Here's Tousle coming along. She didn't want to come a bit. We had to bully her into it. She can't bear the Crag." A quick flush mounted to Esther's cheek as she heard, and her heart beat fast. How she did wish the boys would not say such things! She didn't seem able to make them understand how terrifying it was for her that Mr. Trelawny should be told of her shrinking from him and his house. Shyness with Esther was like a real physical pain, and she would rather have received a sharp blow than be obliged to face Mr. Trelawny after these words had just been spoken. He threw the boys from him, and went and took her by the hand. "Well, little Miss Esther, and how do you do? You are quite a stranger here. We must make you change your opinion of the Crag and its owner. Now you shall tell me what you would like to do and to see, since you are here." "Oh, thank you, but I don't mind," answered Esther nervously. "I like sitting here and watching the beautiful sea." "Well, we'll sit here till you have cooled down, and we have drunk our coffee, and then we will see if we can't find something more exciting to amuse ourselves." A man-servant came out almost immediately, bearing cups of coffee on a tray; and this was very good, with plenty of milk and sugar for the little people. The boys chattered away, and Esther found herself able to sit in a quiet corner and be silent, for if ever Mr. Trelawny asked her a question, Pickle or Puck always broke in with an answer before she could get in a word. Presently the boys could be quiet no longer. "Come along and show us things," they cried, getting upon the rails of Mr. Trelawny's chair, and tweaking his thick, grizzled hair. "We know you've got an awful lot of jolly things up here. Come along and show us them. Why, even Tousle hasn't seen half, and she's lived here ever so long." A smart rap on the knuckles brought Pickle quickly to the ground. "Speak properly of your cousin whilst you are in my house," said Mr. Trelawny. "What did I say?" asked Pickle, aggrieved. "Oh, bother! why can't we call people what we like? I think you're a regular old tyrant." "Well, you needn't come near me unless you like," was the equable response; "but if you do, you'll have to behave yourself. So just you mind that." The brothers exchanged glances; but it was evidently not diplomatic to quarrel with the master of the house at this juncture, and they felt that in the matter of argument they would get the worst of it with him. So they only made a covert grimace at the back of his head, and said,-- "Come along, then. Show us your house. We want to see all the queer old places we've heard about. Was there once a monk walled up in the cellar? and did you dig out his skeleton? and did his ghost go prowling about tapping on the doors and making groans?" "Not in my time," answered Mr. Trelawny. "There is a story about the finding of a skeleton down below, though how it came there nobody could say. It was all guess-work.--Come, little Miss Esther; I know you are a historian, and I have some things I think will interest you," and Mr. Trelawny held out his great hand, into which Esther was obliged to slip her little cold fingers, though she felt them trembling all over as she did so. Mr. Trelawny looked down at her for a moment, but said nothing. The boys dashed hither and thither through the rooms, making remarks and asking questions, which they did not always wait to hear answered. But by and by they got interested in the interesting tales Mr. Trelawny had to tell about the fine old house in which he lived, and even Esther lost her fears for a while in the breathless delight of hearing the story of some of the pictured ladies and armed warriors whose portraits hung upon the walls of the corridors and rooms. It was later on, when they were taken into the great laboratory at the top of the house, that her fears began to come back. There was a strange smell in the place, and it was full of the queerest things, the very names of which were terrible. Then Mr. Trelawny did some wonderful things with wires and lights; and presently Mr. Earle was sent down into the cave, right at the very bottom of the house, underneath its foundations, and he and Mr. Trelawny passed messages to each other without so much as a speaking-tube or a wire between them, and everything seemed so strange and uncanny that even the boys were quite silent, whilst Esther felt as though she should be stifled in the atmosphere of this weird place. But the boys were not frightened, though they were greatly astonished at some of the things they saw and heard. Nothing would serve them but that they must go down into the cave again themselves, and see what was going on there; and Esther felt as though her heart would stop beating altogether as she felt her hand grasped by that of this big, terrible wizard, and knew that he was leading her down, down, down into the very heart of the earth. She dared not resist. His grasp was too strong for that. She was afraid if she angered him he would begin to flash more fire, and perhaps annihilate her altogether. Her teeth chattered in her mouth. Her breath came and went in great gasps. If he had not had such firm hold of her hand, she would almost have fallen. At all times Esther had a fear of underground places. She had never done more than just peep into a cave before this; and now she was going down, down, down into the very heart of the earth--into that terrible place the boys had told her of, where all sorts of unthinkable horrors were practised, or had been in bygone days, and where, for all she knew, skeletons were still pickling in great tanks. She dared not even think of anything more. They entered the cave through a sort of trap-door communicating with the house above. The boys were delighted to go by this way. Mr. Earle was there, moving about like a gnome in the gloom; and the voices of the boys, as they cried out their questions, and exclaimed over the strange things they saw, sounded hollow and strange, and went echoing away down the vaulted passages, as though taken up and repeated by half a hundred unseen demons. The air of the place seemed oppressive and difficult to breathe. The sullen booming of the sea beneath added to the awfulness of the darkness and the horror. Esther threw a few scared glances round her, and felt as though everything was swimming in a mist before her eyes. It seemed as though a cold hand was grasping at her throat, hindering her breath and numbing her limbs. She knew that she was being walked about from place to place, but she could see nothing and hear nothing plainly. The boys were making the place ring with their shouts and strange calls, and it seemed to her as though the cave were full of dancing forms, and as though she could not breathe any longer. Then all of a sudden it seemed to get quite dark. The sound of voices died away in her ears. She thought she was left alone in this awful place; perhaps she had been put into one of the tanks. She was suffocating, and could hear nothing but the wild beating of her own heart; and then even that seemed to stop, and she remembered nothing more. When she opened her eyes again the sun was shining, and it was all warm and bright round her, and somebody had fast hold of her, and was making her feel so comfortable and restful that she did not want to move. She could not think where she was, but it was certainly out of doors. The wind fanned her brow, and she could see the sky and the sea and a bit of waving fern or tree. Then there was the sound of a step close by, and suddenly Mr. Earle loomed into view, carrying a glass in his hand, and when his eyes met hers he smiled and said,-- "Ah, that is better!" And then Esther felt herself lifted up, and saw that it was Mr. Trelawny who was holding her so comfortably. He was sitting on the ground, and she was on his knee, resting against his broad shoulder; and now he bent and looked into her face with a smile, and said,-- "So, so, my little girl; that is better, that is better. Now drink what Mr. Earle has brought you, and you will feel yourself again." Esther held out her hand obediently, but it shook so much that Mr. Earle would not give the glass into her hand, but knelt down on one knee and held it to her lips. It was not nice medicine at all, and it made her choke and cough when she had swallowed it, but it seemed to warm her all through; and when she had finished the draught she felt able to lift up her head, though it was rather appalling to find herself alone out on the hillside, with only Mr. Trelawny and Mr. Earle beside her. She remembered everything now--the terrible cave, the strange sights and sounds there, and that feeling of giddiness and weakness which had come over her. She sat up and looked round her, and then she shivered again a little, for just behind them was a dark gap which she knew must lead into the cave. Were they going to take her back into it again? Mr. Earle had hold of her hand, and his finger was on the little wrist. He looked into her face with a smile, and asked,-- "What is the matter now?" "Nothing, thank you, sir." "You are frightened," he said quietly. "Were you afraid of the darkness in there just now?" "I--I don't know if it was the darkness exactly. I think it was everything." She made another little movement, and then added wistfully, "Please, may I go home?" "No hurry," said Mr. Trelawny's big voice just in her ear. "We will go back to my house first, and see what all this means." And then Esther felt herself lifted bodily in those great, strong arms, and carried baby-fashion up the steep pathway towards the house on the top of the crag. "O Mr. Trelawny, I'm too heavy to be carried!" she cried. "You're not half as heavy as you should be. I must know about that too. We've got you a prisoner between us, my little maid, and we shall not let you go till we've----" Mr. Trelawny stopped suddenly, because Mr. Earle had begun to speak to him in the strange language Esther had heard him use upon another occasion. She shut her eyes tightly, and tried to be brave; but if only she might have gone home by herself! The Crag was a very terrible place to come to. Even the boys seemed to have disappeared. There was no sign of them about the great, quiet house. Mr. Trelawny carried her into the drawing-room, which did not look as though it were often used, though it was bright and sunny; and he laid her down upon a wide sofa, and took a chair close to her. Mr. Earle stood a little way off, looking out of the window. If Esther had had the courage to look into the face above her, she would have seen that it was full of a very kindly concern and interest, but she dared not raise her eyes. She felt like a prisoner awaiting sentence, and only wondered whether she would ever be free to run home again. "Now tell me, child," said Mr. Trelawny's big voice, "what is the matter with my little friend?" "Nothing, thank you, sir." "Can't you call me Uncle Robert, like that pair of urchins, who are no kith or kin of mine, though you are? Esther, I was very fond of your father. Won't you try to be a little fond of me? I will be your friend, if you will let me." She looked up at him then, and her heart beat fast. It was all so very strange and unexpected. She did not know what to say; but she put out her hand and laid it on his, and he smiled and patted it, and said,-- "There, that is better. Now tell me about these headaches of yours. We ought to find a cure for them. Has Mr. Earle been working you too hard?" Esther felt a thrill run through her again. How was it he knew anything about her headaches? She had not even told her mother, and it never occurred to her that the boys could have spoken the word. Yet, to be sure, once or twice lately she had not cared to join their games because her head ached so badly towards evening. But it was not the lessons. They must not think that. Her lessons were the great pleasure of her life. "Oh no, no!" she answered earnestly; "indeed it is not that. Please, don't stop the lessons. I do like them so very much." Mr. Earle came forward then, smiling and saying,-- "I don't want to lose my pupil either, but health comes before pleasure--even before learning." "I'm sure it isn't the lessons," said Esther again. "Sometimes I think perhaps it's my hair. It makes my head so hot, and at night I can't always sleep." Mr. Trelawny lifted the heavy mass of curly locks and weighed it in his hand. He looked at Mr. Earle, and they spoke a few words together in the strange tongue. "Did you ever complain to your mother about your hair?" asked Mr. Trelawny, with a gleam in his deepset eyes. "Yes," answered Esther, "I often used to ask her if I mightn't have it short like Milly Polperran; but she doesn't like me to tease about it, so I've given it up." Mr. Trelawny reached out his hand towards a table upon which lay a pair of sharp scissors in a sheath. The gleam in his eyes was deepening. Mr. Earle said something in the foreign tongue, and he answered back in his sharp, decisive way. Esther lay still, wondering; but they were both behind her, and she could not see. Then came a strange, grating sound close to her head, another, and another; and before she realized what was happening, Mr. Trelawny suddenly laid upon her lap a great mass of waving chestnut hair, exclaiming as he did so,-- "There, my dear! take that home to your mother with my best compliments; and as for me, I shall have to find a new name for little Goldylocks." Then Esther realized that her hair had been cut off by Mr. Trelawny, and she lay looking at it with thrills of excitement running through her. What would her mother say when she got home? and what would it feel like to be relieved of that great floating mass of hair? How delightful to have no tugging and pulling at the knots morning and night, often when her head was aching and tender, and every pull seemed to hurt more than the last! She must get up and feel what it was like. So she sat up and passed her hands over her head. Mr. Trelawny and Mr. Earle were looking at her and laughing. Esther had to laugh too; but how light and cool it felt! "It is nice!" she exclaimed. "I feel as if I'd got a new head! Oh. I hope mama will not mind much!" "Look here, sir," said Mr. Earle; "you're not as good a barber as a lady had a right to expect. Give me the scissors, and let me put a more artistic finish to your work. We must send her home looking less like a hearth broom than she does at the present moment." They all laughed again at that, and the color began to come back into Esther's cheeks. This was something rather exciting, and it had driven away her fears for the time being. She sat quite still whilst Mr. Earle snipped and cut, and walked round and round her, and quarreled with Mr. Trelawny about the proper way of trimming a lady's hair; and in the end they put her upon the sofa, and told her to look at herself in the great mirror opposite. When she did this she began to laugh out loud. "Will it always stand on end like that?" she asked, for the wave in her hair made it set off from her face and stand round it rather like the aureole round the heads of saints in the church windows. "I don't think Genefer will think it tidy like that. Can't I brush it and make it lie smooth, like Mr. Earle's?" They got a brush, but the hair set them at defiance, and stood out in its own way. But it was delightful to have no heavy mane hanging down behind. Esther declared her headache almost gone, and so she was allowed to go out and find the boys, who had been set to play by themselves for an hour. The shrieks of delight they set up at sight of Esther with her cropped head made her laugh and glow like a child; and she looked altogether so much brighter and merrier that the two gentlemen exchanged glances and nodded their heads, as though quite satisfied with the high-handed measure they had taken. "We shall call you Roundhead now!" cried Puck, dancing round her in an ecstasy of amusement; but Mr. Trelawny came up and took him by the ears, saying in his gruffest way,-- "You will call your cousin by her proper name, or you will never come to my house again. Now, do you understand?" "Do you mean really?" asked Puck, wriggling away and facing round. "I mean really and truly," was the emphatic answer. "You've got to learn manners, you two, whilst you are here; and if Mr. Earle knocks some knowledge into your thick skulls, I'll knock a little respect for other people into your democratic little minds. So mind, if you don't behave yourselves properly to your cousin, and speak to her properly too, you'll never have the chance of coming to the Crag again." CHAPTER VI. THE SHORN SHEEP. "I think you ought to come home with us, Uncle Bob, after cutting off Esther's tousle like that. I expect Aunt Saint will be in a jolly old wax." The children had finished their tea out on the terrace, and a very nice tea it had been. Esther was looking brighter than she had done at first, and a little bit of color had stolen into her face; but her eyes still had a tired look in them, and there were dark marks underneath. Mr. Trelawny paused beside her, and passed his big hands over the cropped head. The touch was kindly, and Esther tried to conquer the little thrill of fear which ran through her. She felt as though she had behaved herself badly at the wizard's house, and that he had been very indulgent to her when he might have been very angry. She could not conquer her old fears all at once; but she resolved to try and mingle some liking with them for this big, strange man, who seemed wishful to be regarded as an uncle. "What does the shorn sheep say herself about that?" asked Mr. Trelawny, bending down to look into Esther's face. She made herself return the glance, and said timidly,-- "I think I should be much obliged if you would, Uncle Robert. You would explain to mama better than I can." A smile lit up the rugged features of the Cornishman. "To be sure I will then, my dear. I'll take all the blame, which is certainly all mine. I've got a few things I want to say to your mother, so I'll come down now and say them." So when the shadows had grown a little longer, and the sea was lit up like a sheet of gold, the little party of four started down the hill again, the boys tearing about like a pair of wild animals, Mr. Trelawny following more soberly, holding Esther's hand in his, and helping her over the bits of rough ground; though, as he remarked laughingly, it was "like helping a bit of thistle-down over a hedge." Mr. Trelawny told Esther a great many interesting things during that walk--things about birds and insects, which she had never known before. He did not frighten her at all the whole way, and when she asked a timid question he always had a full and interesting answer ready. Then he told her that he had a number of books full of pictures of live creatures in his library, and said she must come up another day and look at them. And though Esther could never think of the Crag without a certain shrinking and fear, yet she did want to see the pictures very much, if only they would not take her into those awful underground places, or into the rooms where all those strange things went on. When they got home, there was a sound of voices coming from the open drawing-room windows. The boys had rushed headlong in, and now came tumbling out again. "It's only Mrs. Poll-parrot and Pretty Polly!" cried the pair in a breath; whereupon Mr. Trelawny took the two heads, one in either hand, and knocked them pretty smartly together. "Mind your manners, boys!" he said in his big gruff voice, and strode on, holding Esther's hand, whilst Pickle and Puck remained behind, staring after him and rubbing their heads with an air of injured innocence. "He's rather an old beast sometimes, I think," said Puck rather ruefully. "I don't quite like him always." "He makes us do as he says," added Pickle, "like Mr. Earle--I mean the Owl. I think it's rather interfering of them." Meantime Mr. Trelawny had entered the window, drawing Esther after him. "Good evening, madam," he said in his breezy way--"good evening to you all. Mrs. St. Aiden, I have come to make my peace with you. Tell me first what you think of your shorn lamb." Then he pushed Esther forward, and the child stood before her mother, the color coming and going in her face rather too fast to please Mr. Trelawny, who looked at her from under his bushy brows and shook his head once or twice. Mrs. St. Aiden gave a little gasp, almost a little scream. Mrs. Polperran stared, and began to laugh; while Prissy cried out in unveiled astonishment,-- "O Esther, your hair, your hair! Where has it gone?" "Here it is," said Mr. Trelawny, producing a packet wrapped in soft paper, and laying it upon Mrs. St. Aiden's knee. "I daresay some enterprising hairdresser would give a pretty penny for it. Now, Miss Prissy, you run off with your little friend here. I want to talk a little to these good ladies." Prissy rose, and Esther was glad to escape with her into the garden. It was delightful to have such a cool, comfortable head; but all the talk about herself made her feel hot and shy. "O Esther!" cried Prissy, "you do look so funny. But I've often heard mother say that it is bad for you having such a great head of hair. What was it made Mr. Trelawny cut it off? Don't you think it was taking a great liberty without your mother's leave?" "I don't know," answered Esther slowly. "I don't think mama would ever have let him." The boys came running up now, and the four children were soon well hidden from view in the clipped yew arbor, which was Esther's especial haunt. "I thought he cut it off to use it in his experiments," said Pickle. "I've read of magicians who took people's hair, and then they used to burn bits of it and make them come to them in their sleep. I expect that's what he's done it for. I expect that you'll often be walking up to the cave in your sleep now." Esther began shaking at once, but Prissy said, with her grown-up air of reproof,-- "You are talking great nonsense, Philip." (Prissy very often called the boys Philip and Percy, to their own unspeakable disgust.) "There are no magicians now; and besides, it was all nonsense when there were any. And Mr. Trelawny gave Esther's hair back to Mrs. St. Aiden just now. I saw him." But Pickle wasn't going to be shut up like that. "I expect he kept some of it back for himself," he said; "and you needn't pretend to know such a mighty lot about Mr. Trelawny and what he can do. If he isn't a magician, he's something uncommonly like it. You should have seen the things he did to-day for us to see; and he'd have done some funnier ones still, only _she_ went and flopped down in a heap on the floor, and then they had to carry her out, and they wouldn't go back any more." "What did you do, Esther?" asked Prissy. "I don't know. I felt funny down there, and everything seemed going round, and I didn't know anything about the rest." "Well, she just spoiled the fun," said Puck. "They were going to show us some things--skeletons in the tanks, I expect, or jolly things like that--but when _she_ went flop they didn't seem to think a bit about us. They hustled us away up to the house, and wouldn't show us anything more. That's always the way when there are girls. They are always sure to spoil the fun." "I'm very sorry," said Esther penitently, "but I didn't mean to. Only I don't like underground places. They make me feel queer." "I've heard father speak about Mr. Trelawny's cave," said Prissy. "I don't think he likes it much. Quite a little while ago I heard him say to mother that he was afraid, now Mr. Earle had come, that there might be something horrid happening there. I can't quite remember the words, but he said something like that. And mother said she was afraid he was reckless, and too fond of experiments. I wonder what he does there, and what father is afraid of." "People always are afraid of magicians and wizards," said Pickle with a sly look of triumph at Prissy; and for a moment she was silent, feeling as though she had been somehow caught in a trap. "Well, I think he's a very odd sort of man; and I don't think he'd any business to cut off your hair, Esther. Did you know he was going to do it?" "No, I never thought of such a thing. I only said it made my head hot at nights, or something like that. And then he got a big pair of scissors and cut it all off in a minute." "I think it looks rather nice like that," said Prissy, with a critical glance, "though it does stand on end rather. I should think you would enjoy not having it combed out at nights." "I've decided now!" cried Puck, shouting out suddenly the great new idea. "I shall call you Ess now. It'll do for Esther, and for Shorn Sheep too. Old Bobby calls you that himself now, so he can't scold us. You shall be Ess. Don't you think that's a nice, easy, short name?" Mr. Trelawny was soon seen stalking away up the path towards the Crag, and Mrs. Polperran's voice was heard calling for Prissy. Esther stole back to her mother's side, and asked timidly,-- "You're not vexed with me, mama dear? Indeed I did not know what he was going to do." "No, dear, I suppose not. It's no use making a trouble of it now it's done. It was certainly a liberty to take; but it's never any use being angry with Mr. Trelawny--he only laughs and makes a joke of it. Besides, he always has looked upon you rather in the light of his ward. Your father did write to him before he died, asking him to give an eye to us, and to take care of us both if we wanted it. I suppose he thinks he has some rights over you; and he has been very kind to us, so we must not say too much." Esther listened very gravely. She did not know exactly what a ward might be, but she fancied that it made her in some sort the property of the redoubtable Mr. Trelawny. It was rather an alarming notion; but Esther said nothing, for it had been her endeavor all these past months, since her father's death, never to trouble her mother needlessly. "You should have told me about your headaches, dear," said Mrs. St. Aiden, stroking Esther's hand. "Perhaps we could have cured them then without the sacrifice of your pretty hair." "O mama, they weren't so very bad. I didn't want to worry you. But I think I shall be much better now without my hair." "And what made you faint in the cave, dear? You frightened Mr. Trelawny and Mr. Earle, I think." Esther thought it had been the other way; but she only said, after a little hesitation,-- "There didn't seem any air down there, and it was all so dark and queer, it made me feel funny; but I didn't know I fainted." "Well, I have told Mr. Trelawny not to take you there again. I have always had that sort of dislike to caves and underground places myself. Men don't understand that sort of thing; but you had better never go there again, Esther." "Oh, thank you, mama!" cried Esther earnestly. It was an immense relief to feel that she need never go back to the cave, and that Mr. Trelawny had been told not to take her there. She could almost face the idea of going up to the Crag to see the books, if she were safe from that terrible place. Things seemed suddenly to be brighter and happier altogether. Esther was quite lively that evening; and as Genefer brushed the shorn head at night she remarked,-- "Well, Miss Esther, it's made a good bit of difference to your looks; but I always did say to the missus that it was a pity to let you grow such a mane of hair now. Very likely you would have had it grow thin and poor as you grew up; but if you keep it cropped short for a few years, you'll have a nice head of hair when you're a young lady and want it again." On Sunday afternoon Milly and Bertie Polperran came to the Hermitage to spend the time with their little friends there, as on Saturday they had not met. Prissy taught a little class in the Sunday school; but Milly and Bertie were free, only that they had some little verses and part of a hymn to learn, and they had leave to say them to Esther to-day. Esther had been rather exercised in her mind about the fashion in which Pickle and Puck spent their Sundays. They went to church in the morning with her, and kept her pretty much on tenter-hooks all the time, although they had never done anything very outrageous so far. But their eyes always seemed everywhere, and nothing escaped their observation; and they would giggle in a subdued yet sufficiently audible fashion, if anything amused them, and sometimes try to make Esther or their little friends opposite join them in their ill-timed hilarity. After having been to church, they seemed to consider that for them Sunday had ended, and they played about and amused themselves just as they pleased. "Crump always played with us on Sunday afternoons," they would say when Esther suggested something more quiet and decorous, according to her ideas. They did not seem to understand why they should be more quiet on Sunday than on any other day, and it was not quite easy for Esther to explain. "They must have been badly brought up," Prissy would say in her prim, grown-up fashion. "I think their father must be a very strange sort of man." But when Esther spoke to Genefer, she was a little comforted by hearing her say,-- "You see, Miss Esther, the poor little boys have had no mother to teach them, and gentlemen don't think of things quite like mothers. I don't think they mean to be naughty a bit, but they've not been taught as you have. Perhaps they'll get into better ways living here for a spell. But it's no good preaching at them. That'll never do it. You only get at children by making them love you. Then they like the things you like, and they learn different ways. They're getting fond of you, Miss Esther, my dear. They'll begin to copy you by and by, whether they know it or not." Esther did not think Pickle and Puck had much notion of copying anybody; but she thought they were growing fond of her in a fashion, and she was certainly growing fond of them. If they brought new anxiety into her life, they brought a considerable amount of pleasure and variety too. She did not at all regret the arrangement, although she wished the boys had been just a little younger, so that she might have had more influence over them. "We're going to have a Sunday school, and you're to teach!" cried Milly, running up to Esther as she sat in the yew arbor, thinking that the four little ones would rather be alone together. "We've learned our lessons, and Pickle and Puck have learned something, too; and now we're going to come and be a class, and you're to teach us." There was plenty of room in the summer-house for the class; and a chair was set for Esther, whilst her four scholars occupied the fixed bench that ran round the arbor. They came in with looks of decorous gravity, and the boys pulled their forelocks, and Milly made a courtesy, whilst Esther felt half-embarrassed at so much respect and deference. The little Polperrans repeated their lessons with the readiness of those accustomed to such tasks. Pickle followed with a fair show of fluency; and Puck said a short text with great deliberation, prompted from time to time by Milly, who had evidently "coached" him up in it. At the close he looked up into Esther's face and asked with due solemnity, evidently put up to the right phraseology by either Bertie or Milly,-- "Please, teacher, what is the sin that so easily besets us?" There was a faint giggle from Bertie; but Puck had thrown himself into his part, and was as solemn as a judge. Esther was a little embarrassed at the position in which she found herself, but she strove to find a suitable answer. "I think it's different things with different people," she said after a pause. "You know some people are naughty in some ways, and some in others. We don't all sin alike." Pickle here broke in eagerly,-- "Let's think of the naughty things people do. Mr. Trelawny cut off your hair yesterday without asking leave. Wasn't that a sort of sin?" Esther was rather taken aback at this method of treating the subject; but before she had found words in which to reply, the boy had broken out again,-- "I tell you what I think it is--the sin that so easily besets him is doing just as he likes, and being what Crump calls 'lord high everything.' Don't you think that's Uncle Bob's sin, Ess?" Esther looked straight at Pickle, and answered with some spirit,-- "I know somebody else who always wants to do as he likes, and cares very little what other people say or think." Pickle looked suddenly taken aback. "My stars!" he exclaimed. Bertie pointed one finger at Pickle and another at Puck. His square face was bubbling over with a subdued sense of humor. "She means you," said Puck: "I know she does. It's just what you're always saying. You do what you like, and don't care what people say. If it's a sin, it's your sin too." "Oh dear!" cried Pickle, really interested now; "I never thought of that before. Did you mean that, Ess?" Esther's face was rosy red now; she spoke truthfully, however. "I think I did, Pickle. You know you do like your own way. But I think we all like that. I suppose that's one of the sins that easily besets us all." "I don't think it besets you," said Pickle loyally; "you're always doing things you don't like, to spare other people, or because they want you to." "It besets Prissy!" cried Milly eagerly; "she always wants her own way. She likes to be 'lord high everything' too. She's been as cross as two sticks lately, because Bertie and I have kept secrets from her, and she can't do just as she likes with us." But Esther did not think this a very profitable turn to the talk, and she said slowly and rather shyly,-- "I don't think we need bother about other people's sins. It would be better to leave these alone, I think, and just to try and find out our own. If we know what they are, perhaps we can get over them; but if we don't know them, we shall never fight against them properly." "There's some sense in that!" cried Pickle eagerly. "There was a picture I once saw on a church window of a man fighting with a dragon. I asked the old verger what it meant, and he said it was what all of us had to do some time or other. I didn't know what he meant, but Crump told me he meant that we all had to fight against sins, only they weren't live green dragons with red eyes and crinkly wings now; and we didn't always know when one was trying to get the best of us, but we'd got to try and be ready to fight. I suppose that's the sort of thing you mean, Ess? We've got to find out what our sins are. Let's have a think about it now. I don't mind fighting, if I only know what to fight." "I'd like it to be a green dragon with red eyes," said Puck; "there'd be some sense in that." "Well, but if there aren't any dragons left, we have to do it the other way," cried Pickle eagerly. "Now, let's think about it. We'll all think. At least I don't think Esther needs. I don't think she's got any sins." "O Pickle, don't say that!" "Well, I don't think you have. You're always good. Look at the marks you get; and the Owl has never had to scold you once. I don't believe you could think of any sin that besets you." "Yes, indeed I can," answered Esther--"ever so many. I've got one in my head this very minute." "What's that? Do tell." Esther's face grew red, but she answered bravely,-- "Yes, I'll tell you if you like, because, perhaps, if I tell, I shall be able to fight it better. I'm often so frightened about things nobody else is." The children eyed her wonderingly. "But I don't call that a sin," cried Pickle. "You can't help being frightened--you're a girl." "Yes, but I don't think girls ought to be cowards," answered Esther, her face still flushed. "I want to learn to be brave. I think being afraid when there isn't any reason is a sort of sin." She paused and hesitated, and then added in a lower voice, "I think we ought to remember that God can always take care of us, and then we need not be afraid any more." The children were silent for a few minutes. Something in Esther's manner impressed them, they hardly knew why. They felt that she was speaking to them out of the depths of her heart, and that she meant every word she said. "Do you ever think about God?" asked Pickle at last. "Yes," answered Esther in a low voice, "but not as often as I ought to. I shouldn't be so frightened often, if I thought about Him more." "Why? What difference would it make?" "Oh, don't you see? Suppose you were frightened by something, and felt all alone, with nobody to help you. And then suppose you remembered that your father was looking at you all the time through a window somewhere with a glass, and that he saw you though you didn't see him. And if you knew that he could send somebody to help you if you wanted it really, why, you wouldn't be afraid any more, would you?" "No, I suppose not. It would be silly." "I think, perhaps, it is silly; and what is silly can be a sin, I think," said Esther steadily. "I want not to be frightened so often, and I think that is the sin that most easily besets me. I am going to try and fight against it, because it makes me forget about God always seeing us and taking care of us, and that is wrong, I know." "I wonder what my sin is!" cried Pickle. "I expect I've got a lot. Esther, do you think it's a sin to call people by nicknames? Old--I mean Uncle Robert makes a great fuss about it." "I--I don't think it's perhaps the names exactly," said Esther, with a little hesitation--"at least not amongst ourselves. But to older people it doesn't seem quite respectful, and children ought to treat older people with respect. I think it says so in the Bible somewhere. I'm sure it means it often. You know that even Jesus was obedient, and 'subject to' Joseph and Mary, though He was God's Son all the time." "We don't mean any harm," said Puck. "Crump used only to laugh, and call us cheeky little beggars." "Well," said Esther, with a little gentle decision in her tone, "I don't think it sounds at all nice for little boys to speak of their father as Crump." "Don't you, really? Do you mean you would call it a sin?" "I don't know whether I am old enough to judge about that," answered Esther, "but it doesn't seem to me like honoring our fathers and mothers to speak of them like that, and that would be disobeying one of the commandments." "Well, I never thought of it like that," said Pickle, in the tone of one open to conviction; "but I don't mind giving that up, if it is a sort of a sin. I did sometimes think that when people were there Cr--I mean father--didn't always quite like it. But I'm sure we must have lots of sins besides that. That's only quite a little one." "I'm greedy; that's my sin," said Bertie. "I always want the biggest egg or the nicest cake. I don't always get them, but I want them. I shall have to fight against that." "I don't like getting up in the morning," said Milly; "and I get cross with Prissy often; and I hate my sums, and scribble on my slate instead of doing them. I think I'm lazy, for I'm always so glad when we can't do lessons, or visitors come when I'm practising. And sometimes I don't practise all my time, but run out into the garden for a little while, if nobody is about, and pretend I've been at the piano all the time. I don't mean I say so, because nobody asks me; but I pretend it to myself, and I suppose that's a sort of lie." "I sometimes tell stories," said Puck. "I say I've done things and seen them, and I haven't really--at least not just as I say them. I like to pretend things are bigger than they are, and that we're braver, and stronger, and cleverer." "And I like to do just as I like," said Pickle, remembering how the conversation had begun. "I don't like Mr. Earle when he interferes, and makes us do things his way; and I get in a rage sometimes because he sees through us and stops the things we want to do. I think I've got a lot of sins--more than any of the rest of you. I'm the eldest, and so I suppose I should have. At least Esther's older; but then she's good. I don't call it a sin to be afraid. Girls and women are made that way. It's much worse to be always wanting your own way, and not caring for anything or anybody so long as you get it." Pickle had faced the flaw in his character or training with a good deal of candor, although, perhaps, there was a touch of pride in the feeling that he had a bigger sin to battle with than anybody else. Esther's voice was now heard saying gently,-- "Then if we all know what is the sin that so easily besets us, we ought to be able to fight against it better, and to help one another to fight too. I think it would be nice to help each other when we can. There is something somewhere about bearing one another's burdens. I should think that would be the same sort of thing." "And let's have a Sunday school rather often," said Milly, "and tell each other how we're getting on. I should like to know if Esther stops being afraid of things; and I'll tell how often I've been lazy at lessons, or have got angry with Prissy. Now and then I'm angry with mother too"--here Milly's face got very red--"and sometimes I say naughty things to her very softly, because I know she doesn't hear them. I think that's quite a sin--don't you, Esther?" The sound of the tea-bell broke up the Sunday school at that moment, and the children trooped to the house, where Genefer had a nice tea waiting for them in the dining-room. That night she remarked to her little charge how well-behaved they had all been that Sunday afternoon. Esther's face grew rather rosy as she answered,-- "Yes, we are all going to try to be good, and fight our sins. But, Genefer, I wanted to tell them that we must ask Jesus to help us, and I didn't quite know how to say it, and so I didn't. I think it's very hard to be really brave." "You'll get braver as you get older, Miss Esther," said the woman sympathetically, "and the little folks will soon find out that they want help for their bits of battles, and you can talk about how that's to be had another time." "I--yes, I will try," said Esther earnestly. "I hope I shall grow braver, and then it will be less hard." CHAPTER VII. DAYS OF SUNSHINE. Somehow after that Saturday at the Crag, and the Sunday following, on which some good resolutions had been made, Esther found that her life became decidedly brighter and happier. Mr. Earle was particularly kind to her in study hours. He put aside for a time the lessons on arithmetic, which had often haunted her at night, for sums were rather a trouble to the little girl; and, instead, he brought from the Crag some beautiful books on natural history, and gave her chapters to read about the structure and habits of wild animals, which was very interesting; and then, when the boys had done their tasks, he would tell them all delightful tales about these animals, some of which he had shot himself in different parts of the world. Mr. Earle was a capital hand at telling a story. They soon found that out; and the boys began to understand that he was a tutor quite worth pleasing. On the days when they had been industrious and well-behaved, he never minded stopping for half an hour or more before time, to help them with some bit of work of their own, or to tell them exciting stories. But if they had been idle, or impertinent, or unruly, he just packed them off to their own pursuits with a few cutting words; and if he stayed at all, it was to tell Esther something about the pictures in her book, and the boys were not permitted to remain or to hear a word. "You're not fit for civilized society--be off with you!" Mr. Earle would say in his quick, authoritative way; and it was no use their putting on coaxing or defiant airs, as they had done to their father in old days. Mr. Earle would neither be coaxed nor defied. He sent them straight off with an air of cutting contempt, which Pickle, at least, was old enough to feel and to wince under. "If you can't behave yourselves like gentlemen, you're not fit company for a lady," was another of his maxims; and both Pickle and Puck began rather to dread provoking these speeches from their inflexible tutor. And then Mr. Earle was well worth pleasing, as they soon began to find. Upon the Wednesday following that eventful Saturday, when he came down in the afternoon (for he always went back to the Crag between half-past twelve and two), he walked into the study and swept all the books back into their places, and said, with a happy twinkle in his eye,-- "Get your hats, and come along. We're going to have a lesson in navigation this afternoon." The boys gave a whoop of delight. They did not exactly know what navigation might be, but they scented something delightful; and as they had been remarkably good for the past days, it seemed to come like a reward of virtue. Esther's face brightened with pleasure and curiosity. She wondered what was going to happen; but there was no delay in getting off, and soon they were all walking down to the shore, where they found old Pollard waiting for them, not in his cranky old tub, but in the tight, trim boat belonging to the Crag, that was kept in order by the old fisherman, and had beautiful white sails curled up in readiness, two masts, and a figurehead like a swan with a gracefully-arched neck. Esther knew the look of the boat, and had once been out in it with Mr. Trelawny, but had been too much afraid of him to enjoy her sail at all. Now, however, her eyes kindled and danced, for she dearly loved the water, and was never the least seasick; and when the boys understood that they were going out for a sail, they yelled and danced and shouted like a pair of wild Indians. The old fisherman sat with the helm in his hand, but Mr. Earle managed the sails, and he went about his business as though he were a sailor himself, and talked in queer terms with the old man, whilst the boys listened agape, and wished they knew what it meant. They soon found, however, that they had not come out simply to be idle. They were soon in the middle of a lecture upon ropes and rigging, sails and spars, and began to understand that this sailing was not a mere game, but that there was a vast deal to learn about it, and that a whole new world of thoughts and ideas was opening before them. But it was very interesting, for Puck always meant to be a sailor, and he was eager to learn as many new words as his little head could take in. It was interesting too because the things Mr. Earle told them explained many mysteries which they had come across in story-books, and had never understood. The boys did not lack for wits, and were clever with their fingers too, so it was not a difficult task to get them into the way of furling or unfurling a sail, or learning to distinguish between the different ropes and spars. When they passed by other boats, Mr. Earle pointed out different parts of them, and expected them to remember the names; and, on the whole, he was satisfied with the sharpness of his pupils, and he found them tolerably well-behaved too. "If you boys are thinking of the army and the navy for professions," he remarked once to them, with his rather grim yet not unkindly smile, "the sooner you get all this fooling out of your heads the better." "What fooling?" asked Pickle, with a little flush in his cheek, for the word did not quite please him. "I mean the foolish trick of treating all the world as though there was perfect equality there--as though a little shaver like you had the same rights of speech and remark as grown-up people who have served their apprenticeship, and gone through their training--as though your opinions were of the least consequence to anybody, and you had any right to air them when they are not wanted, and to have any say in the way in which your affairs are regulated. I mean all that, and a good deal more. If you don't get the better of that stuff these next few years, you'll find yourself in some trouble when you're under discipline." Pickle flushed slowly. He had a fairly good understanding of the admonition addressed to them; but Puck felt it rather beyond him. "I don't understand," he said. "Well, I'll explain. A soldier and a sailor have nothing in the world to do at first but just to obey orders. There is no answering back, no questioning commands, no loitering, or any nonsense like that. In old-fashioned days boys were trained like that at home--at least the majority were; a father or a mother gave the word, and there was an end of it. Then, when those boys went out into life they had learned unquestioning obedience, and it had become second nature to them. Nowadays things are vastly changed--whether for the better or the worse time will show, but I have my own opinions on the point." Pickle and Puck exchanged glances, and the elder boy said slowly,-- "Cr--I mean father--sometimes told us we should have to have the nonsense licked out of us some day. But we did generally obey him. Of course we didn't obey Miss Masters. I don't see how anybody could expect it. She was just an old frump, and her rules were all bosh. I don't think father thought much of her himself." "You may not think very much of your superior officer some day," said Mr. Earle grimly, "but you'll have to obey him, or he'll know the reason why." "Ah! but a man is different." "Yes, a much harder nut to crack, as you will find to your cost. If you had a spark of chivalry in your composition, you would know better than to speak slightingly of women. No really brave or noble-minded man ever does that." Mr. Earle did not spare his pupils; yet in spite of his sharp speeches Pickle and Puck liked him better and better every day, and began to take good care not to get into his black-books. They found that that did not pay at all. Navigation lessons were not all play, as the boys soon found; and there was some pretty hard work in the way of sums bound up with it, as well as a great deal to notice and remember. But it was the sort of thing that they liked. And later on they were allowed to make rough models of ships themselves, and try to get the ropes and spars right; and this was like a new game, and kept them busy and happy for hours together. And then they were taken up to the Crag to see certain models of ships there; and Mr. Trelawny put them through their paces, and seemed really quite pleased with them, and made them a present of a small model yacht, which became the most prized of their possessions. Esther did not learn the navigation so thoroughly as the boys, though she began to feel quite knowing on the subject of spars and rigging and nautical terms. She used to sit beside the old fisherman at the helm when the boat went out, and look at the clouds and the sea, and dream her own dreams or get the old man to tell her some of his stories, which he was always ready to do. Her head hardly ever ached now; and Mr. Earle always seemed to know when it did, and gave her the sort of lessons that did not make it any worse. The boys were very nice too--much more companionable than they had been at first; and she was always ready to cut out and hem the sails for them, and help them with her clever little fingers when they got into difficulties over their rigging. And they soon found that her sharp eyes saw things quite as soon as theirs, and that she could often help them out of a difficulty; so instead of treating her with a sort of boyish contempt, they came to look upon her as a valuable assistant, and included her in their games. Then about this time another great pleasure and interest came into Esther's life. It was about a fortnight after the visit to the Crag, when her mother called her one day, and said, with a smiling face,-- "Esther dear, do you think you remember how to drive?" Esther's face colored with surprise and pleasure. When she was quite a little girl her father had taught her both to ride and drive, for they kept a little pony carriage for the mother, and she used to be allowed sometimes to drive the pony, though generally only when her father sat beside her. It seemed a long time now since she had done anything of the kind, but she fancied the power would soon come back, and answered eagerly,-- "O mama dear, I think I remember. Why do you ask?" "Because I have been talking things over with Mr. Trelawny, and he has found me a nice quiet little pony, and a little light carriage, and Mr. Earle is going to drive it down this evening, and give you a lesson in driving, for the pony has been used to children, and is said to be quite safe; but I should like you to have a few more lessons before you take me out." Esther clasped her hands in ecstasy. "O mama! are you going to have a little carriage again?" "Yes, dear--at least it is to be like this; it will be my carriage, but it will be kept up at the Crag, where they have plenty of room, and a good coachman to look after things. And Mr. Earle is putting up a telephone from this house to the stables there, so that we can send for it when we want. And perhaps, by and by, if we like, we shall have it here; but I am always afraid of things going wrong with live creatures." Esther's eyes were bright. She would have better liked, for some things, that the pony should live in their own little stable, where she could visit it with apples and sugar; and the thought of the telephone to the Crag was a little alarming to her--she hardly knew why. But she was making a great effort to conquer her groundless fears, and had met Mr. Trelawny lately several times, almost without a tremor. And certainly the pony would have added to her cares, for her mother would not have been able to tell her anything about it, and if the man had neglected it in any way it would have been so difficult to find out. "I see, mama," she said slowly. "Perhaps that is best. How nice it will be for you to get drives again!" "Yes, we shall both enjoy that. Mr. Trelawny wants you to get out into the fresh air as much as possible. We shall both get rosy cheeks, I hope, when we have our daily drives." The boys were greatly excited by the news that a pony was coming, and the three children stood together at the gate to watch the road leading downwards from the Crag to their house. "Here it comes! here it comes!" cried Puck, capering with excitement; "here is Mr. Earle driving along. Oh, what a jolly little pony! He's got a mane like yours before it was cut off, Essie--all in a tousle. And look how he tosses his head! I'm sure he's a jolly little beggar. I wonder if we may ride him sometimes. We used to ride at home. There was a pony there to mow the lawns, and we had him in turns in the field often." Mr. Trelawny appeared at this moment from the direction of the pine wood. "Well," he said, on seeing the children, "and what are you all in such a state of jubilation about?" "Oh, the pony, the pony!" shouted Puck; "isn't he a jolly little fellow! Where did he come from, Uncle Bob? and why didn't you drive down with him too?" "My legs are too long for that little affair," laughed Mr. Trelawny. "It is only meant for fairies and ladies," and he laid his hand on Esther's head, so that she looked up quickly with a blush and a smile. Mrs. St. Aiden appeared from the house, and Mr. Trelawny offered her his arm and led her down towards the gate. Mr. Earle had drawn up the little equipage now, and the children were crowding round the pony, patting and praising him--a state of affairs to which he seemed quite accustomed, and which appeared to suit him very well. "He is a darling!" cried Esther delightedly. [Illustration: "'He is a darling!' cried Esther delightedly."--Page 168. _Esther's Charge._] "What is his name?" asked Puck. "He was called Punch at his last home," answered Mr. Earle, "and he is used to little people.--Now, little Miss Esther, are you going to be bold, and see how well you can drive him? I have come to see what sort of a whip you make." Esther's face was in a glow. It was such a pretty little carriage, and everything about the pony was charming--his flowing mane and tail, the bright, silver-mounted harness, the red-leather frontlet and saddle pad, and the bright brown of the reins where she would hold them. It was all so spick and span and well turned out--much better than anything she had known in past days. "I can drive," began Pickle with sudden eagerness, and then he clapped his hand to his mouth and turned away. "I'll run and get a bit of sugar for Punch," he cried; and he dashed off, pulling Puck after him. "Look here," he said, when they were a little way off; "I was just going to ask to have the first drive myself; but it's Esther's pony, and she must go. Don't you go and say anything; and if she offers, don't you take it. She's always doing things for us. We won't go and be pigs now she's got something nice herself." "All right," answered Puck, whose mouth was watering for a ride on the pony, or a drive behind him; "she shall go first. But I suppose when she comes back we might have a turn?" "Well, we will if they offer it us; but don't let's ask. We mustn't be greedy, you know; and we mustn't pretend we've ever done such a mighty lot of driving and riding, because you know we haven't--only just a little now and then. Crump was always saying we must have ponies and learn properly; but we never did." Puck colored up a little, for he had been rehearsing in his head some of the things he meant to tell Esther about his prowess in the saddle and as a whip. But he remembered that he had resolved not to romance so much, just as Pickle was keeping in mind that he must not always expect to be the leader, and have the best place in everything. So they ran away to the house together to get the sugar; and Esther, after looking round a little uncertainly, let herself be handed into the carriage by Mr. Earle. "I thought perhaps the boys would like the first turn," she said. "Ladies first is the right motto," said Mr. Trelawny. "Now let us see how you hold your reins and whip. You won't want much whip for this fellow, so you can leave that in its socket for the present.--Now, Earle, in with you, and let us see how the little lady can drive you.--You are not afraid, my dear?" Esther looked up with candid eyes. "No--at least, hardly at all. I'm not afraid, now Mr. Earle is here to help me. I like it very much, but I haven't driven for a very long time. I might do something wrong if there was nobody here to help me." Then she drew up her reins and chirruped to Punch, who threw up his head and started at a brisk trot; and Esther felt her heart beating with excitement and delight, just dashed with a nervous tremor, for Punch went very fast, and there were several corners to turn in the winding road. But the pony was a well-trained little fellow, and knew his business, and there was nothing in his way. He dashed along in fine style, Mr. Earle encouraging both him and his driver; and then Esther had the delight of drawing up at the rectory gate to show her new accomplishment to the little Polperrans, who came flocking out to admire and exclaim. It was a very enchanting half-hour that Esther spent taking her first lesson; but she was in rather a hurry to get back, for she wanted the boys to enjoy the new pleasure also. So Mr. Earle took them each a turn, looking rather sharp after them; but they had a very fair notion of driving, and were perfectly fearless, yet at the same time they were fond of animals, and had no desire to use the whip unreasonably, or otherwise to harass the pony. Punch gave the greatest satisfaction to all, and was declared to be a "perfect darling" by Esther, and "a jolly little brick" by the boys. "Mr. Earle will take you out every day for a week, Esther," said her mother, when the carriage had gone, "and after that he thinks you will be able to drive me out." Esther's face glowed with pleasure, and Pickle cried out,-- "We can drive you too, Aunt Saint!" But to his surprise his aunt shook her head, smiling the while, and said,-- "I think, dear, I should feel safer with Esther, thank you." "Well, that's funny," said Puck; "I thought women always felt so much safer when they had a man driving them." Then Mrs. St. Aiden laughed and kissed him, and said he should drive her out some day, when he was a man. Nice things seemed to happen often now. For after the pony and carriage had been a few weeks in use, and Esther had grown to be quite an experienced little whip, the children heard that Mr. Trelawny was going to keep his birthday, and that it was to be celebrated by an excursion to an old ruin, and that little people as well as their parents were to be allowed to go. Esther clasped her hands in ecstasy when she heard this. She had never seen a ruin yet, though she had so often heard of them; and as her knowledge of history had greatly enlarged during the past few months, she was quite delighted to think of seeing any place which had played a part in the strange doings of olden times. Mr. Trelawny's house had done that; but Esther could never quite conquer her fears of that place. She did not go very often even now, though the boys scrambled up the steep path as often as they dared, when she was out driving. But a real old castle would be delightful; and Mr. Earle gave them a whole history of the things that had happened there, and showed them pictures of the kind of old windows and arches they would see, and taught Esther the names of the different moldings, so that she might know them when she saw them. She was to drive herself in the pony carriage, and have one companion, either grown-up or not as she liked, and Puck had leave to go in the tiny back seat, which had been added in order that the three children might go out together. "Of course you'll take me," cried Pickle, dancing round Esther in his excited fashion. She hesitated a little, and then said,-- "Pickle dear, I should like you best; but I feel as though I ought to ask Prissy Polperran. I'm afraid she sometimes thinks I am unkind to her. We used to be a good deal together, but I haven't time now that I have so many more things to do." "Oh, bother that young poll-parrot!" cried Pickle; "I don't see why you should be bothered by her. She's a regular kill-joy. You know she is." "It would be kind," said Esther gently; "she would like it very much. But you may drive her, Pickle, if mama and Mr. Earle don't mind." "Not I, thank you!" answered Pickle scornfully. "I can't abide the stuck-up minx. She's a little prig. She's----" Pickle suddenly stopped short. The Sunday class in the arbor still went on, and the children discussed with interest each week how they were "getting on with their sins," and how many dragons they had killed. They also had a little book now, and Esther wrote down in it what good resolutions they made week by week. It was rather like a "Sunday game" to the little people; nevertheless it was not without its effect upon them. Pickle's sudden stop was due to the remembrance that they had last Sunday resolved to try and be kind to other people, and always do as they would be done by; so that saying all these things about Prissy was not quite according to their rule. "Oh, bother!" he said, and looked at Esther, and then began to laugh. In a minute he spoke again,-- "All right, Ess. Take Pretty Polly. I suppose she will like it, and they don't have half the fun we do. I'll try to be civil to her all day too, if I can; but she is such a precious----" Another stop and another laugh. "I say, Essie, I think we make too many resolutions. I'm always tripping over some of them. Don't let's have any new ones till we've learned how to keep these." "I'll let Bertie have the dicky behind," said Puck suddenly--"he'd like it; and I don't care so very much, if Pretty Polly is going instead of Pickle." "Thank you, boys," said Esther; "it is very nice of you. I should like to have you best, but I think we ought to try and be kind." The young folks did not enjoy themselves any the less for the small sacrifice they had made. The delight of the Polperrans at being driven in Esther's little carriage made amends to her for the loss of the boys; and Prissy was quite nice and merry, and never once put on her grown-up airs of superiority. Pickle and Puck occupied the box seat of a big wagonette, and were permitted by the driver to hold the reins now and then up the hill, or along the level, so they had nothing left to wish for; and it was a very merry and happy party that arrived by midday at the old ruined castle perched commandingly on the summit of a crag, not so very unlike the one where Mr. Trelawny lived. Prissy had been there once before, and showed Esther a great many of the wonders it contained--the great banqueting hall, with a part of its beautiful vaulted roof still standing; the old chapel, where the tracery of the windows was wonderful in its graceful beauty; and the ancient keep, with the thick walls, in which little passages could run without interfering with them. Mr. Trelawny was a capital host, and knew how to make people enjoy themselves. There was plenty to eat, and plenty to do; but he seemed fondest of getting all the little people about him, and telling them the wonderful stories of battles and sieges and escapes which had taken place around these very walls. "Show us the prisons!" cried Pickle. "Aren't there some dungeons underneath? And isn't there a block or an ax or something like that? I like those jolly old underground places. I'd soon have got out though, if I'd been a prisoner." "I'll show you one prison, anyhow," answered Mr. Trelawny; "but I think you'd be puzzled how to get out of it, if once you were shut in." Esther felt her breath coming and going. She did so hope there were no underground places here. The old feeling of horror came back directly she heard this talk. She felt as though everything had suddenly been spoiled. She didn't want to think about poor wretched prisoners, shut out from the light of day, lying in chains down in those terrible places. She couldn't think how all the children seemed to want to go and look. It made her feel sick and miserable; and yet she did not like to hang back when everybody else was moving. She thought of her resolution not to be frightened of fancied terrors; but this was not fancy. These were real prisons, and real people had been shut up there; and perhaps she would hear of horrid things that were done to them, which would make her feel all creepy at night, and not let her go to sleep. Her feet lagged more and more as the party trooped on after Mr. Trelawny, laughing and asking questions; and then Esther suddenly found that she could not make up her mind to go with the rest. She turned tail, and ran in the opposite direction, and threw herself down on the warm grass, shaking all over. "What is the matter?" asked a voice close beside her. She gave a great jump, and looked round with scared eyes. There was Mr. Earle sitting very near indeed to her, with a sketch-book in his hand. She wished then she had not come, or had seen him in time to run somewhere else. "What is the matter?" he asked again quite kindly. "I--I don't know. They were going down to the dungeons. I didn't want to go--that's all." "There is nothing very pretty down there; come and look at my drawing, and tell me how you like it. Isn't that a fine bit of molding there? Do you know people come from all over the country to see it. It's one of the best bits that exist in the world--or at least in this country." "How nicely you draw!" said Esther admiringly, feeling the cold tremors abating. "What a lot of things you can do, Mr. Earle! It must be nice to be clever." "Very, I should think," he answered with a smile. "Would you like to learn to sketch some day?" "Oh, very much, only there are so many things to learn. There does not seem time for them all." "No, that's the worst of it; it is like picking up pebbles on the seashore. One can never get more than a few out of all the millions there. Still, if we make these few our own we have done something." Mr. Earle went on with his drawing, and Esther sat watching him, feeling soothed and comforted, she did not know why. Her thoughts went off on their own wonderings, and presently she said suddenly,-- "Mr. Earle, is it wrong to be afraid of things--I mean of things that don't hurt, like dark places and cellars?" "It is not wrong, but it is often inconvenient." "You don't mind them, I suppose?" "Not now. I used to be afraid of the dark once when I was a little boy." "How did you cure yourself?" "My mother asked me to try and get over it. So she taught me to say my prayers first, and then walk over the dark part of the house every night alone. I used to make believe that an angel came with me. After that I soon stopped being afraid." Esther sat very still for a little while, a light coming slowly into her face. "Do you think the angel was there really, Mr. Earle?" "I should not be very much surprised," he answered gravely, and they sat in silence till the rest came back. CHAPTER VIII. THE CITY OF REFUGE. It must not be supposed that the city of refuge was forgotten or neglected all this time. Saturday afternoons had always been kept sacred to it, except when some other attraction took the children elsewhere. The changes which had taken place on the other days did not affect Saturday to any great extent. Mr. Earle was always up at the Crag on that afternoon, shut up in the laboratory with Mr. Trelawny. He did not volunteer either drives or sails on that day, and other people were busy too. Esther always had a number of little Saturday duties to think of; Prissy was safely shut up in the lending library; and the four younger children invariably spent the leisure time together, and almost as regularly got the old fisherman's boat and took a trip across to their island. But they had kept this a profound secret, and, so far, there had been no danger of its escaping them. Mr. Polperran had not been told about the island, but Bertie had had leave to whisper to him that they had a very nice place they went to down by the sea, and he had said it was all right, and he was glad they should play there. For Mr. Polperran was a Cornishman born and bred, and he did not wish his children to grow up timid or dependent. He would have brought them up more robustly had it not been for the fears and prejudices of his wife, who had lived almost all her previous life in London. As it was, he was quite pleased for his little son to have boy companions to teach him bolder sorts of games than he had ever learned at home, and he told Mrs. Polperran not to mind if Milly and Bertie did come back wet and dirty. They were getting good from the salt water and from their companions, and the rest mattered nothing. So the secret of the island never transpired in that house, and Esther always thought that Pickle and Puck spent their Saturday afternoons in the rectory orchard. Orders had been issued to the fishermen generally, and Pollard in particular, that the children were not to be permitted to go out alone in a boat; and had they attempted to embark down at the little quay in the village, they would have been quickly stopped. But Pickle had had the wits to foresee that from the first, and had made his bargain with the queer, old, half-daft man who lived at the creek, and who was very glad to let the little gentleman have the use of his boat for a few hours on Saturday, for the payment of the shilling which Pickle always gave him. Pocket-money was plentiful with the two boys, who had come with an ample store, and who received their usual amount weekly from their aunt. There was not much chance of spending it in such a quiet place. Fishing-tackle and sweet stuff from the one village shop absorbed a little, but there was always a shilling for "Jonah," as they called him, whenever they wanted the boat, and the old fellow was cunning enough not to say a word about it, so that nobody in the place knew that the children made a practise of being out on the water alone. To be sure, there was not a great deal of risk in this. The boat was very safe and heavy; their island was not far away, and was well within shelter of the bay. They were not strong enough to care to row farther out to sea, and the weather through the summer had been exceptionally fine and calm. "I wish we could get a nice breezy day," Pickle had often said; "then we'd hoist up the sail and have a jolly time. But it never blows on Saturday afternoon. I call it a swindle." There was a sail to the boat, and the boys were learning more and more of the management of a sailing craft. They often went out with Mr. Earle in the _Swan_, and sometimes he would take the tiller and make them manage the sail, whilst sometimes he would take the sail and set them on to steer. They were growing expert now, and they had never been lacking in boldness from the first. One day Mr. Trelawny came down himself, and Puck was put in charge of the tiller and Pickle of the sheet; and between them, with only a little assistance and instruction, they managed to get the boat through the water very creditably. "You'll make a pair of good jack-tars in time," had been Mr. Trelawny's encouraging verdict at the end of the voyage; and ever since Pickle and Puck had been burning and yearning for a chance of displaying their prowess by taking a sail quite on their own account. They had begged to have the _Swan_ for their experiment, but had been forbidden. "Don't try to run before you can walk," Mr. Earle had advised. "This is a ticklish coast, and you don't know much about it yet. And though the weather has been very settled, nobody knows what may happen. Sometimes a gale of wind gets up just when one expects it least. You'd be in a nice predicament if that were to happen. You must wait till you're older and stronger before you go sailing alone." "I call that rot," Pickle said rather loftily in private to his brother afterwards; "we could do it perfectly well now, I'm sure." But as Pickle was really trying to cure himself of his self-will and desire to do everything his own way, he did not say anything more about having the _Swan_ to go sailing in. Perhaps he felt that Mr. Earle's "no" was a different sort of thing from his father's, and that coaxing and teasing would be thrown away here. So the two things together kept him quiet. Nevertheless there was a great desire in his mind to show off his prowess and skill in the art of practical navigation, and it had been quite a disappointment to him that Saturday after Saturday came and went, and there was not enough breeze in the bay to fill the sail of "Jonah's" old boat. "It seems as if it was just to spite us," he grumbled more than once; "but it'll have to come some day, and then you'll see what you'll see." It did not seem much like coming this breathless September afternoon. The sun shone as fiercely as if it were the height of summer. There was neither a cloud to be seen in the sky nor a breath of air to be felt. "It'll be precious hot pulling across," said Puck rather ruefully, "but I suppose we'd better go." "Oh yes; and then we can have a jolly bathe, and paddle about all the time in the pools. Besides, Milly and Bertie can pull a bit now; we can take turns with those old sweeps." Bertie and Milly were always all eagerness to go across. To them the island was a veritable city of refuge. Prissy could never find them there, and that was in itself a wonderful boon on holiday afternoons. True, Prissy was generally all the time in the parish room; but there had been occasions when she had turned up unexpectedly, and had interrupted and condemned the most charming games. There was none of the delicious security from interruption at home that was one of the greatest charms of the island. And the very fact of going thither by themselves in a boat was an immense attraction to the rectory children, who were hardly ever taken out upon the water, even when Mr. Trelawny did offer them a sail in the _Swan_. Mrs. Polperran could not conquer her nervous fears for them when out in a boat. She hated the water herself, and feared it for the little ones. She had an idea that Mr. Trelawny was a very headstrong, rash sort of man, and she almost always found some excuse for declining his invitations to her children. If they had known this themselves they would have been much distressed; but happily they were in ignorance, and supposed that Mr. Trelawny only cared about Pickle and Puck, who regarded him in the light of a new relation. However, the bliss of these excursions to the island had made a wonderful difference in their lives. There was always something to look forward to all the week. And they had now the delightful sense of having a place all their own--a real city of refuge, where even Prissy could never find them; and they were gradually collecting there a miscellaneous assortment of treasures, keeping in view the possibility that they might some day really have to flee to their island home for safety from some peril, and desirous to have some useful stores laid up there in readiness. Most Saturdays they made some additions to their supplies. They had an old tin box which Pickle had begged from Genefer, and this was hidden in a cleft of the rocks in the little creek which formed their most sheltered hiding-place. The stores were all hidden away in this box, and kept very well. They tasted the biscuits and the chocolate-sticks each time, to make sure they were keeping all right, and Milly declared that they grew "more and more delicious" with the flight of time. The heat was very great to-day upon the water, but when they reached the island they could find all sorts of nice places to shelter themselves in. Shoes and stockings were off in a moment, and Milly's skirts were soon tucked right away, so that she could paddle with the best of them. "Oh, I do wish we could live here always, and not have to go home at all!" she cried. "I'd like to sail away to the other side of the world, and live on a coral island, and eat bread-fruit, and have a delicious time. I wonder how long it would take to get there. I wonder why nobody does nice interesting things except in books. Why doesn't Mr. Trelawny go and see nice places like that when he has a boat of his own, instead of always living up there in a house and staring at things with an electric eye?" "I don't believe he's got an electric eye," said Puck. "His eyes are just like everybody else's!" "I heard father say he had," said Bertie quickly; "so he must have it, I'm sure." "Well, I don't much believe he has," reiterated Puck. "I asked Essie if he had only the other day, and she didn't know; and Aunt Saint said she thought it was all nonsense." "Perhaps it's Mr. Earle then," said Milly; "but somebody's got one up there, I know. I think father said they couldn't do all their experiments unless one of them had an electric eye." "Mr. Earle's eyes are just like other people's when he takes off his spectacles," returned Puck. "I'll tell you what that is," said Pickle, who came up at the moment; "I was telling Essie about it only last night. I think she was rather frightened. I've been asking lots of things about electricity, and it's awfully queer sort of stuff--all in volts and things. And you can switch it on and off as you like. I suppose that's what they do with their eyes--sometimes they're like other people's eyes, and sometimes they're electric. And you have to have a complete circuit, you know. I think that's what Mr. Earle uses his spectacles for. I think it completes the circuit." "Yes, because they're round," added Puck; and the three younger ones regarded Pickle with looks of respect, as one who has been dabbling deep in the fount of knowledge. Suddenly in the midst of their play Pickle broke into a shout of triumph. "Look, look, look!" he cried, and pointed out to sea. "What is it?" asked the others, staring, but seeing nothing, till Bertie suddenly realized his meaning, and clapped his hands in triumph. "A breeze! a breeze!" he shouted. "Now we can go sailing! It's coming up beautifully!" Milly began to caper wildly. She had been longing unspeakably to participate in the delights of which she had heard. She thought that sailing on the water must be just the most delightful thing in the whole world, and had shed a few tears in private because she had never been in the _Swan_, and Bertie only once. "Oh, come along, come along!" she cried ecstatically. "Can we really have a sail?" Her confidence in Pickle was by this time unbounded. He seemed to her almost as wise and as resourceful as a grown-up person, without all the tiresome prudence that seemed to come with the advance of years. If he took them they would be as safe as if they were with Mr. Trelawny himself, and Pickle's own confidence in his powers was little less. Good resolutions were cast to the winds. Perhaps Pickle did not even know that this was the case. He had so longed for a breeze which would enable him to sail the fisherman's big boat, and it never occurred to him to regard this desire as a part and parcel of the self-will he had tried to get the better of. He had given up teasing for leave to go out in the _Swan_ alone. But that was quite different. She was a fast-sailing boat, and perhaps wanted somebody more skilled to manage her properly; but this old tub was as safe as a house, he was perfectly certain of that. Besides, they need not go any distance, but just sail round and round or backwards and forwards in the bay. He knew quite well by this time how to tack and put the boat's head about. He could manage that old tub as well as "Jonah" himself. "Shall we go and find a coral island?" asked Milly, as they tumbled one over the other in their haste. "I--I don't quite know," answered Pickle, not wishful to seem backward in the spirit of adventure, but rather doubtful as to the course to take for such a goal. "Perhaps to-day we'd better not go so very far. We can look for a coral island next time." "Shall we take some provisions with us, in case we're wrecked?" asked Milly with beaming face, as though that would be the crowning delight to the adventure. "We might perhaps," said Pickle; "one gets jolly hungry out sailing. We often have something to eat when we're out in the _Swan_." Milly ran off to the storehouse for supplies, whilst the boys made a rush for the boat. Little puffs of wind were coming up from the west, dimpling the water, which had been as smooth as oil, and making it all ruffled and pretty. The sun, too, began to be obscured by a light film of cloud, and away over the land great banks of lurid-looking vapor began piling themselves slowly up in the sky; but the children were much too busy to think of looking out for signs like these, nor would they have been much the wiser had they noticed them. Some Cornish children, no older than Milly and Bertie, might have guessed from the look of sky and sea, and from the strange, heavy feeling in the air, that there was going to be a storm. But Mrs. Polperran had managed to bring up her young family in wonderful ignorance of such matters. Bertie had never been allowed to run down to the shore to play with or amongst the fishermen's children; and so long as the sun was shining they never thought of such a thing as rain. There was sunshine still over the sea, though it was not so bright and hot as it had been. "Isn't it nice?" cried Milly, who was in a perfect ecstasy. "It isn't too hot now, and there's a lovely little breeze coming up, and it's all so pretty and nice. Here's our basket; there are some cakes left, and I've put in some biscuits. Let's take a drink of water out of the fountain, and then we can go for ever so long." The children kept their "fountain" replenished in dry weather from a can they brought over, filled from the well behind the fisherman's cottage. They liked drinking from the cleft in the rocks, but unless there had been rain quite lately the cleft was apt to be dry. However, they satisfied their thirst before embarking, and Milly held her breath as she watched the old sail slowly swelling itself out as the puffs of wind caught it. It was the most entrancing experience to see the island just gliding away from them, as it seemed, for the boat did not appear to be moving, and yet there was quite a gap between them and it. Then the sheet began to draw. Pickle gave a shout of triumph as they felt the movement, and saw the little ripple of water round the prow. "She's off! she's off!" shouted both the boys in triumph. "Set her head out to sea, Bertie. That's right. Hold her so. Now we shall go. The wind's fresher away from shore. Oh jolly, jolly, jolly! Don't we go along?" Milly had no words just at first. It was too delightful and wonderful. Here they were actually in a boat of their very own, heading out for the beautiful green and golden sea lying away ahead of them, sparkling and dimpling in the westering light. They did not so much as glance towards land, where the masses of black sulphurous-looking clouds were piling themselves above the tall crags. They only saw the beautiful, shining sea, and felt the bird-like motion of the boat as she rushed through the dimpling waves. This was something like sailing. No laborious pulling at those heavy oars that moved so slowly through the water, and often hardly seemed to make the boat move at all; nothing to do but sit still, just holding sheet and rudder, and watch the water curling away from the bow as the boat pursued her course. When the puffs of wind came up more strongly they seemed almost to fly, and when they died down a little the sail would flap for a few minutes against the mast, and then Puck would alter their course a little, and soon it would be drawing again beautifully. They did not care where they went or what they did. They were having a glorious sail, and they were full of delight and triumph. Nobody could say now that they could not manage a boat. "Only if we tell," said Milly, frankly expressing the thought in words, "perhaps they'll never let us go again." "That is so stupid of people," said Pickle; "they are always like that. If they'd know we went over to our city of refuge alone in a boat, I believe they'd have stopped us; but we never came to any harm, and now that we can sail like bricks, and manage a boat quite easily, they'd go on, saying just the same things as when we'd never been out or had any lessons. So it's no good talking; we'd better keep it our secret, like the island. But now that the windy time of year is coming, we can go out sailing often. We'll have jolly fun, if some stupid old fisherman doesn't see us and tell; but there seems nobody about to-day anyway." "I expect it was too hot and bright for fishing," said Milly. "I know fishermen like dull days or the nights best." A low rumble from the shore boomed through the air, and the children looked round. "I think it's a thunderstorm over there," said Puck, "but it's jolly and fine out here." "There! I saw a flash of lightning come out of the big black cloud!" cried Milly. "It was so pretty. I don't mind lightning when I'm right away from it out here. I don't much like it at home. Let's sail away from it, Pickle, right away. It's quite fine the way we're going, and we go so fast. We shan't have it at all. And when mother wonders why we're not wet or anything, we shall just say it didn't rain where we were. It's like the Israelites and the land of Goshen." Pickle looked just a little doubtfully at the weather. The sun was almost obscured now, though it still shone over the sea away to the west and south. The wind was coming up in squally gusts behind them, and sending the boat dancing along merrily. It was certainly great fun sailing on like that, but the waves were beginning to grow rather bigger out here than they had looked from inside the bay, and when the wind came rushing along, there were sometimes little crests of foam to be seen, and now and then these dashed into the boat. "I think, perhaps, we'd better put her about now," he said, with a look of wise command directed towards Puck; "the storm might come over here, you know, and then we should get very wet--at least if it rained. You know how to put her helm round, Puck, don't you? Or shall I come and do it?" "Of course I know," answered Puck rather indignantly; "you just manage the sail. It always flaps a great deal when we put her round on the other tack." Milly and Bertie, greatly impressed by this nautical language, sat as still as mice watching their companions. Milly was rather disappointed at hearing they were to go back, but now that the sun was obscured and the wind getting up, it wasn't quite so nice upon the water, and Bertie was looking very solemn indeed. "You're not frightened, are you?" she whispered. "Oh no; only my inside feels funny," he answered, trying to put a brave face on matters. "I don't think I mind going home so very much." Milly had no qualms of seasickness such as were troubling Bertie, but she did think the boat was rocking rather wildly, and the sail seemed to be flapping and pulling them over, and the water was very near the edge of the boat, which seemed to be dipping quite down. She gave a little shriek, and threw herself towards the other side. Pickle was fighting fiercely with the sail, and she went to his assistance, and only just in time. "We must get it down," he said; and Milly helped with all her might, so that in a few more minutes the boat lay rocking on the waves, the sail furled up round the mast, whilst Bertie called out dismally that the water was all over his feet, and Pickle told him rather sharply to get the water can and bail it out as fast as he could. "You didn't turn her head right a bit," he said to Puck. "We were nearly capsized that time." "Then it was your fault with the sail," retorted Puck, who was rather frightened. "I didn't do anything wrong." "Let's go home now," cried Milly, a little piteously, though struggling hard against her rising fears; "the sun's gone in, and I think it's going to rain, and oh! what a flash of lightning that was!" The boom of the thunder almost immediately after was even more alarming. Poor little Bertie, who was feeling very sick and queer, began to cry; and Pickle looked towards the shore, and marveled how they could ever have got all that way from it in such a little time. "We can never row back," was the thought in his heart; "we must get the sail up again somehow. We've sailed the _Swan_ backwards and forwards. Why on earth won't this old tub do the same? It must be Puck's fault." He saw that the spirit of the party was becoming damped, and he was the more resolved to keep up a bold front himself. "We must just pull her round with the sweeps," he said in his commanding way, "and then we'll get the sail up all right. It's only just the tacking that is a bit difficult. We'll be racing home in a jiffy, you'll see." This was consoling to Milly, who was half ashamed of her sudden fears, and now that the boat ceased to rock and plunge so wildly she began to recover her courage; and it was rather grand to be helping Pickle to pull the old boat round. She could do that quite well, as well as help Bertie with the bailing out, which he only prosecuted languidly, looking almost ready to cry. His face had a sickly greenish hue too, which rather distressed Milly, but Pickle said,-- "He's only seasick. Puck felt like that once or twice. He'll be better soon." When the boat was really headed for the shore, Pickle tried experiments with the sail; but do as he would, he couldn't make the boat sail towards land. It would sail away, or it would sail sideways, but towards shore it would not go; and indeed they seemed to be getting slowly farther and farther away, and Bertie suddenly burst into miserable crying, begging to be taken home, because he was so very poorly. Pickle was beginning to wish very sincerely that they had never left their island. He looked back towards it with longing eyes. It would be a real city of refuge now, but alas! it looked almost as far away as the mainland. "Can't we row to it?" asked Milly, following the direction of his eyes. "I'm quite cool now. I'm rather cold. I should like to row if we can't sail. We got out here so very quickly, it can't take so very long to row back." It seemed the only thing to do, and Pickle consented to try. He took one oar, and Milly the other. Puck kept the tiller, and put the boat's head for their city of refuge, whilst Bertie lay along the bottom of the boat, heedless of damp or discomfort, only longing to be at home in his little bed. "I hope father won't call it being a cockney," he once said pitifully to Milly, "but I can't help it. I do feel so sick. I wish we'd never come." "I dare say Cornish boys are sometimes sick at sea," answered Milly consolingly. She hardly knew whether she wished they had not come or not. There was something rather exciting in the adventure, and if only they could get back to their city of refuge she thought she should be quite glad. It would make them feel that they really were sailors, to be able to manage a boat in a storm. Milly had her back to the shore now, and was pulling her oar very manfully. She thought they seemed to be going very fast through the water, though the waves were rather bigger than she liked, and seemed sometimes to rise up very near the edge of the boat. Still she thought they seemed to be getting through them very fast, and made up her mind that they would soon be at their journey's end now. She almost wondered why Puck did not exclaim that they were close in now. He only sat holding the tiller with a very solemn expression on his face. "The waves are getting very big," he said at last; "I don't much like the look of them. This boat doesn't swim nicely, like the _Swan_. They look as though they'd come in on us every time." Then Milly looked over her shoulder, and gave a little cry of astonishment and dismay. "Why, we're farther off than when we started!" she cried. "I think we get farther and farther away every minute," said Puck. "I should like to pull round, and put up the sail again, and go round the world like that. We should come to our island again upside down, you know, and it would be much easier." "It's the wind and the tide against us," said Pickle, with a rather anxious face. "We shall never get home at this rate." A sob from Bertie was the only response to this remark. Milly was trying to choke back her tears, because she didn't want it cast in her teeth that girls always cried. "What can we do?" said Puck. "I think we'd better do as you said," answered Pickle--"get her head round, and put up a bit of sail, and run before the wind. I don't think the old boat is safe going against these big waves. She'll be all right the other way, and we shall fall in with some ship soon, and they'll take us on board; or perhaps we shall get to a coral island after all." "I'd rather go home," sobbed Bertie; and Milly wondered if it was very silly of her, but she wanted much more now to be at home than to see a coral island. Pickle put on a brave face, for he felt that he was the captain, and must support the failing courage of his crew; but he began to wish from the bottom of his heart that he had not thrown aside his good resolutions quite so quickly, and that he had never tried to sail a boat before Mr. Earle had given him leave. CHAPTER IX. THE MAGICIAN'S CAVE. Esther had taken her mother for a little drive upon that hot September afternoon, but they had not stayed out so long as usual. The banks of cloud rising in the sky had frightened Mrs. St. Aiden, and Esther turned the pony's head for home, not very wishful herself to test Punch's nerve in a thunderstorm. They got home, however, before the first rumble sounded, and Mrs. St. Aiden went up-stairs to lie down. She said that the heavy air made her head ache, and that perhaps she should get a nap before tea-time. Esther had taken off her hat, and was watching the first flashes of the lightning amid the piled-up clouds, when the little maid came to say that there was a poor woman who wanted to speak to one of the ladies, and should she tell the mistress, or would Miss Esther see her? "Oh, I'll go," said Esther; "mother must not be disturbed." She ran down to the back gate. Genefer was out, and for the moment there was only the little maid available for any service. The cook was picking fruit in the garden over the road. She must not be hindered, as the rain would very likely soon come. Esther did not remember ever to have seen this wrinkled old woman before. She did not know in the least who she was, nor what she wanted. She could only just understand her when she spoke, for she had a very broad, soft accent, and used many funny words that the little girl hardly understood. At first she thought the woman must be making a mistake in what she was saying; for she was telling Esther that the little gentlemen, and little Miss Milly from the rectory, were out in a boat on the bay, and that she was afraid there was a storm coming on, and had come up to tell somebody lest they should come to harm. It was some time before Esther could be persuaded that there was not a mistake somewhere. She could not believe that Pickle and Puck and the little Polperrans could possibly be out in a boat by themselves. But the old woman assured her that they were, and told her, in a half-frightened way, how they came down on most Saturdays and took her husband's old boat across to the little island opposite, where they played for a few hours and then came back. But it had always been calm and quiet on the water hitherto, and she had had no uneasiness on their account; but now the wind was getting up, and it looked like a storm coming, and she thought she ought to tell somebody, and didn't know what to do lest her old man should be vexed with her. So she had come to see the ladies about it. Perhaps they could send somebody. "Oh yes," answered Esther quickly, casting about in her mind what to do; "I think I could find somebody who would help. Is the storm going to come very quickly?" "I don't think so very quick, missie, and they'll be all safe on the island; they don't come back ever till a good bit later than this. But I don't like to think of them trying to get the heavy old boat home alone, with the wind blowing off shore like this. I don't think as they could do it; and it might get blown out to sea, and they would be skeered like." Esther was a little scared herself at the bare thought. She turned things quickly over in her mind. She had to take command of the situation. Genefer was away for the afternoon. Cook was no good in an emergency, as she always lost her head; and it was one of Esther's tenets that her mother must be spared all worry and anxiety. Whatever was to be done she must do herself, and her thoughts flew instantly to Mr. Earle. He had become something like a real friend to the little girl during these past weeks. She was not without a certain timid fear of his cleverness, his stores of occult knowledge, and the things in which he took part up at the Crag, which made folks shake their heads sometimes, and say that they feared some hurt to somebody would be the result. Yet for all that Esther believed in him thoroughly, and felt that he was certain to go to the aid of the boys if he knew their predicament, and it must be her work to let him know as soon as possible. She looked up at the threatening sky, but thunder and lightning did not frighten Esther much. She would have been glad of company through the dark pine wood, but she was not really afraid to go alone. She was more afraid of approaching the Crag at a time when it was popularly supposed that the master and his assistant were always engaged upon one of their uncanny experiments; but there seemed nothing else to be done, since the pony carriage had been already sent back by the boy in charge. After dismissing the woman with a small fee and a few words of thanks, Esther put on her hat once more and commenced the climb to the Crag. She had got about half-way there when she uttered a little exclamation of joy, for there was Mr. Earle himself swinging away down the path as if to meet her. She ran eagerly forward to meet him. "O Mr. Earle, did they tell you too?" "Tell me what?" he asked, stopping short and looking straight at her. "What are you doing here all alone, with a storm coming up?" "O Mr. Earle, it's the boys. I'm afraid about them. I was coming to ask you what to do." And then she plunged into the story, and told him exactly what the old woman had told her. Mr. Earle's face looked a little grim as he heard, and his eyes scanned the clouds overhead and the aspect of things in general. "Look here," he said to Esther in his clear, decisive way; "I'll tell you what we must do. Leave me to see after the boys. I'll go after them in the _Swan_; for they ought not to be alone any distance from land, with the wind getting up and blowing off shore. But if I do that for you, you must go up to the Crag for me with a message; and if the storm breaks, or looks very like breaking, you must stop up there till it's over. I'll leave word as I pass your house where you are, so that nobody will be uneasy about you." Esther shook a little at the thought of going alone to the Crag, but she never thought of shirking. "What is the message?" she asked. "It's like this," said Mr. Earle, speaking rapidly and clearly: "Mr. Trelawny and I are at a stand-still in some of our experiments for a certain chemical, which has been on order from London for some time. We think the carrier may have brought it to-day, and I'm on my way to the little shop to see if it's been left. Mr. Trelawny is waiting for me in some impatience. You must take word that I shall probably be detained, and that I want him not to go on any farther till I come back. You can remember that, can't you? You had better send Merriman to fetch him to come and see you; then you can explain all about it, and if you have once got him safe out of the laboratory, you keep him out. I don't want him to go on experimenting without me. It wants two for that sort of thing. Do you understand?" "Yes," answered Esther, and then the pair parted. Mr. Earle went swinging down the path which passed the Hermitage and led to the village where the carrier's cart deposited parcels; and Esther, with a very grave face, went slowly upwards towards the house upon the crag. She was glad to think she need not seek Mr. Trelawny himself amid his crucibles and retorts and strange apparatus; but she was a little afraid at having to face him all alone, although she had been trying hard to conquer her fears of him, and she had to own that he was always especially kind to her. She could not walk very fast here, for the ground was steep, and she had tired her limbs by hurrying along the first part of the way. The air seemed very hot and close about her, and she felt the sort of ache in her head which thunder often brought. All of a sudden she gave a little jump, and stopped short, for she saw a strange thing just in front of her--a little spiral of sulphurous smoke, curling upwards from the ground, very much as she had read that it did when volcanoes were going to have an eruption; and she very nearly forgot everything else, and turned to run away, when her steps were arrested by something even more alarming--the distinct sound of a groan, proceeding, as it seemed, from the very heart of the earth. Esther's feet seemed rooted to the spot. She could not run away now; she had not the power. Meantime her wits were hard at work, and in a few moments she realized that she was close to the hole which the boys called the chimney of the underground cave, and the smoke she saw was coming up from that place, whilst the groan must surely have been uttered by some person down there. All the old terror of that subterranean cave came like a flood over Esther--all the talk of the boys about prisoners and victims, and her own vague and fearful imaginings of the horrors of such places. She was shaking all over, and beads of moisture stood upon her brow. Reason for the moment had taken wing, and it seemed to Esther as though she had suddenly come upon some fearful mystery of human suffering. There was some wretched human being in that cave, groaning in pain--bound, perhaps, in fetters, and awaiting some terrible doom. Could she leave him like that? Having made this discovery, ought she not to pursue it farther? Her heart beat to suffocation at the bare thought, but she fought fiercely with her fears. Had she not resolved to overcome them? And how could she leave this poor creature without seeking to do something? With failing limbs she crept towards the mouth of the shaft. She had looked down it many times before this, when the boys had been with her. But then there had been no smoke curling out of it, and no blood-curdling sounds coming up. She could not put her head right over it to-day, for the smoke choked her and made her cough; and immediately there seemed to come from below a sort of muffled cry. Esther caught her breath and called back,-- "Is there anybody down there?" "Yes; come to me! Help!" spoke the voice, which sounded from the very depths of the earth. And Esther's resolve was taken. She must go. She must go herself, and at once. To summon help from the Crag might be worse than useless. This miserable victim was probably imprisoned there by the master of that place. Esther's mind had gone back for the moment to its old standpoint, and Mr. Trelawny was the terrible magician, whose doings were so full of mystery if not of iniquity. If any captive were there, he had placed him in that terrible prison. His servants were probably in collusion with their master. If anything could be done, it must be done quickly and by herself alone. "I'm coming!" she cried down the mouth of the shaft, and then set off to run for the door in the hillside, the position of which she knew perfectly by this time. The boys had often shown it to her, and had shown her the trick of opening it. But they had never gone in. Mr. Trelawny had forbidden them to do so, knowing their mischievous tendencies. Esther had the free right of entrance, but she would sooner have put her head into a lion's mouth than have exercised it. She had never been in since that first day when she had had to be carried out by Mr. Trelawny. She had hoped never to have to enter the fearful place again. But she must to-day, she plainly must, though her knees were quaking at the bare thought. She had had one or two talks with Mr. Earle about fear of the dark and how to conquer it. Esther was not afraid of the dark in the ordinary sense of the word. She was not afraid of going about in the dark in her own home; for she had tried that, and only now and then, when in a nervous mood, had felt any fear. But she knew that she could not bear strange underground dark places, and she had once asked Mr. Earle if he thought she ought to go there to get used to them. But he had looked at her for a few moments, and had then said,-- "No, I do not think so--not unless there were some object to be gained by it. There are many people in the world who dislike underground places, and avoid them. As a rule there is no call for them to conquer the dislike. Of course, if one could do any good by going, if there were some sufficient reason for it--if it were to help somebody else, for instance--then it would be right to try and overcome one's repugnance. But without some such motive, I do not see that any one would be greatly benefited by going into uncongenial places of the kind." Esther thought of all this as she ran along. Hitherto it had been a comfort to her to think of this decision. But now it seemed to her that the time had come when she was bound to go. Somebody wanted help. There was nobody but herself to give it. She might not be able to accomplish much, but at least she ought to go and see. To turn and run away would be like the priest and Levite in the parable, who left the poor man wounded and half dead. Everybody knew that they were wicked. She must try and copy the good Samaritan, who, she knew, was the type of Jesus Himself. That thought came to her like a ray of comfort, and it helped to drive back the flood of her fears. Then she remembered what Mr. Earle had said about what his mother told him to do; and, just as she reached the strange old door in the hillside, Esther dropped upon her knees and buried her face in her hands. It was only for a few seconds, but when she got up again she felt that she could go into the cave. A few minutes before, it had seemed as if it were almost impossible. The heavy door yielded to her touch. She knew it would swing back again when she let it go, so she took a big stone with her and set it wide open. There would be comfort in the feeling that there was light and air behind her, though the cave looked fearfully dark and gloomy, and the strange smell inside it, as she went slowly forward, brought back some of the dizzy feeling she had experienced upon her first visit. A heavy groan smote upon her ears, and she gave a start and clasped her hands tightly together. She was through the passage now, and could just see the outline of the great dim cave. But where the living thing was that was making these sounds she could not guess. She stood quite still, and called timidly,-- "Is anybody there?" "Yes, child," answered a voice which she knew, now that she heard it more plainly. "Come a little nearer. I can't see you. I'm afraid I've been an old fool; and if I haven't blinded myself, I shall have better luck than I deserve." Esther sprang forward with a little cry of relief. It was no chained captive, no unknown, mysterious prisoner. It was Mr. Trelawny himself, and he was hurt. In a moment she was by his side, bending over him, seeing a very blackened face and a brow drawn with pain. Mr. Trelawny was half sitting, half lying upon the cold floor of the cave, and there was a lot of broken glass all about him. So much she could see, and not much beside. "O Uncle Robert, I am so sorry! What can I do?" "Isn't there a lot of glass about?" "Yes." "Well, there is a broom somewhere about. Get it and sweep it away, and I'll try to get up. Every time I've tried to move I've got my hands cut. I can't see a thing, and I've little power to help myself." Esther forgot all about being afraid now that there was something to do. She found the broom, and was soon sweeping away like a little housemaid. Now and then a groan broke from Mr. Trelawny, and at last she said gently,-- "I think there's no more glass. Please, are you very much hurt?" "Earle will tell me I ought to have been blown into a thousand fragments," was the rather grim reply. "I think I've got off cheap. But I've had a tremendous electric shock; and I'm a good bit cut and burnt, I expect. If only my eyes are spared, I'll not grumble at anything else. How came you here, child? I thought I should have an hour or more to wait till Earle got back." Esther explained then what had happened, for Mr. Trelawny, although in much pain, had all his wits about him; and when he knew that Mr. Earle might be detained, he said to Esther,-- "Then you must be my attendant messenger instead. Go up by those stairs into the house, and fetch down Merriman and another of the men. I don't think I can get up there without more help than your little hands can give." Esther quickly obeyed. She knew the way up into the house, and the key was in the door, so that she had no difficulty in getting there. The hall above was almost as dark by that time as the cave below; for the storm had gathered fast, and the black clouds seemed hanging right over them. But Esther had other things to think of now, and she quickly summoned the men, and sent them down to Mr. Trelawny; and then, being used in her own house to illness, she ran for the housekeeper, and begged her to get oil and linen rag and wine and soup ready, because Mr. Trelawny had burnt and hurt himself, and somebody must look after him, till the doctor came, and he could not well be sent for till after the storm had gone by, for it was going to be a very bad one. So before very long Mr. Trelawny was lying at full length upon a great wide oak settle in the hall, and Esther was gently bathing his cut and blackened and blistered face and hands, and covering up the bad places with oiled rag, as she had seen Genefer do when cook had burnt herself one day. Mr. Trelawny kept his eyes closed, and he drew his breath rather harshly, like one in pain, and his brows were drawn into great wrinkles. "Do I hurt you?" Esther asked from time to time. The housekeeper seemed to think that Esther had better do the actual handling of the patient while she kept her supplied with the things she wanted. Mr. Trelawny's servants--and especially the women servants--stood in considerable awe of him. He never liked any attentions from a woman that a man could bestow, and the housekeeper preferred to remain discreetly in the background, leaving Esther to play the part of nurse. Esther was well used to the _rôle_, and had a gentle, self-contained way with her that had come from her long tendance upon her mother. Her touch was very soft and gentle, but it was not uncertain and timid. Indeed she did not feel at all afraid of Mr. Trelawny now, only afraid of hunting him. "No, no, child," he answered when she put the question; "your little hands are like velvet. They don't hurt at all. But what's all that noise overhead?" "It's the rain," answered Esther. "There is such a storm coming up. Hark! don't you hear the thunder? And there was such a flash of lightning." Mr. Trelawny put his hand up to his eyes, and made an effort to open them, but desisted almost immediately, with an exclamation of suffering. Esther clasped her soft little hands round one of his in token of sympathy. She could understand the terrible fear which must possess him just now. The servants had moved away by this time. They knew that the master did not like being looked at and fussed over. He had made a sign with his hand which they had understood to be one of dismissal, and Esther was alone with him now in this big place. The storm was raging fearfully, but the child was not frightened. She had other things to think of, and she was thinking very hard. "I hope Mr. Earle has got the boys safe," she said, with a tone of anxiety in her voice. There was no reply. Mr. Trelawny was suffering keenly both in mind and body. Esther looked at him, and realized that this was so. She hardly meant to speak the words out loud, but they came into her head and they passed her lips almost before she was aware of it. "Jesus can stop the storms and make them quiet again, and keep people safe in them. And He can make blind people see." There was no reply; but Esther felt one of the bandaged hands feel about as if for something, and she put her own little hand into it at once. The fingers closed over it, and the man and the child sat thus together for a very long time. Then there was a little stir in the hall, as the butler appeared, bringing tea; and Mr. Trelawny told Esther to get some, and give him a cup, as he was very thirsty. She was glad enough to serve him, and did so daintily and cleverly; and before they had finished, the storm had very much abated. The rain still fell, and the wind blew; but the sun was beginning to shine out again, and Esther knew that the worst was over now. "It is light again now," she said. "It was so dark all that time--almost as dark as the cave." Mr. Trelawny looked more himself now. The pain of his burns was soothed by the dressing laid upon them, and the lines in his face had smoothed themselves out. "Ah, the cave!" he repeated. "I thought that the cave was your special abhorrence, Esther. How came you to be there all alone to-day?" "I came after you," answered Esther. "I heard somebody groan and call for help." "Did you know who was calling?" "No, the voice sounded so muffled and strange." "I wonder you weren't afraid, you timid little mouse. Suppose it had been some great, rough smuggler fellow, such as used to live in that cave long ago!" "But I knew he was hurt; he was groaning and calling for help." "And that gave you courage?" Esther hesitated. "I don't think I felt very brave, but I knew I ought to go." "Why ought you?" "O Uncle Robert, you know we ought always to help people when they are in trouble--especially if they are hurt." "Didn't you think you might get hurt too?" Esther's face was rosy now, though he could not see it. "I thought a great many silly things," she confessed softly. "I think I have been very silly and cowardly often, but I'm going to try not to be any more. I don't think I should mind going down into the cave again now." "Tell me what you thought about it before," said Mr. Trelawny, in his imperious way; and though it was rather a hard command to obey, Esther thought it might, perhaps, amuse him to hear some of the things that she and the boys together had imagined about him, and perhaps he would tell her then how much of it all was true. So she told what Puck had said about the tanks where skeletons were pickled, and about the electric eye, and the elixir of life, and the different things that different persons had said, and the interpretation the boys had put upon their words, and how she had fancied that the groans she heard that day must proceed from some miserable captive destined for one of the tanks. It was rather hard to say all this, for some of it sounded quite silly now; but Esther bravely persevered, for she thought if she could once talk it right out she might never feel so frightened again. Mr. Trelawny lay still, and she could not quite see the expression on his face, because it was partly covered up; but at last he seemed able to contain himself no longer, and he broke into a real laugh--not quite so loud or so gruff as usual, but very hearty for all that. At the sound of that laugh Esther's fears seemed to take wing. It must all have been nonsense, she was sure. Nobody who had really been doing wicked and cruel things would laugh to know that they had been found out. "I shall have to take you over my laboratory one of these days, and really show you my pickled skeletons, and my electric eye, and all the other mysteries. Now you need not shake, my dear. I have nothing in pickle worse than a specimen animal; and as for the electric eye, that is very far from being perfect, and it will be a long while before I can make you understand its use, or what we mean by the term. Anyhow, it is not an eye that we carry about with us. In your mind it would not be an eye at all, though it has some analogy to one. And as for the elixir of life, my dear, I would not drink of it if I were to find it. To live forever in this mortal world of ours would be a poor sort of thing; and we know that there is an elixir of life preparing for us, of which we shall all drink one day--all to whom it is given, that is. And then there will be new heavens and a new earth, and we shall all be glorified together." Esther sat very still, trying to take in the magnitude of that idea, and feeling that she should never be afraid of Mr. Trelawny again, now that she had spoken so freely of her fears to him, and he had been so kind, and had said such nice things. The shadows were beginning to fall now, and she was wondering how long she would have to stay here. She did not mean to leave Mr. Trelawny till Mr. Earle got back to take care of him; but she began to wish that he would come, and that she might get news of the boys. At last the sound of a firm, ringing step was heard without, and Esther sprang to her feet. The big door was open, for it was quite warm still, though the rain had taken the sultriness out of the air. She ran out, and met Mr. Earle face to face. He was wet through and almost dripping, but he looked as quiet and composed as ever. "O Mr. Earle, where are the boys?" "Safe at home in bed, like a pair of drowned rats. It was a good thing you came to warn me, Esther, or they might have been miles out at sea by this time, or else at the bottom of it." Esther's face paled a little. "O Mr. Earle, what did they do?" "You'd better run home and hear all about it from them. I thought you'd be back before I was." "O Mr. Earle, I couldn't go till you came. Mr. Trelawny has hurt himself. They've sent for the doctor now. But they couldn't just at first, the storm was so bad. Please, will you go to him? Then I can go home. But may I come again to-morrow to see how he is?" Mr. Earle had uttered a startled exclamation at hearing Esther's words, and was now striding into the hall, almost forgetful of her. "Trelawny!" she heard him exclaim; and then Mr. Trelawny said in his dry way,-- "Yes; crow over me now as much as you like. I neglected your valuable advice, and see the result!" Mr. Earle went and bent down over him; and Esther, feeling her task done, took her hat and stole out into the soft dusk, and ran down the hill home as fast as she could. CHAPTER X. CONFESSIONS. Esther found Genefer at the door on the lookout for her. "O Miss Esther, my dear, I am glad to see you! I was getting fidgety about you--so long away up there, and the storm and all. But you are not wet through at all events," feeling the condition of her clothing and the temperature of her hands. "Why did you stay such a time up there after the storm was over?" "I stayed with Mr. Trelawny; he has been hurt. I found him in the cave where he tries his experiments. I didn't like to leave him till Mr. Earle came back. But the boys, Genefer--what about them?" "Oh, they're in bed--the best place for them too. They were just soaked to the skin, and Master Percy had some of the pluck taken out of him. I don't know just what it was all about. I was busy getting them put into a hot bath, and then tucked up between hot blankets. Master Philip doesn't seem any the worse. He was asking for you all the time. I said you would go up as soon as you got in." "I will," said Esther. "I've had my tea up at the Crag. How is mama?" "Lying down still with a headache. She got a bit upset when the boys were brought in, so when I'd seen to them I coaxed her to go to bed, and I hope she's asleep. The thunder upset her head, as it almost always does. I wouldn't go to her unless she calls to you going by." Esther lingered a moment by her mother's door, but no voice summoned her in, so she went up-stairs, and soon heard Pickle's unmistakable tones urging her to speed. "Is that you, Essie? Come along! What a time you've been! We've got such things to tell you! Come on!" Esther pushed open the boys' door, and entered the room where two small beds stood side by side, and a small boy occupied each. Puck was snuggled down in his, though his eyes were wide open; but Pickle was sitting up, quivering with excitement to tell his tale to more sympathetic ears than those of either Mr. Earle or Genefer. "O Esther! why didn't you come before? We've such things to tell you! Where have you been?" "Up with Mr. Trelawny at the Crag. He's hurt himself. I had to stay with him. O Pickle, what were you doing? The old fisherman's wife said you were on the little island, and couldn't get back. Did Mr. Earle come and fetch you?" "Oh, she let on to somebody, did she? I didn't quite understand about that part of it. Well, perhaps it was a good thing she did. But, I say, Esther, we did have a jolly old time of it for a bit. We went such a sail by ourselves. If it hadn't been for that stupid storm coming up and spoiling it, we could have showed everybody that we could manage a boat first-rate." "Bertie was sick," chimed in Puck from his nest, "and I didn't like it when we couldn't get to shore. I thought we were going to be upset and drowned once. I didn't like that part of it." Esther looked from one to the other in some bewilderment and anxiety. "O boys, what did you do?" Then Pickle plunged headlong into the story. It was all rather mixed up and difficult for Esther to follow, but she began to understand that the boys had taken advantage of their liberty on Saturdays to go off regularly to the little island, and that they had kept this "city of refuge" quite as a secret of their own. "I shouldn't have minded telling you," said Pickle, "only we thought perhaps you'd tell Mrs. Poll-parrot, or Pretty Polly, and then all the fun would have been gone." "It wouldn't have been a city of refuge if the avenger of blood could come after us in another boat and take us away," added Puck. "I'm afraid it won't be a city of refuge any longer now. I wish we hadn't gone sailing, but just gone home. Then nobody would have known anything." "Were you out on the water in the storm?" asked Esther, with a little shiver. "O Pickle, you should not have been so disobedient. You know Mr. Earle and Mr. Trelawny would not let you sail the boat alone." "Not the _Swan_," said Pickle quickly, "but nobody had said anything about that old tub." Esther looked rather grave, and a quick wave of color swept over Pickle's face. "I wanted to do it," he said in rather a low voice; "perhaps that was why it seemed all right." "You might have been drowned," said Esther in a voice of awe; "Mr. Earle said so himself." "I thought so once," said the boy; "I was frightened then." "Tell me about it," said Esther with a little shiver. She sat down on the side of Puck's bed, and he got fast hold of her hand. He was more subdued than Pickle, though Esther could see that even the bold elder boy had received a considerable shock to his nerves. His eyes were bright, and he was excited and not quite himself. "We had always wanted so much to sail the boat," said he in response to Esther, "but there had never been any wind. And to-day, when it began just to blow a little, it seemed just the very thing. So we got in and went off, and it was delicious. We did it beautifully, and it was all pretty and sunny on the sea, and we went along finely. But by and by the waves got bigger, and Bertie began to get sick, and some of them wanted to get home again. So we tried to tack her round as Mr. Earle does, but she wouldn't go against the wind a bit, and the waves splashed in and wet us. And then we tried to row, but we only got farther and farther away from land, and the sea got rougher and rougher. And Bertie was sick and frightened, and everybody wanted to get home, and we couldn't." "O Pickle, how dreadful! What did you do?" "Well, we had to turn round at last and run before the wind," answered the boy, with as much of the sailor air as he could assume. "I saw it was the only thing to try for. The waves were all right if you didn't try to meet them; and we thought perhaps we should meet a ship which would take us up." "That might have been rather nice," said Puck, "only it got so dark, and then the thunder and lightning came; and oh, how it did rain! We couldn't see anything. We felt like being all alone on the sea. I was frightened then, and Bertie was awfully sick, and Milly began to cry. I wanted to cry, too, only I thought it would be like a girl." Esther was shivering herself at the bare picture of all these horrors. She had nothing but sympathy for the boys now, though she knew that it had been the spirit of disobedience which had prompted them to this daring escapade. "Oh, what did you do?" she asked, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "We couldn't do anything but sail on and on," answered Pickle; "but Puck said,-- "Yes, we could. Milly proposed it. We all said our prayers; and Milly reminded us about Jesus walking on the water, and making the storm stop. So we asked Him to come and do the same for us." "The storm did stop by and by," said Esther in a low voice. "Yes, it did--almost just after we'd been praying," said Puck; "and when the rain went away and the sun came out, we saw the _Swan_ coming after us as hard as ever it could come. Bertie thought perhaps it was Jesus coming to us on the water, but it was only Mr. Earle." "Perhaps Jesus sent him to you," said Esther in a low voice. "He said it was you who sent him," said Pickle the practical. "Yes, in one way," answered Esther, coloring up, for she was shy of uttering her deeper thoughts; "but I shouldn't have known if the old woman hadn't come up. Perhaps it was Jesus who sent her--I mean, put it into her head to come." "Do you think so?" asked Puck, with wide-open eyes, and Esther answered softly and steadily,-- "Yes, I do." Puck suddenly scrambled up in his bed and got upon his knees. "Genefer put us to bed without our prayers--she was in such a hurry," he said. "I'd like to say my prayers now, because I'm very much obliged, if it was like that. It's mean not to thank people when they've done things for you. Let's all say our prayers together." Esther immediately knelt down beside the little bed, and in a moment Pickle was out and on his knees beside her. They both hid their faces, and a few half-whispered words and snorts from Puck, who was very much in earnest, alone broke the silence of the upper room. But presently Esther felt that the child kneeling beside her was quivering all over, and suddenly Pickle broke down and began to sob uncontrollably. This was a strange thing in Pickle, who had hardly shed a tear all the months he had been under the roof of the Hermitage, and Esther was distressed and almost frightened at the sudden vehemence of the outburst. She put her arms round him, and rather to her surprise he did not repulse her overture of sympathy, but clung to her convulsively, weeping silently, but with great gasping sobs, that seemed wrung from him by some power too strong to be resisted. Puck crept into bed again, and watched his brother with wondering eyes. But Nature was claiming her dues now from both, and Puck's eyes grew heavy with sleep even as he watched, and soon shut themselves up altogether. Not even curiosity, or the remains of the excitements through which they had passed, could keep him longer from the land of dreams. "Pickle dear," said Esther gently at last, "won't you let me put you to bed? You will be getting cold." "Don't go away then," he said between his sobs. "Hold my hand and sit with me. I don't want to be left alone." How well Esther understood that appeal! She knew without any telling that if left alone all the horrors of that dangerous voyage would come back over the boy's mind, as they had never done at the moment when the things were happening. She felt as though a bond of sympathy had been established between herself and her manly little cousin. Hitherto he had never shown weakness in her presence. Now he was clinging to her as though he felt her presence to be a source of strength and refreshment. She held his hands, and sometimes spoke softly to him, and presently the sobs ceased. But he did not on that account let go his hold upon her. She felt the grasp of his fingers tighten on her hands. "Esther," he said presently, "I was the one who thought of it all and planned it all. It was disobedience. I think I knew it was all the time, only I wouldn't think about it. I wanted to do as I liked. I always do. Esther, suppose the boat had gone down and we had been drowned, would that have been dying in one's sins?" "O Pickle, I don't know!" "I know there's something in the Bible about dying in our sins. I thought it meant going to hell. Esther, should I have gone to hell?" "O Pickle dear, I don't think so!" "Don't you? But I was being naughty all the time." "We are all naughty very often," said Esther gently, "but you know Jesus said He would give eternal life to every one who believed in Him. You do believe in Jesus, don't you, Pickle, even though you forget and are naughty sometimes?" "Yes, I do," answered the boy, very soberly and steadily. "It was the only thing that helped us not to be very badly afraid when it was all dark and the thunder and lightning came. But it was Milly who thought of it. She cried, but she helped us the most. And when the rain seemed to be right off, and we saw the sun coming through again, and there was the _Swan_ racing along after us, why, then it did just seem as though He were coming to us on the water, as Puck said." "I think He was," said Esther, with a little quiver in her voice; and Pickle squeezed her hands, and she squeezed his, and they were silent a few minutes. Then the boy spoke again,-- "Essie, I must go to-morrow and tell Mr. Polperran all about this." "Won't he know from Milly and Bertie?" "Yes, but I must tell him too. It wasn't their fault. It was I who did everything--getting the boat, and the city of refuge, and then going sailing when there was a breeze. That's what I want to tell him. He trusted me to take care of the little ones--he told me so once--and I nearly drowned them. And it wasn't that I forgot about what Mr. Earle had said about not trying to sail alone. I remembered it every bit, but I didn't choose to obey. I pretended to myself that he had only said we mustn't sail the _Swan_, but I knew he'd never let us go sailing alone in any boat. I'll tell him so, and get him to set me a punishment; and I'll tell Mr. Polperran too, and ask him to forgive Milly and Bertie, and only to be angry with me." Pickle spoke with subdued vehemence, and with great earnestness. Esther approved his resolution. "Mr. Polperran is a very kind man," she said. "I don't think he'll be angry exactly; and you will never do it any more." "I'm going to try and be obedient," said Pickle with a little sigh. "Mr. Earle is always telling us that we shall never be any good anywhere till we learn to obey; but I never quite believed him before. I do now." Pickle was growing soothed and comforted now. Esther sat beside him till he dropped off to sleep. He was thoroughly tired out, and the burst of tears had relieved the overcharged brain. When he was sound asleep, the little girl covered him up and kissed him in motherly fashion, and stole away to see if her mother had awakened. Mrs. St. Aiden was ready now to hear the story of the adventures of her little daughter, and a modified account of the peril in which the boys had placed them. She shuddered a little over the latter, but was not conversant enough with the subject to thoroughly realize how near the children had been to a tragic death. She was more immediately interested in the accident that Mr. Trelawny had met with in his cave-like laboratory, and made Esther repeat the story of her adventure more than once. "Dear, dear, poor man! I do hope his sight will not be permanently injured; it would be such a terrible loss. Mr. Polperran has always been afraid of some accident. He has said to me many times that he was afraid Mr. Trelawny was sometimes too eager to be cautious; and, poor man, I am afraid it was so to-day. What a good thing you found him when you did, Esther! It must have been so bad for him down there in that lonely place. You will be more of a favorite with him than ever." Esther's eyes opened rather wide at that. "Am I a favorite?" she asked; and her mother broke into a little laugh. "Have you never found that out yet, child? Ah! you are always so frightened at him. Perhaps you will get over that now. You will find that he does not mean to eat you." "I think I have been rather silly," said Esther soberly; "but I have been trying not to be so afraid of things lately." "Yes, that is wise; for Mr. Trelawny is really our very kind friend, though he is strange and sometimes rough in his ways. And I have not quite forgiven him yet for cutting off your hair." "I have been so much more comfortable without it, mama," said Esther, ruffling up her wavy crop. "My head never aches now, and it is so nice not to have all the tangles to pull out." "Well, dear, I have got used to it now, and if you are more comfortable I am glad. All the same, it was a liberty for anybody to take; but Mr. Trelawny is not like anybody else, and it is no use minding." Next day Esther and Pickle were the only two able to go to church from the Hermitage. Puck was sleeping on so soundly that Genefer would not have him wakened; and Mrs. St. Aiden was still feeling the effects of the storm of the previous day, and was not able to attempt the service, though she was able now to go to church sometimes. The children looked eagerly towards the rectory pew, but nobody appeared there except Prissy, who was looking very prim and rather severe; and she would not throw so much as a glance towards Esther and Pickle, though the little girl was really anxious to catch her eye and telegraph a question to her. At the proper place in the service Mr. Polperran rose, and said in a voice which had a little tremor in it, that a father and mother desired to return thanks to Almighty God for the preservation of their own children, and some others, in a great danger to which they had been exposed. It came quite unexpectedly, and Pickle threw a hasty glance at Esther, whilst the color flamed all over his face; and as the words of the General Thanksgiving were spoken, with the special clause which sounded strangely impressive as read by Mr. Polperran that day, his head sank lower upon his folded arms, and Esther saw his shoulders heave, and felt her own warm tears gathering under their long lashes. But it comforted her to hear this public recognition of God's care for His children in their peril. It seemed to bring home to her the mysterious and wonderful truth about the fall of the sparrow--the individual care and love which God feels towards every single living atom in His vast creation. And the sound of the fervent amen which passed through the church at the close seemed to speak of the universal brotherhood of those who owned the Lord as their Master; and though Esther could not have told the reason of it, a strange sense of sweetness came into her soul, and a peaceful assurance of God's Fatherhood crept over her spirit and took up its habitation there. Pickle was wonderfully quiet and attentive during the rest of the service, even listening to the sermon as he had never listened before. Was it a coincidence, or had the father's heart been moved by what he had heard yesterday, so that he had prepared his discourse after the return of his children from their hour of peril? Esther did not know, but she gave a little start when the clergyman read out his text, for it was nothing more or less than the account of how the Lord came to His disciples walking on the water, and how His presence with them there brought them immediately to the desired haven. Pickle squeezed her hand tight as the impressive words were read out, and his attention never wavered for a moment during the whole of the simple discourse, which went home to many hearts that day; for it was known all over the place by this time that the rector's children had been in great danger, and there was something in Mr. Polperran's way of dealing with his subject which showed that his heart was full of thankfulness for their escape, and that he could not forget the peril in which they had been placed. At the close of the service Esther and Pickle remained in their places till the congregation had pretty well dispersed, and then found their way round to the vestry door from which the clergyman would take his departure. The boy's resolve had only been strengthened by the emotions of the morning. He must ask the forgiveness of Milly and Bertie's father before he could be happy again. Mr. Polperran came out looking rather absorbed, but when his eyes fell upon the two children his face lighted. He put out both his hands towards Pickle, and drew the little boy towards himself, saying,-- "They tell me that you were their greatest help, and never lost courage, and saved the boat from being upset by your clever handling. My dear, brave, little man, I shall not forget that. If you had not had the presence of mind to get the boat round and let her run before the wind, she must have been swamped." Pickle was so taken aback by receiving praise and kindness instead of blame that for a moment his breath seemed taken away, but then he burst out with all the greater emphasis,-- "O sir, you mustn't call me brave; you mustn't think me clever, or anything that is good. I was very naughty and disobedient, and I led them all into it. It was all my fault. They would never have thought of it but for me. I don't think they would ever have gone in a boat at all, even to the city of refuge, if I hadn't taken them. It was disobedience. Perhaps they didn't think of it, but I did. I want to be punished for it; I don't want to be praised. I was very conceited, and thought I knew such a precious lot. When the storm came, I found I didn't know anything. I was frightened, though perhaps they didn't know. But I was. I knew I had done wrong. I thought God was angry with us. It was Milly who helped us most. It's she you ought to praise. I was naughty. I'm very sorry. I want to ask you to forgive me." The last words came out almost with a sob. They were not easy words for Pickle to speak. He had not been used to make confession of his misdeeds, or to ask forgiveness. In the old days he had taken things much more lightly. But something new seemed to have come into his life now; and perhaps Mr. Polperran understood, for he sat down a little while upon the low stone wall, and talked very gravely and kindly to Pickle, and then forgave him fully for his share in the act of disobedience which might have ended so badly, and sent the children home with warm hearts and smiling faces, although there was real seriousness in their hearts. "He is a very nice man," said Pickle with emphasis. "I think he is very good too. I like him better than Mrs. Pol--Polperran. But I'll tell her I'm sorry when I see her next. I shan't like to, but I will. I'm sorry Bertie's sick and has got a cold. But I daresay he'll be better soon." Puck was up and dressed when they got back, and quite interested to hear about the thanksgiving, and the sermon, and the talk with Mr. Polperran afterwards. He was not quite so serious as Pickle, but then he had not quite the same weight upon his conscience. He had always been used to follow the lead of his brother, and though he was quite aware that they had been disobedient to a certain extent, he had not the same burden of responsibility as that which weighed upon the elder boy. Mr. Earle had not been in church, so there was no news of Mr. Trelawny; and after the early dinner, Esther and Pickle walked up to ask after him. Puck felt indisposed for the exertion, and remained at home. Mrs. St. Aiden expressed her intention of walking as far as the rectory to inquire for Milly and Bertie, and Puck said he would like to go with her. As Esther and Pickle climbed the hill, he asked her about Mr. Trelawny, and listened with immense interest as she told the tale of her doings that afternoon. "Weren't you afraid to go in? I thought you couldn't bear the cave. O Essie, I wish I had been there! But I never thought you'd dare go in." "I didn't want to much," answered Esther in her grave way, "but it seemed like my duty." Pickle pondered a while, and then said suddenly,-- "It's better to be frightened doing our duty than frightened because we've been disobedient and naughty and horrid things have come that needn't have done if we'd been good." Esther turned this over in her mind for a while, and then looked at Pickle with a kindling smile. "And yet we were both helped and taken care of. Pickle, I do think Jesus is very, very good." "So do I," he answered, looking down and kicking the soft pine-needles under his feet; and after that they walked in silence up to the Crag. Nobody was about upon the terrace, which seemed strange on such a fine afternoon; but Mr. Earle came down to see the children, and gave them the report of Mr. Trelawny. "His eyes are bandaged up still, and will have to be for some little time yet; and the burns, though they are not deep or dangerous, are rather painful. He says nobody touches them so gently as his 'little nurse.' That is you, Esther. He is to be kept quite quiet for a few days, and then the doctor will be able to judge better what is the extent of the mischief. That is as much as I can tell you to-day." Esther's face was full of concern. "Oh, I am so sorry. Can I go and see him?" Fancy her asking this of her own accord! "If he had not just dropped asleep you should have done so. He would have liked it; but he must not be disturbed, for he had a bad night, and now he has taken a draught, and perhaps will sleep some hours. But I will tell him you have been to ask, and will come and see him another day." "To-morrow," said Esther promptly; "and please, Mr. Earle, mama says she thinks we had better have a week's holiday, so that you can stay with Mr. Trelawny, and we can go blackberrying and nutting. We didn't have a holiday in August because we had not worked long enough." "I am much obliged to your mother for the kind thought," said Mr. Earle. "I think a holiday will do none of you any harm just now, and I shall be glad to have the time with my old friend." He stopped and looked rather earnestly at Esther, and then said,-- "What was it that took you into the cave to find Mr. Trelawny on Saturday?" "I heard him groan and call out. The sound came through the chimney." "Did you know who it was?" "No; but it was somebody who wanted help." "I thought you were too frightened to go into underground places. Didn't you once tell me so?" Esther's face crimsoned over, but Pickle broke in,-- "That's what I said just now; but she went because she thought it was her duty." "I thought somebody wanted help, and it would be unkind not to," said Esther, hanging her head. "But you were afraid?" "Rather." She paused and hesitated, and then looked up quickly into Mr. Earle's face. "I remembered what you had told me about when you were a little boy, and what your mother had said. I did that too. Then I wasn't so frightened." She knew he understood, for she felt the touch of his hand upon her shoulder. She was too shy to look up again, but next moment she heard him ask another question. "Esther, suppose you had been afraid, and had not gone in and got Mr. Trelawny safely out of the cave, do you know what would have happened?" "No." "If he had lain there till I got back, he would have been a dead man." Esther started and looked up with scared eyes, and Pickle drew a long whistling breath. "Oh, I say!" he murmured, with staring eyes. "It is quite true," went on Mr. Earle. "You would not understand if I were to try and tell you; but Mr. Trelawny had been trying a dangerous experiment. I do not think he knew himself how dangerous it was. The first explosion was enough to injure him and reduce him to the state in which you found him; but there was worse afterwards. He probably did not know it, not being able to see; but there was something going on all the time which must quite shortly after you left the cave with him have made a second and a worse explosion. Had anybody been there then he could not have lived. I suppose the thunderstorm prevented this sound from being heard, but a number of things down below are shattered to atoms that were all safe in their places when the servants went down at your bidding." Esther's face had grown pale with excitement and awe. It was rather a terrible thing to feel how nearly Mr. Trelawny had lost his life. Suppose she had not heard him. Suppose she had let her fears get the better of her. Oh, how glad she was that she had been trying to conquer them before! That had made it much easier when the moment for proving herself came. The children walked very gravely away hand in hand. Then Pickle suddenly burst out,-- "I say, Essie, it's you who have taken the palm after all. You are really the heroine. I used to think girls were no good. But I think it's boys now." "O Pickle, I don't think I like to be praised. I've been so silly often and often. But I am very happy and glad. Still I don't think I should have dared to go in if it hadn't been for what Mr. Earle told me once." "What did he tell you? I wanted to ask." Then Esther told of the talk in the old ruin, and Pickle listened very attentively. "What a lot of different things God had to see to that afternoon," he remarked very soberly, after a long pause; "I do think it was awfully good of Him." "So do I," answered Esther softly; "I should like always to do what He wants us to now." "Well, we'll try," said Pickle with emphasis. "I think after all this it would be mean not to." CHAPTER XI. MR. TRELAWNY. "I'm not sure that mama will let them go. We have been very much disappointed and displeased," said Prissy in her primmest way. "I'm not blaming you, Esther; you knew no more about it than I did myself. But the children had all conspired together to deceive us. Of course we have been very much hurt, mother and I." "I think children always like a secret," said Esther in her gentle, womanly way, which was not in the least like Prissy's primness; "but I know that my boys were most to blame, and Pickle is very sorry indeed for his disobedience. But I hope Mrs. Polperran will let Milly and Bertie come with us, even if you do not care to come. We have got our lunch in baskets, and Punch will carry everything, and we can ride him in turns if we are tired, and Mr. Earle says there are splendid nuts and blackberries in Mr. Trelawny's woods. We shall have such a nice time!" "I'll go and ask mother," said Prissy. "Of course Milly and Bertie would like it, but after what has occurred, you know--" And there Prissy stopped short, pursed up her lips, and looked unutterable things. Esther could not help feeling glad that the boys were waiting at the gate with Punch. She was not sure whether Pickle's penitence would stand the strain of these airs on Prissy's part. She felt her own cheeks tingling a little. She felt that she did not at all like her boys found fault with by Prissy, even though she knew they had been naughty. Pickle had owned up his fault to Mr. Polperran like a man, and had received forgiveness. It did not seem quite fair to Esther that anything more should be said about it. The next minute Mrs. Polperran came in, kind and fussy, as was her way. "If you are going with them, Esther dear, I will send them. But I have been very much shocked and disturbed, as you will understand. I had always been able to trust my children before. It has been very sad to think that they have been instructed in the ways of deceitfulness." Mrs. Polperran shook her head, and Esther felt her cheeks growing red. She knew that there had been disobedience, but she was sure that her boys had not meant to deceive. They had been accustomed to liberty and a good bit of their own way. They had not been brought up under any obligation to tell everything they did. It was not fair to accuse them of deceit. It was a great relief at this moment to see Mr. Polperran's head appear over that of his wife in the doorway. "Tut, tut, tut, my dear! don't let us call things by harder names than we need. The little ones did tell me that they had a place down on the shore where they went and played, and I gave them free leave to do so. Indeed, I was glad they should have bolder spirits to play with. I didn't know they went off to the island; but, upon my word, I don't think I should have interfered if I had. The bay is perfectly safe, and that tub of old Jerry's could hardly overturn with anything the children might do. Of course they were wrong to try and sail it, and to leave the shelter of the bay; but the boys have seen their fault, and all the children have asked and obtained forgiveness. Now, I don't want another word said about it. They were sufficiently punished by their fright, and they have learned a lesson they will not forget. Don't weaken the effect of it by talking too much. What has Esther come about to-day?" Esther's invitation was soon repeated, and Mr. Polperran's kind face beamed. "To be sure, to be sure!--just the very thing for little folks. Let them go? Why, of course. They can't get into any danger up there, and I don't think they'll try to. Bertie wants the current of his thoughts changed. It will do him good to go. I'll answer for it there will be no getting into mischief now. Come, mama; you don't grudge them a day's pleasuring, I'm sure. I'll go and fetch the young rascals down, and start them all off together." Mrs. Polperran raised no objection, though she looked a little doubtful. Prissy decided not to accompany the party, and Esther did not seek to shake her determination; she could not help feeling that they would be happier without her. Milly and Bertie came down clinging to their father's hands. Milly looked none the worse for the adventure of the Saturday afternoon. Bertie had not quite got his color back, but the threatening of cold had been averted by prompt measures, and, as Mr. Polperran always declared, there was nothing like fresh air and the breath of the sea and the woods for dissipating any little ailment and putting people in trim again. "Now, be good boys and girls, all of you," he said; "have plenty of fun, but don't get into mischief. Learn to be brave lads and lassies, making friends with nature wherever you go. That's the way to grow up fine men and women. Don't you be afraid of anything in the world except doing wrong." Punch was at the gate with the little people, a basket slung on each shoulder, and a saddle on his back. Bertie was lifted up for a ride, as his legs were the smallest, and he had been a little poorly for two days after the adventure in the boat. But his eyes were dancing now with delight at the prospect before him; and when they started off and had turned the corner, Milly gave a little hop, skip, and jump, and cried,-- [Illustration: "Punch was at the gate, with Bertie in the saddle."--Page 266. _Esther's Charge._] "Oh, how nice it is to get away! I am so glad that Prissy isn't coming!" Esther was very nearly saying, "So am I," and she saw that the words were on the very tip of Pickle's ready tongue. But she was glad that he did not speak them, but only looked at her with a laugh in his eyes, and Puck asked solemnly,-- "Has she been lecturing you all round?" "Oh yes," sighed Milly, "ever so much worse than father and mother. Father was very kind indeed, though he made me feel more sorry about it than anybody. But he understands about what we feel like--I mean, he knows that it is nice to do things, and to get away from people, and to play we're sailing off to coral islands and places like that. I don't think he's going to stop our going out in the old boat to the city of refuge." "Isn't he? How jolly of him!" cried Pickle; "I thought our city of refuge was gone forever." "I don't think he minds a bit," cried Bertie, "for I talked about it a lot, and he said he'd come with us some day and see it. I said I thought the avenger of blood would always be coming after us now. I meant Prissy, you know, and he knew it. And then he laughed and said he thought the avenger of blood would think a long time before following us there; and I'm sure he meant that Prissy would be frightened, and I dare say she would." "Besides, if we have the boat she can't come," cried Puck. "I was afraid Mr. Earle would be the avenger of blood, and would come in the _Swan_." "I don't think anybody will come," said Milly. "I heard father telling mother that he was very glad we had some games like what he and his brothers used to play. He said he'd rather we got into a scrape now and then, than grow up afraid to wet our feet, like so many little cats." Pickle burst out laughing, and the party felt inspirited by the feeling that Mr. Polperran's sympathy was with them in their love of adventure, although not in their disobedience to definite commands. They distinguished very clearly between the two. It was a perfect September day, and they had a delightful time wandering through the great copses on Mr. Trelawny's property, filling their baskets with blackberries, and feasting themselves at the same time. At noon they had a delightful surprise, for Mr. Earle found them out, and brought them a big jar of cream and some excellent cake, and shared their picnic with them at their own eager request. They were all very fond of Mr. Earle by this time, and they wanted to know about Mr. Trelawny too. But Mr. Earle could not tell them much on this score. He was still kept in bed, and was not allowed to have the bandage off his eyes. Esther was very sorry indeed to hear this. She could not think what Mr. Trelawny would do. He had always been so active and independent, and she did not think he had ever spent a day in bed before. "He will very likely be up again to-morrow. He does not like stopping there, I can tell you," said Mr. Earle, "but there is nothing that makes people feel so helpless as not being able to see. But for that he would never be so quiet." "Would he like some blackberries?" asked Puck, opening the basket and looking in. "Let's pick out some of the very best for him, and you tell him we gathered them for him, and hope he'll like them." So Mr. Earle departed presently with the pick of the spoil, and the children sat and talked about Mr. Trelawny, thinking how sad it was for him to be half blind and not able to do anything, and wondering if they could do anything to cheer him up. "Children can't do things for grown-ups," said Milly, rather disconsolately. "It's only grown-ups who do things for children. But you did something for Mr. Trelawny, Essie, when you got him out of the cave. I should like to have done that. You saved his life, didn't you?" "Yes!" cried Pickle; but Esther said,-- "No--at least I mean it wasn't really like that. I went and told the servants, and they got him out." "But if you hadn't gone in when he called, if you'd run away as some silly people would have done, he'd have been a deader as sure as a gun," chimed in Pickle eagerly. "Mr. Earle said so his very self." This act of Esther's was very interesting to all the children, and certainly she found that all her old fears of Mr. Trelawny had vanished away. The very next day she was admitted to his darkened room, where he was lying on a couch with a bandage over his eyes, and his hand and arm bound up too. She sat beside him quite a long time, telling him all about her own adventure that day, about what had befallen the boys on the same afternoon, and about their doings these last days--how they had been often up in the woods getting nuts and blackberries, and how they were enjoying their holiday. Esther found that Mr. Trelawny was a very nice person to talk to, although his voice was still rather loud, and he had a quick, imperious way of asking a question which sometimes made her jump. But he was always interested in what she said. He made her explain exactly where they went each day, and how the trees were looking, and what things they found in the woods, and what all the live creatures were doing. Indeed Esther found that she had to notice things much more closely than she had ever done before, and this was rather interesting, she thought. She and the boys all began noticing everything, so that Esther might tell about it to Mr. Trelawny; and she was sure he liked it, though he did not exactly say so, but made his funny snorts, and seemed trying to trip her up with his questions. But she was not afraid of him now, and she did not mind if she did make a mistake. She found she was learning a great deal more than she had ever known before about the world she lived in, and that in itself was very interesting. One day at the end of the week, she came in to her mother and found her with an open letter in her hand and a rather perplexed face. "Is anything the matter, mama?" she asked. "O my dear! I hardly know. No, nothing is the matter, but it is such a sudden thing to suggest. I have got a letter from Mr. Trelawny." "O mama! then can he see again?" "No, my dear. It was not written by him, but only at his dictation. There is a good deal of reason in what he says, but it is all so unexpected." "What is it, mama?" "He asks if I will shut up the Hermitage for the winter, and come with you all and stay at the Crag." "O mama! Why?" "To keep him company, he says. To cheer him up. To make a little life about the old house for a poor blind man." "But, mama, he isn't going to be blind, is he?" cried Esther, distressed. "I hope not indeed, dear. He has seen the oculist again, and hopes are held out--strong hopes, he says--that he will recover the sight of one eye, at least. But recovery will be slow, and it must not be forced, or he may lose his sight altogether. For the next few months he will have to be content to use other people's eyes more than his own. Of course that is much better than being always blind. But the poor man feels it a good deal, one can see." "And he wants us to go and stay with him?" "That is what he asks--to stay for the winter months, and see how we get on. As he says, he is very dependent upon Mr. Earle, and it would be much more convenient if the boys were living in his house, so that the lessons could be given there; and then, as he cannot read or study or employ himself as he has been used to do, a silent house, with nobody to speak to for the greater part of the day, would be very dreary for him. He says that he has no kinsfolk except ourselves. Your father was the last blood relation of whom he knows anything, and he seems to feel that we belong to him in a certain sort of way. What do you think about it, Esther, my dear? Do you think we ought to go?" Esther's face was quite flushed and eager. "O mama, if we can help him, I think we ought!" "He says we might bring Genefer as my maid, and make any arrangements we liked about the other servants, and he would see that the house and garden here were properly cared for. Of course, it would be a great saving of trouble and expense in a way, but it would not be quite like living at home. Mr. Trelawny would be the master, and we should all have to keep his rules. But that might be a good thing for the boys. I sometimes think they want a stronger hand over them." "I think it would be a very good plan," said Esther; "they are getting so much better, and they are fond of Mr. Trelawny. He would make them obey, and they would like it. They always obey Mr. Earle now, and they like him better than anybody almost." "It would be more the sort of life they have been accustomed to--a big house and a man's authority," said Mrs. St. Aiden reflectively. "And Mr. Trelawny is a sort of guardian to you, and has been a most kind friend to me since your father died. We must not forget that. He asks it as a favor to himself. You can read the letter if you like." Esther did so, and looked up with the sparkle of tears in her eyes. "O mama, you will go, won't you?" "I suppose so, dear, if you like the plan, and think you could all be happy there. As he says, it is a big house, and we should have our own rooms, and the boys' noise need not trouble him more than he cares about. I don't think their father would mind. After all, it is only a long visit. He only asks us just for the winter months." "He wants us to go as soon as we can," said Esther. "Yes, you see he feels his blindness so much, and a merry houseful about him would cheer him up. Well, dear, would you like to run up and tell him that we will try the experiment? It will save me the trouble of writing, and I think he will like to hear it from your lips. And Mr. Trelawny is always in a hurry to carry out his plans." Esther smiled a little at that. She knew very well that Mr. Trelawny never waited an hour if he could help it. It was his impatience of delay that had caused the accident which had partly destroyed his sight, and might have caused his death. "I should like to go, mama, if you like me to. I have done my lessons for to-day. The boys are having their navigation. I don't do that with them." "Well, then, run off, dear, with the answer. I don't see how we could refuse. And I always think that this house in the winter is just a little damp. I shall be glad to be out of it before the fall of the leaf." Esther had her hat in her hand, and was soon on her way to the Crag. How strange to think that before long she might be actually an inmate of that house! And how much stranger still that she was not a bit afraid of the prospect! It was a beautiful afternoon--as warm as summer; and when Esther approached the house, she gave a little jump of surprise, for there was Mr. Trelawny lying on a couch on the terrace, his eyes still bandaged up so that he could see nothing, but at least he could breathe the fresh wind blowing softly off the sea, and Esther knew how he would like that. She ran forward, forgetting all about her old shyness. "O Mr. Trelawny, how nice for you to be out of doors!" "Ha! is that my little Goldylocks?" said the invalid, stretching out the hand he could use. "So you have found your way up to the old blind man, have you? I suppose you have not brought me any letter from your mother yet. That would be too soon." Esther clasped her two hands around that of Mr. Trelawny, and said,-- "Mama said I might run up and tell you. She has got your letter, and we think it so kind of you. We should like very much to come and pay you a nice long visit, if you don't think we shall be in your way." His strong fingers closed over her little hands in a tight grip; she could see that his mouth was smiling, and that there was pleasure in every line of his face. "Is that so, little woman? Have you taken counsel together over the blind man's request? Of course your mother would not settle anything so important without the leave of the 'little manager.'" Esther did not mind being teased now, not one bit. She gave a little soft laugh as she answered,-- "We think it would be a very nice plan, if you like it too. I know the boys will be just delighted. They think this is the very nicest house in the whole place, and I think it will suit mama. She will enjoy this nice sunny terrace in fine weather, and the view of the sea. We can't see a bit of the sea from our house." "And will somebody else enjoy it too?" asked Mr. Trelawny. "What about my little Goldylocks herself?" "Oh, I shall like it!" answered Esther softly, stroking the hand she held. "I think it is beautiful up here, and I like being useful. Do you think I can be useful to you, Uncle Robert, if I come?" "I mean to make you very useful, little woman," he said. "It was partly for that reason I thought out the plan. I want a little niece or granddaughter of my own to wait upon me and take care of me. As I haven't got one quite of my own, I have to do the next best thing, and try to steal one who will do instead." A little while ago Esther would have shaken in her shoes at the notion of being stolen by Mr. Trelawny, but now she listened to these words with only a little thrill of pleasure. "I should like to be your little granddaughter," she said. "You must tell me what you want me to do." He drew her down beside him on the couch, and passed his hand over her head. "You will have to learn how to be eyes for me, for a little while at any rate, Goldylocks, and to do the same for me that the dog does for the blind man--lead me about, and take care that I don't fall. Will that be a great nuisance, little woman?" "Oh no! I like taking care of people," answered Esther earnestly; "only I am so sorry you want taking care of at all. But it won't be for very long. You will be able to see again soon, won't you?" "I hope so, my little maid, I hope so. They give me good words when I ask the question myself. But they all tell me I must be patient--be patient; and, Esther, though I am an old man, and ought to have learned that lesson long ago, I find that I have not done so. I find it harder to be patient than anything else in the world, and it is harder to learn lessons when we are old than when we are young. Hallo! hallo!--what's this?" This exclamation was caused by Mr. Trelawny's becoming aware of something warm and damp dropping upon his hand. Esther hastily dashed the drops from her eyes, but her old friend knew whence they had come, and something like a quiver passed over his face. "Child, child, you must not cry," he said. "I was only wishing I could be blind instead of you for a little while," said Esther, with a little catch in her voice. Her hands were held very closely by Mr. Trelawny's strong fingers; his voice was not a bit gruff as he answered,-- "I believe you, my dear, I believe you. You are like your father, and he was the most unselfish man I ever knew. I believe you would give me the eyes out of your head if you had power to do it; and as you have not that, you must learn to use them for my benefit, and I shall expect them to see a great deal. Tell me what you see now." Esther looked round and scarcely knew where to begin, but she was thinking too much of Mr. Trelawny to be self-conscious, and soon she was telling him just how the sea looked, with the great burning track of yellow light across it, as the sun slowly sank; and how big and golden-red the sun grew as it drew near to the horizon; and how the little fishing boats were all coming home; and in which direction the clouds were sailing; and how the white-winged seagulls were fishing in the bay, and wheeling round and round, calling to each other with their strange, mournful cries. It was very interesting, she thought, to try to make somebody else see it all; and Mr. Trelawny evidently could, for he sometimes interrupted to tell her things she had not noticed herself, so that she often looked quickly at him to make sure that he really was not "peeping." For she knew he must not try to use his eyes yet, even though he might be able to see by and by with one of them at any rate. "If the sun is dipping, you must run home, childie," he said at last. "Run home and tell your mother that I am very grateful to her for humoring a blind man's fancy, and that the sooner she and her tribe can come and take possession, the better he will be pleased." "I will tell her," answered Esther. "I think we could come quite soon. There will not be so very much to do, and if we should leave anything behind, we can easily fetch it away afterwards. I will talk to Genefer about that. She and I will do the packing, you know." "Of course, of course; the 'little manager' will manage all that. I shall soon be managed out of house and home, I expect. What a wide field the Crag will give to such an enterprising little woman!" "You are teasing me now," said Esther, laughing, and bending down she kissed him on the lips, and then talking her hat, ran lightly down the hill towards home, a very warm feeling in her heart towards the redoubtable owner, who had once been the very terror of her life. Half-way down she encountered the boys, who were running to meet her, brimful of excitement. "O Essie! Essie! is it true?" "Are we going to live up there?" "Did he really ask us too? Oh, won't it be jolly? Won't it be scrumptious? Aunt Saint said you'd gone to settle it all. Do say that it's all settled now." "Yes, quite," answered Esther; "Mr. Trelawny wants us to go as soon as ever we can. He says the house seems so empty and lonely now that he can't read or go about or amuse himself as he used to do. And he wants Mr. Earle so much more now; that is another reason. You must be very good and nice, boys, and not give trouble. We mustn't worry him now that he's ill." "We won't," cried Pickle earnestly. "We'll be as good as gold. I mean, we'll try to be as good as we can.--Won't we, Puck?" "We will," answered that young man solemnly. "I should like Mr. Trelawny to like us. Perhaps, then, he'll let us stay always. I mean till Crump--no, till father comes back or we go to school. I don't like it when Mr. Earle is angry with us, and I don't want Uncle Bob to be either." "I think it'll be awfully nice," said Pickle, as they wended their way home again through the wood. "I shall try and help Uncle Bob too. Aunt Saint said he wanted you, Essie, because you would be like a pair of eyes to him. I know why he thought that. You're always doing kind things for other people, and you don't care about yourself if other people are happy. I just know if I were to be ill, I should like to have you come and see me and sit with me. It can't be just because you're a girl, for that Pretty Polly is a girl, and she thinks herself very good too, but I'd sooner have a toad come to sit with me than her." "O Pickle, don't talk like that!" "I'd twice as soon have the toad," cried Puck; "toads are nice things, and they have such funny eyes--like precious stones. She's just a prig, and I can't abide her. We won't ever ask her up to play at the Crag. I shall tell Uncle Bob about her, and he won't let her come then." "That would be unkind," said Esther gently. "I don't think we ought to be unkind to Prissy. She tries to be very good, you know, and she is always obedient." Pickle and Puck were silent for a minute. They had been thinking, very seriously for them, about obedience of late. They had recognized their own failure, and had been sorry for it. In the old days they had taken this matter too lightly, but they were learning better now. "Well," said Puck at length, "she may be obedient, but she's nasty too. You're obedient and nice, Essie. I like you. But if you say we've got to ask Prissy, we will; only I hope Uncle Bob will laugh the priggishness out of her if she comes." Great excitement reigned in the little house during the next days, for there seemed no reason to postpone the arrangement if it were really to be carried out. Esther and Genefer were busy putting away household things, and packing up personal belongings. The boys flitted hither and thither, helping and hindering, and made daily excursions to the Crag to get news of Mr. Trelawny, and tell him how they were getting on. Lessons were not to be recommenced till the party got up to their new quarters, and the cart came daily to fetch away boxes that were ready for removing. Milly and Bertie were rather sorrowful at the thought of losing their playmates, but Puck brought good news from the Crag. "Uncle Bob says you may come up every Saturday afternoon and play with us. He doesn't think we shall go sailing in the _Swan_ very often now, because the sea gets rough in the winter; but there are no end of jolly things to do up there, and Uncle Bob says we may have you up whenever you can come on Saturdays. Esther can ask Prissy too, if she wants her, but you are our friends. Prissy never cares to play with us." This was delightful news, for the Crag had never, been anything but a mysterious region of wonders to the rectory children. Mr. Trelawny had sometimes asked the parents to send them; but Mrs. Polperran did not entirely approve of Mr. Trelawny, and she was half afraid lest some harm should come to her brood through his love of practical joking. It was very exciting to think of visiting there now, and seeing all the strange things that were said to exist in that house. "Is he really a magician or a wizard?" asked Milly with bated breath. "I don't believe he is," answered Pickle. "I believe he's just a nice, jolly old gentleman; only he's very clever, and people don't understand, and call him names. I don't believe there are any magicians left now. I believe he's just the same as other people." "But the pickled skeletons in the tanks," urged Milly. "I don't believe there are any really," answered Puck, with a note of regret in his voice; "I don't think he pickles anything except specimens that go into bottles. We shall find out all about it when we go to live there. But I don't believe he's a bit of a magician, and Essie doesn't think so either. She isn't a bit afraid of him now." The day for the flitting arrived in due course, and the carriage and a last cart were sent down to the Hermitage to convey Mrs. St. Aiden and her belongings. Genefer remained behind to shut up the house, and the boys preferred to climb the hill by the path through the wood. But Esther drove up with her mother by the zigzag road, and as the great easy carriage rolled smoothly along, Mrs. St. Aiden said with a little sigh,-- "We must persuade your Uncle Robert to go driving with us, Esther. He is one of those men who have never cared to drive, but it would do him good, I am sure. This is a most comfortable carriage. It will be delightful to have the use of it, and I am sure it will do him good to get out as much as possible." "I dare say he would drive with you, mama," answered Esther. "We will try to coax him. But I don't think anybody would care very much about driving all alone." Mr. Trelawny was standing in the hall to welcome them. He had a stick in his hand, but he laid it down and drew Esther towards him and kissed her. "You will be a substitute for that now, my little maid," he said. "We are going to have some good times together, are we not?" The boys came rushing in at this moment, helter-skelter, bringing an atmosphere of life and jollity with them. "Uncle Bob!" cried Puck, rushing up and seizing his hand, almost gasping and choking in his eagerness and excitement, "we've thought of such a plan for you. We'll do lessons by ourselves for a little while, and Mr. Earle shall make you an electric eye to see with, till your own gets quite well." CHAPTER XII. A NEW CHARGE. Esther found out very soon that Mr. Trelawny's threat of making her his "little white slave" was not altogether an idle one. She had laughed when he spoke the words upon a former visit to the Crag, but she soon found that he did take up a great deal of her time and care, and very willingly was the service rendered that his helplessness made needful. It seemed to be less irksome to Mr. Trelawny to be led about by the little girl than by any other person--even Mr. Earle; and, of course, a good deal of Mr. Earle's time was now taken up by lessons. Esther found that her regular studies were very much interrupted by the demands made upon her time by Mr. Trelawny; but on the other hand, she thought she was learning as much with him, as though she had been in the schoolroom all the time. His mind seemed like a perfect storehouse of information; and as he took his leisurely walks abroad, he would teach Esther all manner of things--history, geography, physiology, geology, and all sorts of things with long names that Esther never learned. All she knew was that she was learning interesting things every day of her life, and that the world seemed to be growing a bigger and more beautiful and wonderful place than she had had the least idea of before. Mr. Trelawny was a wonderful teacher; but he expected his lessons to be understood and remembered. Again and again he would put a sudden question to his little companion, asking her about something he had told her on a previous occasion, or making sure that she understood the bearing of some new piece of information he was giving her. Esther soon conquered her first shyness, and was not a bit afraid to ask questions and to say when she did not understand. She found that Mr. Trelawny, though not quite so well used to teaching as Mr. Earle, was never impatient or vexed at being asked to explain himself. What did vex him was for anybody to make believe to understand a thing he was saying, and then show later on that it had not been understood at all. As long as the fine weather lasted there were delightful things to do. Sometimes it was a long drive, which Mrs. St. Aiden generally shared; sometimes a sail in the _Swan_ with Mr. Earle and the boys, which was always a great pleasure. Then there was a great excitement for a few days in the place, for the mackerel had come into the bay in shoals; and the _Swan_ went out with the other boats, and the little Polperrans went in her, and they all had spinners, and caught mackerel by the dozen, and fine fun they had out of it till the fish disappeared as suddenly as they had come. Mr. Trelawny was getting quite strong again, but he was still forbidden to make any attempt to use his eyes, and went about with a bandage and a shade. Perhaps it was this that made him stoop a little in his walk, as he had never done before. Certainly his hair had begun to grow white rather quickly. He had never seemed to be an old man before. Esther had never thought of him as old until just lately, although he used to speak of himself in a half-joking way as an old fellow; but he did begin to look old now, though he seemed strong and well in himself. He liked to be out of doors as much as possible, and Esther was nearly always his companion. She found this interesting in many ways. One was that she had her lessons in a new and interesting fashion from him. Another was that she got to know a great many fresh people, and heard a great many interesting things about them. Mr. Trelawny owned a good deal of land all round the Crag, and the people who lived in the cottages were his tenants. He had known them all his life, and they had known him. There had been Trelawnys at the Crag for several hundreds of years. Esther found out that Mr. Trelawny, in spite of his gruffness, was very much respected and loved. She liked very much to go with him to see the cottagers and fisher folk, and listen whilst they talked to him and told him all about themselves, their troubles, their bits of good luck, their perplexities with their sons and daughters, and all the different things which went to make up the sum of their simple lives. She grew fond of the simple people herself, who always had a smile and soft word for "the little lady." She thought it must be very nice to have Mr. Trelawny's power to help them in times of need, to advise them in their troubles, to rebuke those who wanted a sharp reproof, and to warn those who were in danger of falling into bad habits or idle ways. Often after these visits Mr. Trelawny would talk to Esther a great deal about the family they had just visited, telling her its history, what sort of people they had shown themselves in the past, and what kind of treatment they had required. Some children might have been bored by this sort of thing, but Esther was never bored. It seemed to her very interesting, and she always listened with great attention. "You must help me at Christmas time this year, little woman," he said one crisp December day, as they were walking home together. "There are a lot of old fashions we keep up at Christmas here. It's one of the relics of old times that no Trelawny has had the disposition to do away with. Some people say that the time has gone by for that sort of thing, and that it is obsolete and only a form of pauperization. Perhaps they may be right. But in my day I shall change nothing. I'm too much the old Tory for that. And you will help me this year, won't you? You ought to see how everything is done." "I should like to," answered Esther eagerly; "what is it you do?" "Give a great feed--dinner, the people call it--in the hall at the Crag, to which every tenant and his family is entitled to come, even to the babies, if the mothers choose to bring them. No questions are asked, nobody is turned away. Every tenant has the right to be there, and to eat and drink to his heart's content. Five o'clock is the hour for the feed, and after that they sing carols or old songs and make speeches. I come in and drink a glass with them, as the Trelawnys have always done; and when they can eat and drink no more, there is a great giving of presents all round. Bran pies or a Christmas-tree for the children, and clothing or nets or tools for the grown folks. We keep it up till ten o'clock, and then sing 'God save the Queen,' and send them all off to their homes. It used to be done on Christmas Eve or on Christmas Day, but now it's on Boxing Day, as we think that home is the right place for folks on Christmas Day itself. You will have to be my right hand, little woman, in all the preparations we have to make." Esther was skipping along gaily: her face was aglow. "How nice!" she exclaimed; "I shall like to help and to see them all. May I come with you, Uncle Robert, when you go to see them at dinner-time?" "Of course you may, my dear. Indeed I particularly wish you to be with me. I want to present you to the people then. It will be the best opportunity for it." Esther raised her eyes with a questioning look, but then, remembering that he could not see, she said softly,-- "I don't think I quite understand, Uncle Robert." His clasp upon her fingers tightened; he did not speak for a while, and then he said slowly,-- "No, childie, I know you don't. I am debating in my mind whether or not to tell you." Esther looked up again with the same shade of perplexity in her eyes, but she asked no further question. She knew she would be told if Mr. Trelawny thought it well. At last he spoke, but rather as though to himself and not to her. It was as if he were debating some point in his own mind. "I don't know why she should not be told. The Queen was no older when she found out that in all probability she would one day have a kingdom to rule, and her first wish and resolve were that she might grow up a good woman. I believe it would be the same with this child in a very little kingdom. I want her to grow up feeling what are the duties which will some day be hers." Esther's heart was beating rather fast by this time. She felt as though something momentous was going to be spoken, and she was not wrong. They had reached the terrace by this time, and with the shelter of the house behind them, and the sunlight falling full upon it, the place was quite warm--so warm that Mr. Trelawny seated himself under the veranda, and drew the little girl between his knees. "My dear," he said, "I suppose you are too young ever to have wondered who will live at the Crag after I am gone." Esther did not speak. It had certainly never entered her head to think about such a thing as this. "I am the last of the Trelawnys," continued the old man; "I have not a single blood relation of that name to come after me. Once I thought it would be otherwise. For three happy years I had a wife living with me here, and a little boy who had just learned to call me 'daddy.' Then they were both taken away. It was all so long ago that the folks here have almost forgotten, and some of them speak of me as a bachelor. But I have never forgotten. I never could care for anybody else. I have lived my life alone, and I have nobody to come after me--nobody to love me now." Esther suddenly raised the hand she held and carried it to her lips. "We all love you, Uncle Robert," she said softly. He stooped and kissed her, putting his arm round her and holding her close. For with all her clinging, affectionate ways, Esther had never yet spoken of loving her father's old kinsman. "Thank you for telling me so, childie. Yes, I believe you, my dear. Esther, do you know that you are the only blood relation I have in the world?" She shook her head, and he felt the motion. "But that is so, my child. Your father was my only kinsman. At one time I looked upon him as my heir. Then he too was taken. I brought his wife and child to be near me, but I do not think I at once formed any plan for the future. The estate and income are my own property. I can dispose of them as I will. But I want to find a successor who will love the old place, and who will be a merciful as well as a just monarch in the little kingdom which lies around the Crag." He paused, and Esther neither spoke nor moved. "Kingdom is perhaps an obsolete word in these leveling days, yet down here amongst these simple folk the owner of the Crag wields no small power. It is a power I should fear to put into any but just and merciful hands. Little Esther, do you think you could be a just and merciful ruler here some day? Would you try--like our good and gracious Queen--to 'be good,' to love your people, to be a wise and God-fearing ruler, if ever that power were to be entrusted to you?" She hid her face upon his shoulder. She was startled, overcome, almost frightened. He felt her shiver through all her little frame. He saw that she had understood, and that it was all a very solemn and sacred thing to her. He held her very closely as he went on speaking. "Little Esther, it is a great charge, and you are but a little girl now, but you will grow older every year; and I believe I shall be spared many years longer myself, though I do not expect ever to be the same man that I was before my accident. I have talked to your mother about this, and she is willing that you should continue to live with me, to learn the ways of the place, and how to be its mistress one day. My will is drawn up, leaving all to you. I am just waiting till I have my sight back to sign it. I think you are learning every day to love and understand the people better and better. Perhaps some day you will take my name, so as to keep the old name with the old acres; but there is time enough to think of that. You have always been used to having the charge of something or somebody. It will only be adding a new one to the list. Do you think your little shoulders are strong enough to bear the burden? Will you be my little girl now, and be good to the people when I am gone?" Her tears came at that, not loudly or noisily, but raining down very fast. "O Uncle Robert, I will do what I can. I will try to be good. But, please, don't talk as though I were going to have it all. I can't bear that. I only want to help you, and learn to do things as you do them." "That is all I ask, my dear. I hope that is all that will be laid upon you for a good many years to come. Indeed, you would never have the sole burden in your childhood and youth, of course. But I should like to feel that you were growing up in the traditions of the place, knowing what is before you, just as you would know it if you were in very truth the little niece or granddaughter that I call you." For a few days after that talk Esther went about with a very grave face, and was absorbed in a multitude of new thoughts. But children quickly grow used to an idea, and so it was here. The little girl never spoke of it to anybody but Mr. Trelawny and her mother, but she began to have an understanding of the new charge which would one day in all probability be hers; and she followed Mr. Trelawny about more assiduously than ever, waiting upon him, watching him, trying to forestall all his wants and to understand all that he was doing; whilst he, on his part, took her more and more into his confidence, both feeling that a new and very tender bond had been established between them. The coming Christmas festivities kept the boys fully engrossed. They had leave to go into Penzance with Mr. Earle to make their purchases, and they were full of mystery and excitement for days before and after. At last they could bear the burden of their great secret no longer, and pulling Esther into their room one day, a little before Christmas Day, they whispered the tremendous secret. "Esther, we've got it; we got it all by ourselves. Nobody knows--not even Mr. Earle. Would you like to see it? It is such a funny thing; but we know what it must be, and we've bought it. It was very expensive, but we don't care if only he likes it. Would you like to see it first?" "What is it?" asked Esther, infected by the air of mystery around her. The boys' room was almost dark, for the light was fading fast. Puck was quivering all over in his excitement. He seemed able to contain himself no longer, and burst suddenly into speech. "It's an electric eye--an electric eye for Mr. Trelawny. We found it at last in a bicycle shop. Come here, Esther, and look. You know people do have such accidents on bicycles. I expect they knock out their eyes and have electric ones put in. It's rather big, but Mr. Trelawny has such big holes for his. I expect it'll go in.--Pickle, open the door and we'll show her." Pickle was fumbling under the carpet for a key, which was hidden in some crevice in the boards and when that was brought to light a cupboard was unlocked, and then suddenly one of the boys did something, and immediately a bright ray of white light shone forth from a small glass ball which had somewhat the look of an eye. "There, there, look!" cried Puck, dancing up and down in his excitement; "there it is--an electric eye! Do you think he'll like it? Don't you think he'll be pleased? Just see what a light it gives! He'd be able to see with that in the dark as well as in the light." Esther was immensely impressed, though rather perplexed. The eye was certainly very wonderful, and could be turned on and off at will; but whether it would help Mr. Trelawny in his present condition she did not feel quite certain, but the boys had no manner of doubt. "Won't it be jolly when he can go about without that horrid old shade, and without a stick, or anybody to lead him? I can't think why he didn't have one before, but I suppose he couldn't find one. We hunted all over, and people only laughed when we asked. But one man told us he'd seen something like one in the bicycle shop, and sure enough there it was. Sometimes it gets empty and has to be filled up, but Mr. Earle could do that, I'm sure. He can do lots of things with electricity. I can't think why he hasn't made Uncle Bob an electric eye all this time, but I'm glad he hasn't, because we shall so like to give it him." It was hard work waiting for Christmas Eve, when the presentation was to be made; but the preparations for the great feast took up much time and attention, and drew off the boys' thoughts from the engrossing subject of the electric eye. But when the dusk of Christmas Eve had really come, and when Mr. Trelawny suddenly appeared in their midst, showering parcels about him in the twilight, like a miniature snowstorm, then the boys made a rush upon him, and the electric eye was produced and exhibited, Pickle being the principal speaker, though Puck kept up a running, breathless commentary, almost choking in his excitement and ecstatic hopes. Mr. Trelawny received the gift, and felt it all over. Then he turned his head towards Mr. Earle, and said,-- "Come, Earle; we must retire and see what we can do with this wonderful eye. You're a bit of a genius, according to these young men, and we'll see whether you understand adjusting it or not." Mr. Earle's face lighted up, and he marched off with Mr. Trelawny, whilst the servants brought in lamps, and the children, in breathless delight, opened the parcels which had been showered upon them. The fairies must surely have whispered in Mr. Trelawny's ears, for the secret desire of every heart seemed to be gratified. There were the daintiest of working and writing materials for Esther, together with just the very books she would have chosen for herself had the whole world's library been at her disposal. There were model boats for the boys, and tools, and knives, and charts, and books; and the children had little presents for one another, which had to be opened and explained and admired; and Mrs. St. Aiden had not forgotten, or been forgotten, and her couch was the center of the busy, happy group. Then suddenly the door was thrown open and in stalked Mr. Trelawny, without his shade, and walking erect, with his eyes looking just as they did of old, save that they were protected by a pair of spectacles with thick glasses. The children did not know that there had been any previous rehearsal of such a scene as this, and that Mr. Trelawny had been permitted to try to use his eyes by degrees for the last week or more. Even Esther did not know this--it was to be kept for a Christmas surprise; and now, with the glint of the light upon the spectacles, it was small wonder that Puck broke into a shout of triumph, and yelled at the top of his voice,-- "The electric eye; the electric eye! Three cheers for Uncle Bob and Mr. Earle and the electric eye!" Esther had run forward and was grasping the hand of her kind old friend. Her eyes were brimming over with tears of joy. "O Uncle Robert, can you really see?" "Yes, my little maid; I can see everything clearly again, thank God! Let me have a good look at the face of my little woman, for once I thought I should never see it again." It was hard to say who was happiest that night--Mr. Trelawny with his newly-restored gift, which, if somewhat impaired, would still be strong and serviceable again; or the boys, in their conviction that they had found the means whereby this result had been achieved; or Mrs. St. Aiden, who had found a safe shelter for herself and her child under the care of this kind and wealthy kinsman; or little Esther, who somehow felt that, though another charge had been given her, yet the burden which had rested rather heavily upon her since her father's death had somehow been wonderfully lightened. There was Uncle Robert now to care for them and think for them, and she was so glad it should be so. And she somehow felt almost certain that the Crag would always be their home now. She was more sure of it upon the night of the feast, when Mr. Trelawny took her by the hand and led her into the big hall that was filled from end to end with people she knew, crowded together at the long tables. She did not understand all the speech that Mr. Trelawny made, for he spoke it in the broad dialect of the country and fisher folk. But they understood, and they shouted and cheered; and then Mr. Trelawny put his hand upon her head, and said,-- "You must make them a little bow, my dear, and I will make a speech for you. Don't you understand that they are paying homage to you? They are accepting you as my little grand-daughter, who will one day rule here in my stead, and they are promising to love and be loyal to you, as I hope you will be loyal and true to them." And then Mr. Trelawny stooped and lifted her up in his arms and kissed her before them all; and Esther, as she ran away, overcome with all the honor and notice she was receiving, felt as though such a wonderful Christmas-tide could never come again. THE END. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS For Young People BY POPULAR WRITERS, 97-99-101 Reade Street, New York. =Bonnie Prince Charlie:= A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in French service. The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scotland. "Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'Quentin Durward.' The lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself."--_Spectator._ =With Clive in India=; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and of the greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. "He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_Scotsman._ =The Lion of the North=: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. "The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."--_Times._ =The Dragon and the Raven=; or, The Days of King Alfred. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. "Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--_Athenæum._ =The Young Carthaginian:= A Story of the Times of Hannibal. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of Carthage, that Hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannæ, and all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. "Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_Saturday Review._ =In Freedom's Cause:= A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. "It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--_The Schoolmaster._ =With Lee in Virginia:= A Story of the American Civil War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. "One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--_Standard._ =By England's Aid=; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-1604). By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting Veres." After many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in getting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz. "It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness."--_Boston Gazette._ =By Right of Conquest=; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY, and Two Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.50. The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With this as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the Spaniards in the New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec bride. "'By Right of Conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published."--_Academy._ =In the Reign of Terror:= The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by J. SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a French marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nantes. There the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. "Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... The story is one of Mr. Henty's best."--_Saturday Review._ =With Wolfe in Canada=; or, The Winning of a Continent. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the nations of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the English language, and English literature, should spread right round the globe. "It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_Illustrated London News._ =True to the Old Flag:= A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which American and British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. The historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of Lake Huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. "Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook."--_The Times._ =The Lion of St. Mark:= A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the victories of the Venetians at Porto d'Anzo and Chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice. "Every boy should read 'The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--_Saturday Review._ =A Final Reckoning:= A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The hero, a young English lad, after rather a stormy boyhood, emigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. "Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."--_Spectator._ =Under Drake's Flag:= A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. "A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_Harper's Monthly Magazine._ =By Sheer Pluck:= A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their march to Coomassie. "Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'By Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read."--_Athenæum._ =By Pike and Dyke:= A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN, and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea-captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. He ultimately settles down as Sir Edward Martin. "Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite of themselves."--_St. James' Gazette._ =St. George for England:= A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the destruction of the Spanish fleet; the plague of the Black Death; the Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "St. George for England." The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince. "Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir Walter Scott in the land of fiction."--_The Standard._ =Captain's Kidd's Gold:= The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor Boy. By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes--sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the Spanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. Perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts' true story of an adventurous American boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. The document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book, Paul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. =Captain Bayley's Heir:= A Tale of the Gold Fields of California. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves England for America. He works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_Christian Leader._ =For Name and Fame=; or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. An interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the Afghan passes. He accompanies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is transferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of Ayoub Khan. "The best feature of the book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan people."--_Daily News._ =Captured by Apes:= The Wonderful Adventures of a Young Animal Trainer. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. The scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archipelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of New York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo and young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. The lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as Goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. The brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. =The Bravest of the Brave=; or, With Peterborough in Spain. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peterborough. This is largely due to the fact that they were overshadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed. "Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read 'The Bravest of the Brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_Daily Telegraph._ =The Cat of Bubastes=: A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. They become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. "The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated."--_Saturday Review._ =With Washington at Monmouth:= A Story of Three Philadelphia Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Three Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British officers;" Enoch Ball, "son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing school was situated on Letitia Street," and little Jacob, son of "Chris, the Baker," serve as the principal characters. The story is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the American spies who make regular and frequent visits from Valley Forge. One reads here of home life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. =For the Temple:= A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by S. J. SOLOMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Mr. Henty here weaves into the record of Josephus an admirable and attractive story. The troubles in the district of Tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of Jotapata, of Gamala, and of Jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of Josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the Temple, and after a brief term of slavery at Alexandria, returns to his Galilean home with the favor of Titus. "Mr. Henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to Roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world."--_Graphic._ =Facing Death=; or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "Facing Death" is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story is a typical British boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. "The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_Standard._ =Tom Temple's Career.= By HORATIO ALGER. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Tom Temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of Nathan Middleton, a penurious insurance agent. Though well paid for keeping the boy, Nathan and his wife endeavor to bring Master Tom in line with their parsimonious habits. The lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. As Tom is heir to $40,000, he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. He leaves Plympton village to seek work in New York, whence he undertakes an important mission to California, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. Some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. =Maori and Settler:= A Story of the New Zealand War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The Renshaws emigrate to New Zealand during the period of the war with the natives. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. He has for his friend Mr. Atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant New Zealand valleys. "Brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--_Schoolmaster._ =Julian Mortimer:= A Brave Boy's Struggle for Home and Fortune. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. There is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi River, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. One of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of Indians. Our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young American in every sense of the word. He enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. Surrounded by an unknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. Harry Castlemon has written many entertaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of America regard him as a favorite author. "=Carrots=:" Just a Little Boy. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_Examiner._ "A genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. Children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane's illustrations."--_Punch._ =Mopsa the Fairy.= By JEAN INGELOW. With Eight page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "Mrs. Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and 'Mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius Miss Ingelow has and the story of 'Jack' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of childhood."--_Eclectic._ =A Jaunt Through Java:= The Story of a Journey to the Sacred Mountain. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The central interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their trip across the island of Java, from Samarang to the Sacred Mountain. In a land where the Royal Bengal tiger runs at large; where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. Hermon not only distinguishes himself by killing a full-grown tiger at short range, but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. There is much in this narrative to instruct as well as entertain the reader, and so deftly has Mr. Ellis used his material that there is not a dull page in the book. The two heroes are brave, manly young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. They cope with the many difficulties that arise during the trip in a fearless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is so fortunate as to read their adventures. =Wrecked on Spider Island=; or, How Ned Rogers Found the Treasure. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A "down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by which he can gain a livelihood. While in his bunk, seasick, Ned Rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. Once it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons him on Spider Island, explaining to the crew that the boy is afflicted with leprosy. While thus involuntarily playing the part of a Crusoe, Ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material with which to build a hut finds a considerable amount of treasure. Raising the wreck; a voyage to Havana under sail; shipping there a crew and running for Savannah; the attempt of the crew to seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire. =Geoff and Jim:= A Story of School Life. By ISMAY THORN. Illustrated by A. G. WALKER. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "This is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. Both Geoff and Jim are very lovable characters, only Jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."--_Church Times._ "This is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the book tastefully bound and well illustrated."--_Schoolmaster._ "The story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."--_Standard._ =The Castaways=; or, On the Florida Reefs. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This tale smacks of the salt sea. It is just the kind of story that the majority of boys yearn for. From the moment that the Sea Queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower New York bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of Florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. Off Marquesas Keys she floats in a dead calm. Ben Clark, the hero of the story, and Jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the water. They determine to capture him, and take a boat for that purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles begin. They take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. Their adventures from this point cannot fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young people Mr. Otis is a prime favorite. His style is captivating, and never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. In "The Castaways" he is at his best. =Tom Thatcher's Fortune.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Like all of Mr. Alger's heroes, Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports his mother and sister on meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in John Simpson's factory. The story begins with Tom's discharge from the factory, because Mr. Simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too closely about his missing father. A few days afterward Tom learns that which induces him to start overland for California with the view of probing the family mystery. He meets with many adventures. Ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing consternation to the soul of John Simpson, who only escapes the consequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man whose friendship he had betrayed. The story is told in that entertaining way which has made Mr. Alger's name a household word in so many homes. =Birdie=: A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. CHILDE-PEMBERTON. Illustrated by H. W. RAINEY. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier years."--_New York Express._ =Popular Fairy Tales.= By the BROTHERS GRIMM. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "From first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful."--_Athenæum._ 
38771	----	[Illustration: "I WILL KNOCK. YOU ARE TO SAY, 'PLEASE IS MRS. ROBBINS IN?'"--Page 171.] THE LITTLE PRINCESS OF TOWER HILL. BY L. T. MEADE, _Author of "A Sweet Girl Graduate," "The Lady of the Forest," "A World of Girls," "Polly", "The Palace Beautiful," etc._ SIX PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. NEW YORK A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER. [Transcriber's note: This book contains the following stories as well: "Tom, Pepper, and Trusty", "Billy Anderson and his Troubles", "The Old Organ-Man". The table of contents is only for The Little Princess of Tower Hill.] CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. Her Very Young Days 1 CHAPTER II. Father's Short Visitor 12 CHAPTER III. Snubbed 23 CHAPTER IV. The Stable Clock 35 CHAPTER V. The Empty Hutch 49 CHAPTER VI. Jo's Room 63 CHAPTER VII. In Violet 77 CHAPTER VIII. Choosing Her Colors 103 CHAPTER IX. A Jolly Plan 113 CHAPTER X. A Great Fear 127 CHAPTER XI. Going Home 142 CHAPTER XII. In the Wood 151 CHAPTER XIII. Thank God for All 165 THE LITTLE PRINCESS OF TOWER HILL CHAPTER I. HER VERY YOUNG DAYS. All the other children who knew her thought Maggie a wonderfully fortunate little girl. She was sometimes spoken about as the "Little Princess of Tower Hill," for Tower Hill was the name of her father's place, and Maggie was his only child. The children in the village close by spoke of her with great respect, and looked at her with a good deal of longing and also no slight degree of envy, for while they had to run about in darned and shabby frocks, Maggie could wear the gayest and daintiest little dresses, and while they had to trudge sometimes even on little bare feet, Maggie could sit by her mother's side and be carried rapidly over the ground in a most delicious and luxurious carriage, or, better still, she might ride on her white pony Snowball, followed by a groom. The poor children envied Maggie, and admired her vastly, and the children of those people who, compared to Sir John Ascot, Maggie's father, might be considered neither rich nor poor, also thought her one of the most fortunate little girls in existence. Maggie was nearly eight years old, and from her very earliest days there had been a great fuss made about her. At the time of her birth bonfires had been lit, and oxen killed and roasted whole to be given away to the poor people, and Sir John and Lady Ascot did not seem at all disappointed at their baby being a girl instead of a son and heir to the old title and the fine old place. There was a most extraordinary fuss made over Maggie while she was a baby; her mother was never tired of visiting her grand nurseries and watching her as she lay asleep, or smiling at her and kissing her when she opened her big, bright blue eyes. The eyes in question were very pretty, so also was the little face, and the father and mother quite thought that there never was such a baby as their little Maggie. They had christened her Margarita Henrietta Villiers; these were all old family names, and very suitable to the child of proud old county folk. At least so Sir John thought, and his pretty young wife agreed with him, and she gave the servants strict directions that the baby was to be called Miss Margarita, and that the name was on no account whatever to be abridged or altered. This was very fine as long as the baby could only coo or make little inarticulate sounds, but that will of her own, which from the earliest minutes of her existence Maggie had manifested, came fully into play as soon as she found the full use of her tongue. She would call herself Mag-Mag, and would not answer to Margarita, or pay the smallest heed to any summons which came to her in this guise, and so, simply because they could not help themselves, Sir John and Lady Ascot had almost virtually to rechristen their little daughter, and before she was two years old Maggie was the only name by which she was known. Years passed, and no other baby came to Tower Hill, and every year Maggie became of a little more importance, and was made a little more fuss about, and as a natural consequence was a little more spoiled. She was a very pretty child; her hair was wavy and curly, and exquisitely fine; in its darkest parts it was nut-brown, but round her temples, and wherever the light fell on it, it was shaded off to the brightest gold; her eyes were large, and blue, and well open; her cheeks were pink, her lips rosy, and she had a saucy, never-me-care look, which her father and mother and the visitors who saw her thought wonderfully charming, but which now and then her nurse and her patient governess, Miss Grey, objected to. All things that money could buy, and all things that love could devise, were lavished at Maggie's feet. Her smallest wishes were instantly granted; the most expensive toys were purchased for her; the most valuable presents were given to her day by day. "Surely," said the village children, "there can be no happier little girl in all the wide, wide world than our little princess. If there is a child who lives always, every day, in a fairy-land, it is Miss Maggie Ascot." Maggie had two large nurseries to play in, and two nurses to wait upon her, and when she was seven years old a certain gentle-faced, kind-hearted Miss Grey arrived at Tower Hill to superintend the little girl's education. Then a schoolroom was added to her suit of apartments, and then also the troubles of her small life began. Hitherto everything had gone for Maggie Ascot with such smoothness and regularity, with such an eager desire on the part of every one around her not only to grant her wishes, but almost to anticipate them, that although nurse, and especially Grace, the under-nurse, strongly suspected that Miss Maggie had a temper of her own, yet certainly Sir John and Lady Ascot only considered her a somewhat daring, slightly self-willed, but altogether charming little girl. With the advent, however, of Miss Grey things were different. Maggie had taken the greatest delight in the furnishing and arranging of her schoolroom; she had laughed and clapped her hands with glee when she saw the pretty book-shelves being put up, and the gayly bound books arranged on them; and when Miss Grey herself arrived, Maggie had fallen quite in love with her, and had sat on her knee, and listened to her charming stories, and in fact for the first day or two would scarcely leave her new friend's side; but when lessons commenced, Maggie began to alter her mind about Miss Grey. That young lady was as firm as she was gentle, and she insisted not only on her little pupil obeying her, but also on her staying still and applying herself to her new duties for at least two hours out of every day. Long before a quarter of the first two hours had expired, Maggie had expressed herself tired of learning to read, and had announced, with her usual charming frankness, that she now intended to run into the garden and pick some roses. [Illustration: "I WANT TO PICK THOSE WHITE ROSES."--Page 6.] "I want to pick a great quantity of those nice white roses, and some of the prettiest of the buds, and when they are picked, I'll give them all to you, Miss Grey, darling," she continued, raising her fearless and saucy eyes to her governess' face. "Here you go, you tiresome old book," and the new reading-book was flung to the other side of the room, and Maggie had almost reached the door before Miss Grey had time to say: "Pick up your book and return to your seat, Maggie dear. You forget that these are lesson hours." "But I'm tired of lessons," said Maggie, "and I don't wish to do any more. I don't mean to learn to read--I don't like reading--I like being read to. I shan't ever read, I have quite made up my mind. How many roses would you like, Miss Grey?" "Not any, Maggie; you forget, dear, that Thompson, the gardener, told you last night you were not to pick any more roses at present, for they are very scarce just now." "Well, what are they there for except for me to pick?" answered the spoiled child, and from that moment Miss Grey's difficulties began. Maggie's hitherto sunshiny little life became to her full of troubles--she could not take pleasure in her lessons, and she failed to see any reason for her small crosses. Miss Grey was kind, and conscientious, and painstaking, but she certainly did not understand the spoiled but warm-hearted little girl she was engaged to teach, and the two did not pull well together. Nurse petted her darling and sympathized with her, and remarked in a somewhat injudicious way to Grace that Miss Maggie's cheeks were getting quite pale, and that she was certain, positive sure, that her brain was being forced into over-ripeness. "What's over-ripeness?" inquired Maggie as she submitted to her hair being brushed and curled for dinner, and to nurse turning her about with many jerks as she tied her pink sash into the most becoming bow--"what's over-ripeness, nursey, and what has it to say to my brain? That's the part of me what thinks, isn't it?" "Yes, Miss Maggie dear, and when it's forced unnatural it gets what I call over-ripe. I had a nephew once whose brain went like that--he died eventual of the same cause, for it filled with water." Maggie's round blue eyes regarded her nurse with a certain gleam of horror and satisfaction. Miss Grey had now been in the house for three months, and certainly the progress Maggie had made in her studies was not sufficiently remarkable to induce any one to dread evil consequences to her little brain. She trotted down to dinner, and took her usual place opposite her governess. In one of the pauses of the meal, her clear voice was heard addressing Sir John Ascot. "Father dear, did you ever hear nurse talk of her nephew?" "No, Mag-Mag, I can't say I have. Nurse does not favor me with much news about her domestic concerns, and she has doubtless many nephews." "Oh, but this is the one who was over-ripe," answered Maggie, "so you'd be sure to remember about him father." "What an unpleasant description, little woman!" answered Sir John; "an over-ripe nephew! Don't let's think of him. Have a peach, little one. Here is one which I can promise you is not in that state of incipient decay." Maggie received her peach with a little nod of thanks, but she was presently heard to murmur to herself: "I'm over-ripe, too. I quite 'spect I'll soon fill with water." "What is the child muttering?" asked Sir John of his wife; but Lady Ascot nodded to her husband to take no notice of Maggie, and presently she and her governess left the room. "My dear," said Lady Ascot to Sir John, when they were alone, "Miss Grey says that our little girl is determined to grow up a dunce--she simply won't learn, and she won't obey her; and I often see Maggie crying now, and nurse is not at all happy about her." "Miss Grey can't manage her; send her away," pronounced the baronet shortly. "But, my dear, she seems a very nice, good girl. I have really no reason for giving her notice to leave us--and--and--John, even though Maggie is our only little darling, I don't think we ought to spoil her." "Spoil her! Bless me, I never saw a better child." "Yes, my dear, she is all that is good and sweet to us, but she ought to be taught to obey her governess; indeed, I think we must not allow her to have the victory in this matter. If we sent Miss Grey away, Maggie would feel she had won the victory, and she would behave still more badly with the next governess." "Tut! tut!" said Sir John. "What a worry the world is, to be sure! Of course the little maid must be taught discipline; we'd none of us be anywhere without it; eh, wife? I'll tell you what, Maggie is all alone; she needs a companion. I'll send for Ralph." "That is a good idea," replied Lady Ascot. "Well, say nothing about it until I see if my sister can spare him. I'll go up to town to-morrow, and call and see her. Ralph will mold Maggie into shape better than twenty Miss Greys." CHAPTER II. FATHER'S SHORT VISITOR. Ralph's mother was a widow. She had traveled on the Continent for a long time, but had at last taken a small house in London. Sir John intended week after week to go and see his sister, and week after week put off doing so, until it suddenly dawned upon him that Ralph's society might do his own little princess good. Sir John told his wife to say nothing to Maggie about her cousin's visit, as it was quite uncertain whether his mother would spare him, and he did not wish the little maid to be disappointed. Maggie, however, was a very sharp child, and she was much interested in sundry mysterious preparations which were taking place in a certain very pretty bedroom not far from her own nurseries. A little brass bedstead, quite new and bright, was being covered with snowy draperies; and sundry articles which girls were not supposed to care about, but which, nevertheless, Maggie looked at with eyes of the deepest veneration and curiosity, were being placed in the room; among these articles might have been seen some cricket-bats, a pair of boxing-gloves, a couple of racket-balls, and even a little miniature gun. The little gun was harmless enough in its way; it had belonged to Sir John when a lad, but why was it placed in this room, and what did all these preparations mean? Maggie eagerly questioned Rosalie, the under-housemaid, but Rosalie could tell her nothing, beyond the fact that she was bid to make certain preparations in the room, and she supposed one of master's visitors was expected. "He must be a very short man," said Maggie, laying herself down at full length on the little white bed, and measuring the distance between her feet and the bright brass bars at the bottom; "he'll be about half a foot bigger than me," and then she scampered off to Miss Grey. "Father's visitor's room is all ready," she said. "How tall should you think he'd be, Miss Grey?" "Dear me, Maggie, how can I tell? If the visitor is a man, he'll be sure to be somewhere between five feet and six feet; I can't tell you the exact number of inches." "No, you're as wrong as possible," answered Maggie, clapping her hands. "There's a visitor coming to father, and of course he's a man, or he wouldn't be father's visitor, and he's only about one head bigger than me. He's very manly, too; he likes cricket, and racket, and boxing, and firing guns. His room is full of all those 'licious things. Oh, I wish I was a man too. Miss Grey, darling, how soon shall I be growed up?" "Not for a long, long time yet. Now do sit straight, dear, and don't cross your legs. Sit upright on your chair, Maggie, like a little lady. Here is your hemming, love; I have turned down a nice piece for you. Now be sure you put in small stitches, and don't prick your finger." These remarks and these little injunctions always drew a deep frown between Maggie's arched brows. "Sewing isn't meant for rich little girls like me," she said. "I'm not going to sew when I grow up; I know what I'll do then. I know quite well; when I'm tired I'll sit in an easy-chair and eat lollipops, and when I'm not tired I'll ride on all the wildest horses I can find, and I'll play cricket, and fire guns, and fish, and--and--oh, I wish I was grown up." Miss Grey, who was by this time quite accustomed to Maggie's erratic speeches, thought it best to take no notice whatever of her present remarks. Maggie would have liked her to argue with her and remonstrate; she would have preferred anything to the calm and perfect stillness of the governess. She was allowed to talk a little while she was at her hemming, and she now turned her conversation into a different channel. "Miss Grey," she said, "which do you think are the best off, very rich little only children girls, or very poor little many children girls?" "Maggie dear," replied her governess, "you are asking me, as usual, a silly question. The fact of a little girl being rich and an only child, or the fact of a little girl being poor and having a great many brothers and sisters, has really much less to do with happiness than people think. Happiness is a very precious possession, and sometimes it is given to people who look very pale and suffering, and sometimes it is denied to those who look as if they wanted for nothing." "That's me," said Maggie, uttering a profound sigh. "I'm rich and I want for nothing, and I'm the mis'rable one, and Jim, the cripple in our village, is poor, and he hasn't got no nice things, and he's the happy one. Oh, how I wish I was Jim the cripple." "Why, Maggie, you would not surely like to give up your dear father and mother to be somebody else's child." "No, of course not. They'd have to be poor too. Mother would have to take in washing and father--I'm afraid father would have to put on ragged clothes, and go about begging from place to place. I don't think Jim, the cripple, has any father, but I couldn't do without mine, so he'd have to be a beggar and go about from place to place to get pennies for mother and me. We'd be darling and poor, and we couldn't afford to keep you, Miss Grey, and I wouldn't mind that at all, 'cause then I need never do reading and hemming, and I'd be as ignoram as possible all my days." Just at this moment somebody called Maggie, and she was told to put on her out-door things, and to go for a drive with her mother in the carriage. Maggie was a very sharp little girl, and she could not help noticing a certain air of expectancy on Lady Ascot's face, and a certain brightening of her eyes, particularly when Maggie, in her usual impetuous fashion, asked eager questions about the very short gentleman visitor who was coming to stay with father. "He's not four feet high," said Maggie. "I am sure I shall like him greatly; he'll be a sort of companion to me, and I know he must be very brave." "Why do you know that, little woman?" asked Lady Ascot in an amused voice "Oh, 'cause, 'cause--his gun, and his fishing-tackle, and his boxing-gloves have been sent on already. Of course he must be brave and manly, or father would have nothing to say to him. But as he's only three inches taller than me, I'm thinking perhaps he'll be tired keeping up with father's long steps, when they go out shooting together; and so perhaps he will really like to make a companion of me." "I should not be surprised, Maggie--I should not be the least surprised, and now I'm going to tell you a secret. We are going at this very moment to drive to Ashburnham station to meet father and his gentleman visitor." "Oh, mother!" exclaimed Maggie, "and do you know the visitor? Have you seen him before? What is his name?" "His name is Ralph, and though I have heard a great deal about him, it so happens I have never seen him." "Mr. Ralph," repeated Maggie, softly; "it's a nice short name, and easy to remember. I think Mr. Ralph is a very good name indeed for father's little tiny gentleman visitor." All during their drive to Ashburnham Maggie chattered, and laughed, and wondered. Her bright little face looked its brightest, and her merry blue eyes quite danced with fun and happiness. No wonder her mother thought her a most charming little girl, and no wonder the village children looked at the pretty and beautifully dressed child with eyes of envy and admiration! When they reached Ashburnham station, Lady Ascot got out of the carriage, and taking Maggie's hand in hers, went on the platform. They had scarcely arrived there before the train from London puffed into the station, and Sir John Ascot was seen to jump out of a first-class smoking carriage, accompanied by a brown-faced, slender-looking boy, whose hands were full of parcels, and who began to help Sir John vigorously, and to indignantly disdain the services of the porter, and of Sir John's own groom, who came up at that moment. "No, thank you; I wish to hold these rabbits myself," he exclaimed, "and my pigeons. Uncle John, will you please hand me down that cage? Oh, aren't my fantails beauties!" "Mother," exclaimed Maggie in a low, breathless voice, "is that the gentleman visitor?" "Yes, darling, your cousin Ralph Grenville. Ralph is your visitor, Maggie, not your father's. Come up and let me introduce you. Ralph, my dear boy, how do you do? I am your aunt. I am very glad to see you. Welcome to Tower Hill!" "Are you Aunt Beatrice?" answered the brown-faced boy. "How do you do, Aunt Beatrice? Oh, I do hope my fishing-tackle is safe." "And this is your Cousin Maggie," proceeded Lady Ascot. "You and Maggie must be great friends." "Do you like fantails?" asked Ralph, looking full at his little cousin. "Do you mean those darling white birds in the cage?" answered Maggie, her cheeks crimsoning. [Illustration: "I CAUGHT HIM MY OWN SELF."--Page 21.] "Yes; I've got some pouters at home, but I only brought the fantails here. I hope you've got a nice pigeon-cote at Tower Hill. Oh, my rabbits, my bunnies! Help me, Maggie; one of them has got loose; help me, Maggie, to catch him." Before either Sir John or Lady Ascot could interfere, the two children had disappeared into a crowd of porters, passengers, and luggage. Lady Ascot uttered a scream of dismay, but Sir John said coolly: "Let them be. The little lad has got his head screwed on the right way; and if I don't mistake, my pretty maid can hold her own with anybody. Don't agitate yourself, Bee; they'll be back all right in a moment." So they were, Maggie holding a huge white rabbit clasped against her beautiful embroidered frock. The rabbit scratched and struggled, but Maggie held him without flinching, although her face was very red. "I caught him my own self," she screamed. "Ralph couldn't, 'cause his hands were too full." "Pop him into this cage now," exclaimed the boy. "Uncle John, has a separate trap come for all the luggage? and if so, may I go home in it? I must watch my bunnies, and I should like to keep the fantails on my lap." "Well, yes, Ralph," replied Sir John Ascot in an amused voice. "I have no doubt the dog-cart has turned up by now. Do you think you can manage to stick on, my boy? The mare is very fresh." "I stick on? Rather!" answered Ralph. "You may hold the cage with the bunnies, if you like, while I step up, Jo--Maggie, I mean." "I'd like to go up there, too, father," whispered little Miss Ascot's full round tones. "No, no, bairnie," answered the baronet. "I don't want your pretty little neck to be broken. There, hop into the carriage beside mother, and I'll get in the dog-cart to keep this young scamp out of mischief. Now then, off we go. We'll all be at home in a twinkling." CHAPTER III. SNUBBED. When the children met next it was at tea-time. There was a very nice and tempting tea prepared in Maggie's schoolroom, and Miss Grey presided, and took good care to attend to the wants of the hungry little traveler. Ralph looked a very different boy sitting at the tea-table munching bread-and-butter, and disposing of large plates of strawberries and cream, from what he did when Maggie met him at Ashburnham station. He was no longer in the least excited; he was neatly dressed, with his hair well brushed, and his hands extremely clean and gentlemanly. He was polite and attentive to Miss Grey, and thanked her in quite a sweet voice for the little attentions which she lavished upon him. Maggie was far too excited to feel hungry. She could scarcely take her round blue eyes off Ralph, who, for his part, did not pay her the smallest attention. He was conversing in quite a proper and grown-up tone with the governess. "Do you really like flat countries best?" he said. "Ah! I suppose, then, you must suffer from palpitation. Mother does very much--she finds sal volatile does her good; did you ever try that? When I next write to mother, I'll ask her to send me a little bottle, and when you feel an attack coming on, I'll measure some drops for you. If you take ten drops in a little water, and then lie down, you don't know how much better you'll get. Thank you, yes, I'll have another cup of tea. I like a good deal of cream, please, and four or five lumps of sugar; if the lumps are small, I don't mind having six. Well, what were we talking about? Oh, scenery! I like hilly scenery. I like to get on the top of a hill, and race down as fast as ever I can to the bottom. Sometimes I shout as I go--it's awfully nice shouting out loud as you're racing through the air. Did you ever try that? Oh, I forgot; you couldn't if you suffer from palpitation." "I like steep mountains, and flying over big precipices," here burst from Maggie. "I hate flat countries, and I don't think much of running down little hills. Give me the mountains and the precipices, and you'll see how I'll scamper." Ralph raised his eyebrows a tiny bit, smiled at Maggie with a gentle pity in his face, and then, without vouchsafing any comment to her audacious observations, resumed his placid conversation with the governess. "Mother and I have been a good deal in Switzerland, you know," he continued, "so of course we can really judge what scenery is like. I got tired of those great mountains after a bit. I'm very fond indeed of England, particularly since I have spent so much of my time with Jo. Do you know my little friend Jo, Miss Grey?" "No, Mr. Ralph, I cannot say I do. Is he a nice little boy? Is he about your age?" Ralph laughed, but in a very moderate "I beg your pardon," he exclaimed. "I hope you were not hurt when I laughed. Mother says it's very rude to laugh at a grown-up lady, but it seemed so funny to hear you speak of Jo as a boy. She's a girl, quite the very nicest girl in the world; her real name is Joanna, but I call her Jo." Here Maggie, who, after Ralph's ignoring of her last audacious observation, had been getting through her tea in a subdued manner, brightened up considerably, shook back her shining curls, and said in a much more gentle voice than she had hitherto used: "I should like to see her." "You!" said Ralph. "She's not the least in your style. Well, I've done my tea. Have you done your tea, Miss Grey? And may I leave the table, please? I should like to have a run around the place before it gets dark." "And may I come with you?" asked Maggie. "Oh, yes, Mag! Come along." Ralph held out his hand, which Maggie took with a great deal of gratitude in her heart, and the two children went out together into the sweet summer air. Ralph first of all inspected his pigeons, and then his rabbits. He grumbled a good deal over the arrangements made for the reception of his pets, and informed Maggie that the hutch for the rabbits was but small and close, and that the dove-cote must be altered immediately, and that he would take care to speak to his Uncle John about it in the morning. Maggie agreed with every word Ralph said. She, too, pronounced the hutch small and dirty, and said the dove-cote must be altered, and while she echoed her cousin's sentiments, she felt herself quite big and important, and turned away from the rather smiling eyes of Jim, the stable-boy, who was in attendance on the pair. The children then proceeded to the stable, where Maggie's pretty snow-white pony was kept. "Ah!" said Ralph, "I wish you could see my horse. My horse is black, and rather bigger than this, and he has an eye of fire and such a beautiful glossy, arched neck. I can tell you it is worth something to see Raven. Yes, Maggie, Snowball is rather a nice little pony, and very well suited for you, I should imagine." "I don't like him much," said Maggie, who until this moment had adored her pet. "I like flashy, frisky horses. I like them fresh, don't you, Ralph?" "Don't talk nonsense!" said Ralph rather pertly. "Now where shall we go?" "Oh, Ralph, I should like to show you my garden. I dare say father will give you a little garden near mine if we ask him. I'm building a rockery. I don't work in my garden very often, 'cause it's rather tiresome, but I like building my rockery, and when we go to the seaside, I shall gather lots of shells for it. Come, Ralph, this is the way." "Never mind to-night," said Ralph. "Here is a nice seat on this little mossy bank. If you like to sit by me, Maggie, we can talk." Maggie was only too pleased. Ralph stretched himself on the soft velvety grass, put his hands under his head, and gazed up at the sky; Maggie took care to imitate his position in all particulars. She also put her hands under her head, and gazed through her shady hat up at the tall trees where the rooks were going to sleep. That night the rather spoiled little princess of Tower Hill lay awake for some time. It was very unusual for Maggie to remain for an instant out of the land of dreams. The moment she laid her curly head on the pillow she entered that pleasant country, and, as a rule, she stayed there and enjoyed delightful times with other dream-children until the morning. On the present occasion, however, sleep did not visit her so quickly; she was disturbed by the events of the day. Ralph was a very new experience in her little life; she thought of all he had said to her, of how he had looked, of his extreme manliness, his fearlessness, and his great politeness to Miss Grey. Maggie owned with a half-sigh that there was nothing at all particularly gracious in Ralph's manners to her. "But I like him all the better for that," she thought. "He treats me as an equal; most likely half the time he forgets that I'm a girl, and believes that I'm a boy like himself. I wish I were a boy! Wouldn't it be jolly to climb trees, and fish, and go out shooting with father! I'd be a great comfort to Ralph if I were a boy, but I'm not; that's the worst of it. How I do wish my pony was black, and was called Raven! I think I'll ask father to sell Snowball; he's rather a fat, stupid little horse. Ralph's horse has an eye of fire. How splendid he must be! I wonder if Jo has got a horse too, and if it is black, and if its eyes flash. Jo must be a splendid girl. How Ralph did look when he spoke of her! I wish I knew her! Ralph talks of her as if she were as good as a boy. I dare say she climbs trees, and fishes, and shoots. I should like Ralph to talk of me as he talks of Jo." At this stage of Maggie's meditations her bright eyes closed very gently, and she remembered nothing more until the morning. The sun shone brightly into her room when she awoke; she had been dreaming about Jo. She sprang up instantly, and began to dress herself. This feat she had never accomplished before in her life. Two servants, as a rule, waited on the little princess when she made her toilet, but now, with a vivid dream of the manly Jo in her mind, and with some vague ideas that she would please Ralph if she were up very bright and early, she proceeded to tumble into her cold bath, and then, after an untidy fashion, to scramble into her clothes. At last her dressing was completed, she knelt down for a moment by her bedside to utter a very hasty little childish prayer, and then ran softly out of her bedroom. She certainly did not know how early it was, but as there was no one stirring in the house, and as she did not wish nurse to find her and to call her back, and perhaps pop her once more into bed, she went on tiptoe along the passages until she reached her Cousin Ralph's bedroom door. She opened the door and went in. The large window of Ralph's bedroom exactly faced his little white bed; the blind of the window was up to the top, and the full light of the morning sun shone directly on the little sleeper's face. Oh, how delightful! thought Maggie. Ralph was still sound, sound asleep; she was the good one now, for Ralph was decidedly lazy. She went softly to the bedside and gazed at her cousin. His arms were thrown up over his head; he was lying on his back, and breathing softly and easily. Ralph had a handsome little face, and it looked gentle and sweet in his slumbers. The dauntless expression of his dark eyes, and the somewhat scornful and hard way in which he looked when he addressed himself to Maggie, were no longer perceptible. Maggie had a loving little heart, and it went out to her stranger cousin now. "I hope some day he'll like me as well as he does Jo," she murmured, and then she bent down and printed the lightest of light kisses on his forehead. "Bother those flies," muttered Ralph, raising his hand to brush the offending kiss away. This remark caused Maggie to burst into a peal of laughter, and of course her laugh aroused the young sleeper. "Yes, I'm up," said Maggie, dancing softly up and down. "I'm up, and I'm dressed, and I'm ready to go into the garden. Don't you think it's very good of me to get up so early? Don't you think I'm about as good as that Jo of yours?" Ralph had recovered from his first surprise, and now he gazed tranquilly at his little cousin. "What's the hour?" he asked. Maggie said, "I don't know." "Well, you'd better find out," responded Ralph; "it feels very early. My watch is on the dressing-table. Do you know the time by a watch yet? If you can read it, you may, and tell me the hour. How untidily you have dressed yourself!" Maggie felt herself growing very red when Ralph asked her if she could tell the hour by a watch. The fact was, she could not; she had always been too lazy to learn. She went in a faltering way to the dressing-table, feeling quite sure in her little heart that Jo knew all about watches, and that if she revealed her ignorance to Ralph, he would despise her for the rest of her life. Just at this moment, however, relief came, for the stable clock was heard to strike very distinctly. It struck four times. "It's four o'clock," said Maggie. "Yes, and what a muff you are!" answered Ralph. "Four o'clock! Why, it's the middle of the night. Good-night, Maggie. Please go away, and shut the door after you." "Then you're not getting up?" questioned the little cousin wistfully. "Getting up? No, thank you, not for many an hour to come. Good-night, Maggie. I don't want to be rude, but you really are a little worry coming in and waking me in this fashion." CHAPTER IV. THE STABLE CLOCK. It was rather desolate standing at the other side of Ralph's door in the passage. There was plenty of light in the passage, but no sunshine, and Maggie felt her excitement cooling down and her heart beating tranquilly again. All that delightful energy and zest which she had shown when dressing herself, which she had felt when she had danced into her cousin's room, had forsaken her. She walked slowly back to her own little chamber, wondering what she had better do now, and thinking how very disagreeable it was to be spoken of as "a muff." Was it really only the middle of the night, and had she better just ignominiously undress herself and go back to bed? No; she would not do that. It was horrid to think of Ralph sound and happily asleep, and of nurse asleep, and father and mother also in the land of dreams. Maggie felt quite forlorn, and as if she were alone in the world. But at this moment a thrush perched itself on a bough of clematis just outside the window, and sang a delicious morning song. The little princess clapped her hands. "The birdies are up!" she exclaimed. "I expect lots of delightful creatures are up in the garden. I'll go into the garden. Perhaps, after all, Ralph is more of a muff than me." She swung her garden hat on her head, and ran softly and quickly downstairs. All the doors were barred and locked; the place felt intensely still and strange; but Maggie found egress through a small side window, which she easily opened; and, once in the garden, her loneliness and sadness vanished like magic. She laughed aloud, and ran gayly hither and thither. The butterflies were out, the birds were having a splendid morning concert, and the flowers were opening their petals and taking their morning breakfast from the sunshine. "Oh, dear! Ralph is the muff, and I am the good one, after all!" exclaimed Maggie aloud. She ran until she was tired, then went into an arbor at one end of a long grass walk, and sat down to rest herself. In a moment the most likely thing happened--she fell asleep. She slept in the arbor, with her head resting on the rustic table, until the stable clock struck six; that sound awoke her. She rubbed her drowsy eyes and looked around. Jim, the boy who had smiled the night before when he saw Maggie and Ralph talking together, passed the entrance to the little arbor at this moment with a bag of tools slung over his shoulder. Maggie called to him: "Jim, come here; aren't you surprised? I'm up, you see." "Why, Miss Maggie!" exclaimed the astonished stable-boy, "you a sitting in the arbor at this hour, miss! Oh, dear! oh, dear! ain't you very cold, missie? And was you overtook with sleep, and did you spend the night here? Why, I 'spect your poor pa and ma were in a fine fright about you, Miss Maggie." "Oh, do, they are not," answered Maggie, shaking herself, and running up to Jim, and taking hold of one of his hands. "They know nothing at all about it, Jim. They are all in their beds, every one of them, sound, fast asleep. Even my new Cousin Ralph is asleep. He said I was a muff, but I 'spect he is. Isn't it 'licious being up so bright and early, Jim?" "Well, no, missie, I don't think it is. I likes to lie in bed uncommon myself, so I do. I 'ates getting up of a morning, Miss Maggie; and whenever I gets a holiday, don't I take it out in my bed, that's all!" "Oh, you poor Jim!" said Maggie in a very compassionate tone. "I didn't know bed was thought such a treat; I don't find it so. Well, Jim, I'm glad, anyhow, you're obliged to be up this morning, 'cause you and me, we can be company to one another. I'm going with you into the stable-yard now." "Oh! but, missie, I has to clean out Snowball's stable, and get another stable ready for Master Ralph's pony Raven, and that's all work that a little lady could have no call to mix with. I think, missie, if I was you, I'd go straight back to my bed, and have another hour or two before Sir John and her ladyship are up." But Maggie shook her head very decidedly over this proposition. "No," she said, "I'm going to the stable-yard; I'm going to look at Snowball. I don't think very much of Snowball; I think he'll have to be sold." Jim opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows a trifle at this proof of inconstancy on Maggie's part, but he thought fit to offer no verbal objection, and the two walked together in the direction of the stables. Here the large stable clock attracted the erratic little maid's attention; she suddenly remembered the dreadful feeling of shame which had swept over her when Ralph had asked her to tell him the hour. She had earnestly wished at that moment that she had been a good child, and had learned how to tell the time when Miss Grey offered to teach her. It would never do for Ralph to discover her deficiency in this matter. Perhaps Jim could teach her. She turned to him eagerly. "Jim, do you know what o'clock it is?" "Yes, missie, of course; it's a quarter-past six." "Oh! how clever of you, Jim, to know that. Did you find it out by looking up at the stable clock?" "Why, of course, Miss Maggie; there it is in front of us. You can see for yourself." Maggie's face became very grave, and her eyes assumed quite a sad expression. "I want to whisper something to you, Jim," she said. "Stoop down; I want to say it very, very low. I don't know the clock time." Jim received this solemn secret in a grave manner. He was silent for a moment; then he said slowly: "You can learn it, I suppose, Miss Maggie?" "Oh, yes, dear Jim; and you can teach me." Jim began to rumple up his hair and to look perplexed. "I--oh! that's another thing," he said. "Yes, you can, Jim; and you must begin right away. There's a big, round white thing, and there are little figures marked on it; and there are two hands that move, 'cause I've watched them; and there's a funny thing at the bottom that goes tick-tick all the time." "That's the pend'lum, Miss Maggie." "Yes, the pend'lum," repeated Maggie glibly. "I'll remember that word; I won't forget. Now, go on, Jim. What's the next thing?" "Well, there's the two 'ands, miss; the little 'and points to the hours, and the big 'un to the minutes." "It sounds very puzzling," said Maggie. "So it is, miss; so it is. You couldn't learn the clock not for a score of days. I took a week of Sundays over it myself, and I'm not to say dull. The clock's a puzzler, Miss Maggie, and can't be learned off in a jiffy, anyhow." "Well, but, Jim, Ralph mustn't find out; he mustn't ever find out that I don't know it. It would be quite dreadful what Ralph would think of me then; he wouldn't ever, ever believe that I could turn out as well as Jo. You don't think Jo such a wonderful girl, do you, Jim?" "Oh, no, Miss Maggie; I don't think nothing at all about her. I'd better get to my work now, miss." "Yes, but you must teach me something about the old clock, just to make Ralph s'pose I know about the hour." "Well, miss, you can talk a little bit about the pend'lum, and the big 'and and the little 'un, and you can say that you think the stable clock is fast; it is that same, miss, and that will sound very 'cute. Now I must go to my sweeping. William will be round almost immediately, and he'll be ever so angry if I have nothing done, so you'll please to excuse me, miss." Maggie left the stable-yard rather discontentedly. It was not yet half-past six, and breakfast would not be on the table for two long hours. What should she do? After all, perhaps she was a muff to get up in the middle of the night; perhaps she was the silly one, and Ralph, so snug and rosy and comfortable in his little bed, was the wise and good one. Some things very like tears came to Maggie's bright blue eyes as she turned back again to the garden, for she was beginning to feel a little tired, and oh! very, very hungry. She wondered if Jo ever got up at four o'clock in the morning, and if Ralph had ever called Jo a muff; but of course he had not. Jo was doubtless one of those unpleasant model little girls about whom nurse sometimes spoke to her on Sunday: little girls who always did at once what their old nurses told them, who never rumpled their pinafores, nor made their hair untidy, nor soiled their clean hands, but walked instead of running, and smiled instead of laughing. Nurse had spoken over and over of these dear little lady-like misses. These little girls delighted in doing plain needlework, and were intensely happy when they conquered a fresh word in their reading, and they always adored their governesses, and were rather sorry when holiday time came. When nurse spoke about these children, Maggie usually interrupted her vehemently with the exclamation. "I hate that proper good little girl!" and then nurse's small twinkling brown eyes would grow full of suppressed fun, and she would passionately kiss her spoiled darling. Maggie, as she walked through the garden, where the dew was still sparkling, quite made up her mind that Jo belonged to this unpleasant order of little maids, and she determined to dislike her very much. As she was sauntering slowly along she passed a small narrow path which led into a shrubbery; directly through the shrubbery was another path, which branched out in the direction of Maggie's neglected garden; suppose she went and did a little weeding in her garden; or no, suppose she did what would be much more enchanting, suppose she paid a visit to Ralph's rabbits! Ralph had complained the night before of the hutch where his pets had been put; he had grumbled at its not being bright enough, and large enough, and clean enough. Suppose Maggie went and furbished it up a little, and looked at Ralph's pets, and gave them some lettuce leaves to eat. In a moment she had flown through the shrubbery, had passed the little neglected garden and the half-finished rockery, and was kneeling down by the hutch where Ralph's rabbits had made for themselves a new home. There they were, two beautiful snow-white creatures, with long silky hair, and funny bright red eyes, and pink noses. They had not a black hair on either of their glossy coats. Ralph had said they were very valuable rabbits, and because of the extreme purity of their coats he had called them Lily and Bianco. Maggie, too, thought them lovely; she bent close to the bars of the hutch and called them to her, and tried to stroke their noses through the little round holes. Bianco was very tame, but Lily was a little shy, and kept in the background, and did not allow her nose to be rubbed. Maggie showered endearing names on her; no pet she had ever possessed herself seemed equal to Ralph's snow-white rabbits. After playing with them for a little she ran into the kitchen garden to fetch some lettuce leaves, and with a good bundle in her arms returned to the rabbit-hutch. At so tempting a sight even Lily lost her shyness, and pressed her nose against the bars of her cage, and struggled to get at the tempting green food. "They shall come out and eat their breakfasts in peace and comfort, the darlings!" exclaimed Maggie. "Here, I'll make a nice pile of it just by this tree, and I'll open the door, and out they'll both come. While they are eating I can be cleaning the hutch. What a nice useful girl I am, after all! I expect Ralph will think I'm quite as good as that stupid old Jo of his. Come along, Bianco pet; here's your dear little breakfast ready for you. Oh, you darling, precious Lily! you need not be afraid of me. I would not hurt a hair of your lovely coat." Open went the door of the hutch, and out scampered the two white rabbits. They bounded in rabbit fashion toward the green lettuces, and when Maggie saw them happily feeding, she turned her attention to the hutch. "No, this is not a proper hutch," she said to herself. "It's not large enough, nor roomy enough, nor handsome enough. I don't wonder at poor Ralph being put out--he felt he was treated shabby. I must speak to father about it. There must be a new hutch made as quick as possible. Well, I had better clean this one while the dear bunnies are at their breakfast. I'll see if I can get some fresh straw. I'll run round to the yard and try if I can pull some straw out of one of the ricks. I really am most useful. Good-by, Bianco and Lily; I'll be back with you in a moment, dear little pets." The rabbits did not pay the slightest heed to Maggie's loving words. It is to be feared that, beautiful as they were in person, they possessed but small and selfish natures; they liked fresh lettuces very much, and when they had eaten enough they looked around somewhat shyly, after the manner of timid little creatures. The whole place represented a strange world to them, but as there was not a soul in sight, they thought they might explore this new land a little. Bianco bounded on in front, and looked back at Lily; Lily scampered after her companion. In a short time they found themselves on the boundary of a green and shady and pleasant-looking wood. In this wood doubtless abounded those many good and tempting things to which rabbits as a race are partial. They went a little further, and lost themselves in the soft green herbage. When Maggie returned to the rabbit-hutch, with her arms full of straw and her rosy cheeks much flushed, Bianco and Lily were nowhere to be seen. CHAPTER V. THE EMPTY HUTCH. At breakfast that morning Lady Ascot noticed how tired Maggie looked--her blue eyes were swollen as if she had been crying, her pretty cheeks were very red, and she did not come to table with at all her usual appetite. Maggie always breakfasted with her father and mother. She also had her early dinner at their lunch, but her own lunch and tea she took in the schoolroom with Miss Grey. Miss Grey was now present at the breakfast-table, and so also was Ralph. Ralph was a very slight and thin boy, with a dark face and bright eyes. He looked uncommonly well this morning, remarkably neat in his person, and altogether a striking contrast to poor disheveled little Maggie. Maggie felt afraid to raise her eyes from her plate. When her mother noticed her fatigue and languor, she knew that Ralph's quizzical and laughing gaze was upon her, and that his lips were softly moving to the inaudible words: "Little muff, she got up in the middle of the night! She got up in the middle of the night!" Maggie would have been quite saucy enough, and independent enough, to be indifferent to these remarks of Ralph's, and perhaps even to pay him back in his own coin, but for the loss of the rabbits. Bianco and Lily were gone, however; the hutch was empty; it was all the little princess' fault, and, in consequence, her versatile spirits had gone down to zero. With all her faults--and she had plenty--Maggie was far too honest a child to think of concealing what she had done from her cousin. She meant to tell him, but she had dreaded very much going through her revelation, and she felt that his contempt and anger would be very bitter and hard to bear. Maggie always sat next her father at breakfast, and he now patted her on her hot cheeks, looked tenderly at her, and piled the choicest morsels on her plate. "The little maid does not look quite the thing," Sir John called across the table to his wife. "I think we must give her a holiday. Miss Grey, you won't object to a holiday, I am sure, and Ralph and Maggie will have plenty to do with one another." "If you please, sir," here burst from Ralph, "do you mind coming round with me after breakfast and seeing to the accommodation of the rabbits and pigeons? I think my rabbits want a larger and better hutch, if you please, Uncle John." "All right, my boy, we'll see about them," replied the good-natured uncle. "Hullo, little maid, what is up with you--where are you off to?" "I--I don't want any breakfast. I'm tired," said Maggie, and before her father could again interrupt her she ran out of the room. Her heart was full, there was a limit to her endurance; she could not go with Sir John and her Cousin Ralph to look at the empty hutch. She wondered what she should do; she wished with all her heart at this moment that Ralph had never come, that he had never brought those tiresome and beautiful rabbits to tempt her to open the door of their prison, and so unwittingly set them free. She ran once more into the garden, and went in a forlorn manner into the shrubbery; she had a kind of wild vain hope that Bianco and Lily might be tired of having run away, and might have returned to their new home. She approached the rabbit-hutch; alas! the truants were nowhere in sight; she stooped down and looked into the empty home; and just at this moment voices were heard approaching, the clear high voice of her boy cousin, accompanied by Sir John's deeper tones. Maggie had nothing for it but to hide, and the nearest and safest way for her to accomplish this feat was to climb into a large tree which partly over-shaded the rabbit-hutch. Maggie could climb like any little squirrel, and Sir John and Ralph took no notice of a rustling in the boughs as they approached. Her heart beat fast; she crouched down in the green leafy foliage, and hoped and trusted they would not look up. There was certainly no chance of their doing that. When Ralph discovered that his pets were gone, he gave vent to something between a howl and a cry of agony, and then, dragging his uncle by the arm, they both set off in a vain search for the missing pets--Bianco and Lily. No one knew better than poor Maggie did how slight was their chance of finding them. She wondered if she might leave her leafy prison, if she would have time to rush in to nurse or mother before Ralph came back. She thought she might try. It would be such a comfort to put her head on mother's breast and tell the story to this sympathizing friend. She had just made the first rustling in the old tree, preparatory to her descent, when Sir John's portly form was seen returning. He was coming back alone, and, after a fashion he had, was saying aloud: "Very strange occurrence. 'Pon my word, quite mysterious. Whoever did open the door of the hutch? Surely Jim would not be so mischievous! I must question him, and if I think the young rascal is telling me a lie, he shall go--yes, he shall go. I won't be humbugged. And Ralph, poor lad! It's a disgrace to have my sister's son annoyed in this way on the very first morning of his visit. Why, hullo, Maggie, little woman! What are you doing up there?" "I'm coming down if you'll just wait a minute, father," called down Maggie. "Oh, please, father, stand close under the tree, and don't let Ralph see us. I'm coming down as hard as ever I can. There, please stretch up your hand, father; when I catch it I'll jump." "Into my arms," said Sir John, folding her tight in a loving embrace. "My darling, you are not well. You are all trembling. What is the matter, little woman?" "Nothing, father; only I wanted to speak to you so badly, and I didn't want Ralph to hear. I heard you say that perhaps Jim did it, and you'd send him away. 'Twasn't Jim, 'twas me. I'm miserable about it--'twas all me, father." "All you? Mag-Mag, what do you mean?" "I let them out, father. I gave poor Bianco and Lily some nice lettuce leaves just here under the tree. See, they have not quite finished what I gave them. While they were feeding I thought I'd clean the hutch to please Ralph, and I ran round to the hay-rick for some fresh hay, and when I came back Bianco and Lily were gone. I spent all the time before breakfast looking for them, but I couldn't see them anywhere. Poor Jim had nothing to do with it, father. I did see Jim this morning. I think he's an awfully good boy. Father, Jim had nothing to do with opening the door of the hutch--it was all me." "Yes, Maggie, so it seems. Ah! here comes Ralph himself. Now, my dear little maid, you really need not be frightened. I'll undertake to break the tidings to Master Ralph. You were a good child to tell me the truth, Maggie." "I can't find them anywhere, uncle," called back Ralph, in his high voice. "Who could have been the mischievous person? Don't you think it was very wicked, Uncle John, for any one to open my hutch door? I expect some thief came and stole them. I suppose you are a magistrate, Uncle John; I hope you are, and that you'll have a warrant issued immediately, so that the person who stole my Bianco and Lily may find themselves locked up in prison. Why, if that is not Maggie standing behind you. How very, very queer you look, Maggie!" Sir John laid his hand on Ralph's shoulder. "The fact is, my lad," he said, "this poor dear little maid of mine has come to me with a sad confession. It seems that she is the guilty person. She gave your rabbits something to eat, and let them out in order that they might enjoy their meal the better. Then it occurred to her to get some fresh hay for the hutch, and while she was away Bianco and Lily took it into their heads to play truants. You must forgive Maggie, Ralph; she meant no harm. If the rabbits are not found I can only promise to get you another pair as handsome as money can buy." While his uncle was speaking Ralph's face had grown very white. "I don't want any other rabbits, thank you, Uncle John," he said. "It was poor little Jo gave me Bianco and Lily, and I was fond of them; other rabbits would not be the same." "I only hope, Ralph, your pets will be found. I shall send a couple of men to search for them directly. In the mean time, you must promise me not to be angry with my poor little girl; she meant no harm." "Oh, I'm not angry," said Ralph; "most girls are muffs; Jo isn't, but then she's not like other people." He turned on his heel and sauntered slowly away. It is difficult to say how the affair of the rabbits would have terminated, and how soon Maggie would have been taken back into Ralph's favor, but just then, on the afternoon of that very day in fact, an event occurred which turned every one's thoughts into a fresh channel. Lady Ascot received a telegram announcing the dangerous illness of her favorite and only sister--it was necessary that she and Sir John should start that very night for the North to see her. The question then arose. What was to become of the two children? "Send us to mother, of course," promptly said Ralph. "Hullo!" exclaimed Sir John; "why, I declare if it isn't a good thought. Violet wouldn't mind having you both on a visit for a fortnight or so, and Miss Grey could go with you, so that your mother need have no extra trouble. Remember, Ralph, you are bound to us for the summer, my boy, and we only lend you to your mother for a few days. You quite understand?" "Lend me to mother; no, I'm sure I don't understand that," said Ralph. "Oh! Maggie," he exclaimed suddenly, in all his old brightest manner, "if we go to London, you'll see Jo!" "I'll go off this very moment and telegraph to my sister," said Sir John; "the children and Miss Grey can start to-morrow morning. It's all arranged. It is a splendid plan." In five minutes the plan was made which was to exercise so large an influence over little Maggie, which was, in short, completely to alter her life. Sir John sent off his telegram, and in the course of the afternoon his sister, Mrs. Grenville, replied to it. She would be ready to receive Ralph and Maggie the next day, and would be pleased also to have Miss Grey, Maggie's governess, accompany the children. Maggie had never seen London; and Ralph became eloquent with regard to its charms. "It will be delightful for you," he said; "of course I am rather tired of it, for I have been everywhere and seen all the sights, but it will really be very nice for you. You are young, you know, Maggie, and you'll have to go to the places where quite the little children are seen; Madame Tussaud's is one, and the Zoological Gardens is another. Oh, won't it be fun to see you jumping when the lions roar!" At these words of Ralph's Maggie turned rather pale, and perceiving that he had made an impression, he proceeded still further to work on her feelings, describing graphically the scene at the Zoo when the lions are fed, the cruel glitter in the eyes of the hungry beasts, and the awful sound which they make when they crush the great bones of meat provided for them. "You mustn't go too near their cages," said Ralph; "nobody knows how strong a lion is; and though the cages are made with very large bars of iron, yet still----" Here Ralph made an expressive pause. Maggie opened her blue eyes, remained quite silent for a moment, for she did not wish Ralph to suppose that she was really afraid of the lions, and then she said softly: "I'm not going to the Zoo--at least not at first. I'm going to do my lessons with Miss Grey in the hours when the lions are fed. I know it's very good of me, but I'm going to be good, 'cause I am so sorry about your rabbits, Ralph." "So you ought to be," said Ralph, turning red; "but weeks and weeks of being sorry won't bring them back. When people do very careless and thoughtless things, being sorry doesn't mend matters. You ask mother, and she'll explain to you. But please don't say anything more about Bianco and Lily. I want to know what you mean by saying that you'll do your lessons at the hour the lions are fed. You do your lessons at the hour that most suits Miss Grey, don't you?" Maggie nodded. "Yes," she said, "I'm going to please poor Miss Grey too; I'm going to be very good." "Well, Miss Grey won't like to be kept at home in the afternoons teaching you your lessons--she'll like to be out amusing herself in the afternoon. I call that more thoughtlessness. You'll have to do your lessons in the morning, and the lions are fed at three o'clock, so that excuse won't serve." "I'm not going to the Zoo," continued Maggie, who began to feel decidedly worried. "If Miss Grey wants to be out in the afternoon, I'll go to Madame Tussaud's then. I don't like that Zoo, and I'm not fond of lions; but I expect Madame Tussaud's must be a nice sort of place." "Oh--oh--oh," said Ralph, beginning to jump about on one leg; "you see the chamber of horrors before you make up your mind whether it's a nice sort of place or not. Why, at Madame Tussaud's you always have your heart in your mouth because you don't know whether the wax figures are alive or not; and you are always saying, 'I beg your pardon;' and you are always knocking up against people whom you think are alive and want to speak to you, when they are only big wax dolls; and whenever you give a little start and show by your face that you have made a mistake, the real live people laugh. I can tell you, Maggie, you have to mind your p's and q's at Madame Tussaud's." "I won't go," said Maggie; "I need not go unless I like;" and then she walked out of the room, beginning seriously to debate in her poor little mind on the joys of having a playmate, for Ralph contrived at every turn to make her feel so very small. CHAPTER VI. JO'S ROOM. It was well for Maggie that Ralph was a very different boy when with his mother and when without her. When the children arrived in London and found themselves in Mrs. Grenville's pretty bright house in Bayswater, Ralph flew to the sweet-looking young mother who came up to meet them, clasped his arms round her neck, laid his head on her shoulder, and instantly a softened and sweet expression came over his dark and somewhat hard little face. Mrs. Grenville was very much like her brother, so that prevented Maggie being shy with her. She also petted the little girl a great deal, and, as a matter of course, took more notice of her than of Ralph. Mrs. Grenville also spoke about the Zoo and Madame Tussaud's, but she contrived to make these two places of entertainment sound quite delightful to her little visitor. Instead of dwelling on their horrors she spoke of their manifold and varied charms, until Maggie's eyes sparkled, and she said in her quick, excitable way: "I'll go there with you, Aunt Violet; I'd like to go to both of those places with you." Aunt Violet read between the lines here, and gave Ralph a quick little glance which he pretended not to see. The next morning Mrs. Grenville asked Miss Grey to allow Maggie to have a holiday. "To-morrow she will begin her lessons regularly," continued the lady. "Of course by this time such a tall girl can read and write nicely, and I shall like to inclose a little letter from her to her mother; but to-day the children and I mean to be very busy together. Ralph, as you are older, and as you know most about London, you shall choose what our amusement shall be." Maggie felt herself turning first red and then white when Mrs. Grenville spoke of her reading and writing accomplishments, but Miss Grey was merciful and made no comment, and as Ralph had not yet been made acquainted with the poor little princess' profound ignorance, she trusted that her secret was safe. "Mother," here eagerly burst in Ralph, "of course the very first thing we must do is to go and see Jo. Shall I go round to see Jo this morning, mother, and may I take Maggie with me? I think it would do Maggie lots of good to see a girl like Jo." "Jo would do any one good," responded Mrs. Grenville. "It is a kind thought, Ralph, and you may carry it out. If you and Maggie like to run upstairs and get ready now, I will send Waters round with you, and I will call for you myself at Philmer's Buildings at twelve o'clock. After all, I should like to take Maggie myself to the Zoo--I want her to see the monkeys and the birds, and she shall have a ride on one of the elephants if she likes. As to the lions, dear," continued Mrs. Grenville, looking kindly at the little girl, "you shall not see them feed unless you like." "I don't mind seeing them feed if you are with me," whispered back Maggie; but just then Ralph called to her imperiously, and she had to hurry out of the room. "Aren't you glad that you are going at last to see my dear little Jo?" exclaimed the boy. "Now do hurry, Mag; get yourself up nice and smart, for Jo does so admire pretty things." Maggie made no response, but went slowly into her little bedroom. In her heart of hearts she was becoming intensely jealous of this wonderful Jo. She was putting her in the same category with those unpleasant little girls who liked needlework, and were exceedingly proper and good, and belonged to that tiresome class of little models of whom nurse was so fond of speaking. Maggie had borne patiently all Ralph's rhapsodies over this perfect little Jo, but quite a pang went through her heart when she heard Mrs. Grenville also praise her. "I don't want to go," she said as Miss Grey helped her to put on her boots, and took out her neat little jacket and pretty shady hat from their drawers. "Not want to go?" said the governess. "Oh, surely you will like the walk with Ralph this lovely morning, Maggie?" "No, I won't," said Maggie. "I don't want to see Jo; I'm sure she's a horrid good little girl; she's like nurse's Sunday go-to-meeting girls, and I never could bear them." Miss Grey could not help smiling slightly at Maggie's eager words. "I remember," she said after a pause as she helped to put the little girl's sash straight, "when I was a child about your age, Maggie, I often amused myself making up pictures of people before I had seen them. I generally found that the pictures were wrong, and that the people were not at all like what I had fancied them to be." Maggie pondered over this statement; then she said solemnly: "But I know about Jo--I'm quite sure that my picture of Jo isn't wrong. She wears a white pinafore, and there are no spots on it, and her hair is so shiny--I 'spect there is vaseline on her hair--and her nails are neat, and her shoes are always buttoned, and--and--and--she's a horrid good little girl--and I don't like her--and I never will like her." "Maggie! Maggie!" shouted Ralph from below, and Maggie, with a nod at Miss Grey, and the parting words, "I know all about her," rushed out of the room, danced down the stairs, and holding her cousin's hand, and accompanied by the sedate Waters, set out on their morning walk. It was Maggie's first walk in London, and the children and maid soon found themselves crossing Hyde Park, coming out at one of the gates at the opposite side from Mrs. Grenville's pretty house, and then entering a crowded thoroughfare. Here Waters stepped resolutely between the little pair, took a hand of each, and hurried them along. Ralph carried a small closed basket in his hand, and Maggie wondered what it contained, and why Ralph looked so grave and thoughtful, and why he so often questioned Waters as to the contents of a square box which she also carried. "You took great care of that box while I was away, Waters?" "Well, yes, Master Ralph; it always stood on the mantelpiece in my mistress' room, and I dusted it myself most regularly." "And do you really think it's getting heavy, Waters?" "Well, sir, you were away exactly two nights and two days, and that means, by the allowance of one penny a day given to you, two pennies more in the money-box. It's two pennies heavier than it was, sir, when you left us, and that's all." Ralph sighed profoundly. "Time goes very slowly," he said. "How I wish I had more money, and that when I had it I didn't spend it so fast. Well, perhaps Jo has managed about the tambourine after all. If there is a good manager, Jo is one. Oh, here we are at last!" The children and Waters had turned into a shabby-looking street, and were now standing before a block of buildings which looked new and tolerably clean. Unlike any ordinary house Maggie had ever seen, this one appeared to possess no hall door, but was entered at once by a flight of stone stairs. The children and the servant began to ascend the stairs, and Maggie wondered how many they would have to go up before they reached the rooms where the little girl in the spotless pinafore with the white hands and the smoothly vaselined hair resided. Maggie was rather puzzled and disconcerted by the bare look of the stone stairs, and also by the somewhat anxious and grave expression on Ralph's face. She was unacquainted with that kind of look, and it puzzled her, and she began dimly to wonder if Miss Grey was right, and her picture of Jo was untrue. At last they stopped at a door, which was shut, and which contained some writing in large black letters on its yellow paint. Maggie could not read, but Ralph pointed to the letters, and said joyfully: "Here we are at last!" The words on the door where these: "Mrs. Aylmer, Laundress and Charwoman," but Maggie, of course, was not enlightened by what she could not understand. Waters knocked at the door; a quick, eager little voice said, "Come in." There was the pattering of some small feet, the door was flung wide open, and Maggie, Ralph, and Waters found themselves inside Jo's room. That was the first impression the room gave; it seemed to belong to Jo; Jo's spirit seemed to pervade it all over. Mrs. Aylmer, laundress and charwoman, might own the room and pay the rent for it, but that made no difference--it was Jo's. Who was Jo? Maggie asked herself this question; then she turned red; then she felt her lips trembling; then she became silent, absorbed, fascinated. The picture she had conjured up faded never to return, and the real Jo took its place. Jo was the most beautiful little girl Maggie had ever seen--she had fluffy, shining, tangled hair; her pale face was not thin, but round and smooth; each little feature was delicate and chiseled; the lips were little rosebuds; the eyes had that serene light which you never see except in the faces of those children who have been taught patience through suffering. Jo was a sadly crippled little girl lying on a low bed. Maggie, of course, had seen poor children in the village at home; but those children had not been ill; they were rosy and hearty and strong. This child looked fragile, and yet there was nothing absolutely weak about her. At the moment when Ralph and Maggie entered Jo was keeping school; two twin boys were standing by her bedside, and listening eagerly to her instructions. "No, no, Bob," she was saying, "you mustn't do it that way; you must do it more carefully, Bob, and slower. Now, shall we begin again?" Bob tried to drone something in a monotonous sing-song, but just then the visitors' faces appeared, and all semblance of school vanished on the spot. Ralph poured out a whole string of remarks. The contents of the money-box were emptied on Jo's bed, and the exciting question of Susy's tambourine came under earnest discussion. If Susy had a proper tambourine she could use her rather sweet voice to advantage, and earn money by singing and dancing in the streets. Susy was ten years old--a thick-set little girl with none of Jo's transparent beauty. Sixpence had been already collected for the coveted musical instrument; Ralph's box contained eightpence, but, alas! the tambourine on which Susy had set her heart could not be obtained for a smaller sum than half a crown. "They are not worth nothing for less than that," she exclaimed; "they makes no sound, and when you sings or dances with them, your voice don't seem to carry nohow. No, I'd a sight rayther wait and have a good one. Them cheap 'uns cracks, too, when they gets wet. Here's sixpence and here's eightpence; that makes one shilling and two pennies. Oh! but it do seem as if it were a long way off afore we see our way to 'arf a crown." Here Susy, whose face had been radiant, became suddenly depressed, and Maggie felt a lump in her throat, and an earnest, almost passionate, wish to get hold of her father's purse-strings. "Now come and talk to Jo," said Ralph, drawing his little cousin forward. "We need not say any more about the tambourine to-day; I'm saving up all my money; I earn a penny every day that I'm good, and I'll give my penny to Susy for the present, so she'll really have the half-crown by and by. Now, Jo, this is my Cousin Maggie; I've told her about you. She lives down in the country; she doesn't know much, but then that's not to be wondered at. She was very naughty and careless too about my rabbits; she has asked me to forgive her, and of course I haven't said much; it wouldn't be at all manly to scold a girl; but you are really the one to forgive her, Jo, for the rabbits were yours before they were mine." "What, Bianco and Lily?" answered Jo, the pink color coming into her little face. "Oh, missie, wasn't they beautiful and white?" [Illustration: "NOW, JO, THIS IS MY COUSIN MAGGIE."--Page 74.] "Yes, and they're lost," said Maggie; "'twas I did it. I opened the door of their little house, and they ran out, and went into a wood, and none of us could find them since. Ralph said it was you gave them to him, and he doesn't really and truly forgive me, though he pretends he does. I was sorry, but I won't go on being sorry if he doesn't really and truly forgive me." To this rather defiant little speech of Maggie's Jo made a very eager reply. She looked into the pretty little country lady's face, right straight up into her eyes, and then she said ecstatically: "Oh, ain't I happy to think as my beautiful darling white Bianco and Lily has got safe away into a real country wood! Oh, missie, are there real trees there, and grass? and I hopes, oh, I hopes there's a little stream." "Yes, there is," said Maggie, "a sweet little stream, and it tinkles away all day and all night, and of course there are trees, and there's grass. It's just like any other country wood." "I'm so glad," said Jo; "I can picter it. In course I has never seen it, but I can picter it. Trees, grass, and the little stream a-tinkling, and the white bunnies ever and ever so happy. Yes, missie, thank you, missie; it's real beautiful, and when I shuts my eyes I can see it all." Jo had said nothing about forgiving Maggie; on the contrary, she seemed to think her careless deed something rather heroic, Ralph raised his dark brows, fidgeted a little, and began to look at his cousin with a new respect. At this moment Mrs. Grenville's footman came up to say that the carriage was waiting for the children; so Maggie's first visit to Jo was over. CHAPTER VII. IN VIOLET. Maggie and Ralph spent a very happy afternoon at the Zoo. The best of Ralph always came to the surface when he was with his mother, and he was also impressed by Jo's remarks about her rabbits. Was it really true that Maggie had done a beautiful deed by giving his white and pretty darlings their liberty in a country wood? How Jo's eyes shone when she spoke, and how ecstatically she looked at the little princess! Ralph was a great deal too much of a boy, and a great deal too proud to make any set speech of forgiveness to Maggie, but he determined on the spot to restore her to his favor. He ceased to be condescending, and greeted her more as a little hail-fellow-well-met. Maggie rejoiced in the change. Mrs. Grenville was her brightest and most agreeable self; the lions on near acquaintance proved more fascinating than dreadful, and on their way home Maggie pronounced in favor of the Zoo, said she would certainly like to go there again, and thought that on the whole it must be a nicer place than Madame Tussaud's, where, according to Ralph's account, unless you visited the chamber of horrors there were only large and overgrown dolls to be seen. "I wonder," said Maggie to her cousin as they sat in the most amiable manner side by side at their tea that evening, "I wonder why Susy cares to go out into the streets and sing and play a funny little tambourine. She can't be at all shy to sing before a lot of people; can she, Ralph?" Ralph stared hard at Maggie. "Don't you really know what she does it for?" he asked. "I suppose for a kind of play," said Maggie, opening her eyes a little. Ralph stamped his foot impatiently. "A kind of play!" he repeated. "I was beginning to respect you. I forgot how ignorant you are, Poor Susy goes out and plays the tambourine and dances and sings because she wants pennies--pennies to buy bread for Jo and for herself, and for Ben and Bob. No, of course you can't know! Susy wants the tambourine not to play with, but because she's hungry." Ralph spoke with great energy; Maggie's little round sweet face became quite pale; she dropped the delicious bread-and-butter and marmalade which she was putting to her lips, and remained absolutely silent. "Must the tambourine cost half a crown?" she asked presently. "Yes," replied Ralph; "didn't you hear her say so? She knows best what it ought to cost." Maggie wished she were not such a dunce, that she could read a little and write a little, and that she had some slight knowledge of figures. Hitherto she had been shy of revealing any of her great ignorance to Ralph, but now her intense longing to know how many pennies were in half a crown made her ask her cousin the question. Ralph assured her carelessly that there were thirty pennies in that very substantial piece of money. "It will take a long time to collect," he said, sighing deeply. "Poor Susy will have to have plenty of patience, for I know Jo can't help her, and she'll have to depend on me. I earn a penny a day when I'm good. I generally am good when I'm with mother. It was quite different at Tower Hill, for you annoyed me a good deal, Maggie, but I've made up my mind to say nothing more on that subject. I dare say you, too, will try to be a good girl when you're with mother. Well, what was I saying? Oh! about Susy's pennies. With what I gave her and what Jo collected she has got fourteen. Take fourteen from thirty, how much is left, Maggie? Of course you know, so I need not tell you. All that number of days poor Susy will have to wait, however hungry she is. There, we have finished our tea, let's go up to the drawing-room to mother now. Isn't mother sweet? Did you ever see any one--any one so nice?" "Yes, I saw my own mother, and she's a lot nicer," said Maggie. Ralph's eyes flashed. "I like that," he said; "why, every one says the same thing about my mother, that she's the very, very nicest lady in the world. Oh, I say, Maggie, where are you----" But his little cousin had disappeared. The facts were these. The events of her first day in London had worked up poor little Maggie's feelings to a crisis. She had been excited, she had been pleased, she had been greatly surprised. All the old tranquil life in the midst of which she had moved, knowing all the time that she was its center, that she, the little princess, was the beloved object for whom most things were done, for whom treats were prepared and delights got ready--all this old life had vanished, and Maggie was nothing more than little Maggie Ascot, an ignorant child, a dunce who could not even reckon figures or read a word of the queen's English, or have any pennies in her purse. Maggie was only the little cousin whom Ralph rather despised, who was nobody at all in his estimation compared to Jo--Jo, who was so humble, and so very poor. Maggie's feelings had been greatly moved about Jo and Susy; she had longed beyond words to put the necessary number of pennies into Susy's hand, and to tell her to go out and buy that tambourine, on which her heart was set, without a moment's delay. She had wished this when she only supposed that Susy wanted the tambourine to amuse herself. How much more now did she long to get it for her, when Ralph had assured her that Susy's need was so great that she wished for the tambourine in order that she might earn money to buy bread! When Ralph said this Maggie felt a lump rising in her throat, and her own healthy childish appetite failing her--even then she felt inclined to rush away and cry; but when Ralph added to this his somewhat slighting remarks about the mother whose arms Maggie did so long to feel round her, the little princess could bear her feelings no longer, and rushed upstairs to sob out her over-full heart. It was not Miss Grey who found Maggie in the dark in her little room, but the good-natured Waters, who after all knew far more about children than the somewhat inexperienced governess. Waters wasted no time in asking the little girl what was the matter, but she lifted her into a very motherly embrace, and soothed and petted her with many loving words. Maggie thought Waters a most delicious person, and soon wiped away her tears, and began to smile once again. Waters was judicious enough to ask no questions about the tears, and, when they were over, to forget that they ever existed. She took Maggie into her mistress' room, and made her sit on the bed, and showed her some of Ralph's childish toys. It occurred to Maggie as she sat there that Waters would not be nearly such a dreadful person as most others to confide in. She was intensely anxious to gain some information, and she resolved to trust Waters. "May I tell you something as a great, tremendous secret?" she asked. "Well, Miss Maggie, that's as you please," replied the servant. "I can only tell you one thing--that what's confided to me is a secret from that day forward, and no mistake. What's the color to keep a secret in, Miss Maggie? In violet. That's where I keeps it, and so it's sure to be safe." Maggie laughed and clapped her hands. "Waters, I think you're a darling!" she said, "and I will trust you. I don't suppose you ever heard of any one so ignorant as me. I'll be eight years old before very long, and I can't read, and I can't write, and I can't put figures together. I can't even tell the time, Waters--I can't, really." While Maggie was speaking, Waters kept gazing at her with a most perfectly unmoved countenance. "Bless the child!" she said presently. "Well, Miss Maggie dear, where's the secret I'm to keep inviolate?" "Why, that's it, Waters; the secret is that I don't know nothing--nothing at all." "Well, you'll learn, dearie," said Waters; "you'll learn all in good time. You're nothing but a young child, and you has lots and lots of years before you." Maggie did not at all consider herself very young. There were one or two babies in the village at home, just beginning to toddle, who were really juvenile; but she, Maggie Ascot, who could run and jump and skip, and even ride!--it was really rather silly to speak of her as a very young child. However, now she was so soothed by "Waters' gentle words and Waters' petting that she could find no fault with any remark made to her by that worthy person. On the contrary, she cuddled up to her and stroked her cheek, and felt relieved at the unburdening of her secret. "I didn't learn to read till I was a good bit older than you," said Waters. "I don't mean that I'm an example for any dear little lady to follow, for I never could abide a bookworm. I don't take to it now. I only learned because my mother said it was a shame to have a great big girl who could neither spell nor write. My tastes always lay in the needlework line. Since I was a little tot I was forever with a bit of sewing in my hand; I'd hem, and I'd back-stitch, and I'd top-sew whenever I had the chance. Why, I mind me of the time when I unpicked one of my father's old shirts just for the pleasure of putting it together again, and didn't mother laugh when she saw what I was after! Plain needlework was my line, Miss Maggie, and maybe it's yours too, dearie." "Oh, no, it isn't!" said Maggie, opening her blue eyes with quite a gleam of horror in them. "I hate plain sewing worser even than I do reading; I hate it even worser than my figures. Plain sewing pricks, and it worries me. I hate it more than anything." "Well, well, dearie, you're in the pricking stages yet; I went through that, same as another. You'll come to learn the comfort of it, for of all the soothers for poor worrited women, there's nothing at all in my opinion like needle and thread." Maggie was beginning to find this turn in the conversation rather unintelligible, so she brought Waters back to the subject which most interested her by asking if she had also found the study of figures very good for the worries, and if she would let her know how many pennies Susy must have to make up the half-crown. "Oh, is that little Susy Aylmer?" said Waters. "I don't approve of no child going out to sing in the streets. However, it isn't for me to interfere, and Mrs. Aylmer is as honest and hard-working a body as ever walked, and that little Jo is a real angel, and as the poor things must live somehow, why, I suppose Susy had better sing. Master Ralph is saving up his pennies, and he'll give them all to her as sure as sure, so you has no call to put yourself out about it, Miss Maggie." "Yes, but I don't want her to wait," said Maggie. "She has nothing to eat, and she'll be so dreadfully, dreadfully hungry. She has got fourteen pennies, and she can't get anything to eat until she has thirty. Oh, Waters! if you do know figures, please tell me how many days poor Susy must live without any food until she has got the thirty pennies." Waters laughed. "Things won't be as bad as that for Susy Aylmer," she said. "She is a sturdy little piece, and I don't believe she denies herself much; don't you fret about her, Miss Maggie darling." "Yes, but what is the difference between fourteen and thirty?" insisted Maggie. "Ralph only gets a penny a day; how many days will have to pass before Susy gets the thirty pennies?" "She has fourteen now," said Waters; "well--well, it is something of a poser; I never had much aptitude in the figure line, Miss Maggie. Fourteen in hand, thirty to make up; well--well, let's try it by our fingers. Ten fingers first, five on each hand. Bear that in your mind, Miss Maggie. Add ten to fourteen, makes twenty-four; come now, I'm getting on, but that isn't thirty, is it, darling? Try the fingers again; five more fingers makes twenty-nine, and one--why, there we are--thirty. Ten, five, and one make sixteen. There, Miss Maggie, sixteen pennies more she'll have to get." Just at this moment Mrs. Grenville entered the room, and Maggie's conversation with the good-natured lady's maid was brought to an abrupt conclusion. The next morning Maggie awoke out of a profound sleep, in which she had been dreaming of Jo as turned into a real angel with wings, and of Susy as playing on the most perfect tambourine that was ever invented. The little girl awoke out of this slumber to hear the unfamiliar London sounds, and to sit up in bed and rub her sleepy eyes. The hours kept at Mrs. Grenville's were not so early as those enjoyed at Tower Hill. Maggie was tired of lying in bed; she was occupying a tiny room which led out of Miss Grey's, and she now jumped up and went to the window. What was her amazement to see just under the window, walking leisurely across the road, one of the objects of her last vivid dream, Susy Aylmer herself! Susy's very stout little form was seen crossing the street and coming right up to the Grenvilles' house. Maggie was charmed to see her, and took not an instant in making up her mind to improve the occasion. She knocked violently on the pane, but her room was too high up for even Susy's quick ears to discern this signal, and she then, in her little blue dressing-gown, rushed through Miss Grey's room, and ran as fast as her small feet would carry her down the stairs, down and down until she reached the front hall. There were no servants in the hall, but the chain had already been taken off the hall door, and Maggie had no difficulty in slipping back the bolt. She opened the door and stood on the steps. "Susy! Susy! Susy!" she screamed. Susy at this moment was receiving what indeed she came for every morning--a good supply of broken bread and meat from Mrs. Grenville's cook. Mrs. Grenville allowed the cook to give these things to Mrs. Aylmer, and Susy was generally sent to fetch them. She was much amazed to see the pretty little country lady calling to her so vehemently; she was also delighted, and came to the foot of the hall-door steps, and looked up at Maggie with a very eager face. For a girl who was so dreadfully starved, Maggie could not help thinking the said face rather round and full; however, she would not allow this passing reflection to spoil her interest. She beckoned to Susy, and said in a whisper: [Illustration: MAGGIE STOOD IN A CONTEMPLATIVE ATTITUDE.--Page 91.] "I'm most terrible sorry for you. If I had any money I'd give it to you--really and truly I would, but I haven't got nothing at all. Father has--father's ever so rich, but he's not with me, he's far away, and I can't--oh! Susy, can you write?" Maggie stood in a contemplative attitude. Susy posed herself on one leg, held her basket of broken meat in a careless manner, as though it did not account for anything at all, and kept her quick and intelligent eyes fixed on the little princess. "I do want to help you, very much," said Maggie, at last. "I want to help you my own self, without any one knowing anything about it. I think I want to do this as much for Jo as for you. Once I didn't like Jo at all, but now I do love her; she looks so beautiful and so sweet. I don't think you do; you have rather a cross face, and you are very red, and you've such fat cheeks; but maybe being hungry makes people look cross and red." "And--and--fat," continued Susy eagerly. "I'm puffed out with being so holler inside. I am now, missie, really. It's an awfully empty feel, and it won't go, not a bit of it, till I gets that 'ere tambourine." "I wish I could help you!" continued Maggie again. Just then there were sounds inside the house, sounds of dustpans and brushes, and of industrious maids approaching, and Susy knew that her opportunity was short. "I believe you, missie," she said, "I believe in your kind 'eart, missie. It do seem a shame as you shouldn't have no money, for you would know how to pervide for the poor and needy, missie; but--but it might be managed in other ways, Miss Maggie." "In other ways?" repeated Maggie. "How, Susy--how, dear, nice Susy?" "Why, now, you hasn't nothing as you could sell, I suppose?" "That I could sell?" repeated little Miss Ascot. "Oh, dear, no, I haven't nothing at all to make a shop with, if that's what you mean." "I wasn't thinking of that, missie; I was wondering now if you had any little bit of dress as you didn't want. Your clothes is very 'andsome, and something as you didn't greatly care for would fetch a few pence if it was sold, and so help on the tambourine." Maggie's blue eyes began to sparkle. "Why, there's my new hat," she said; "mother got it from London only a week ago, and I know it cost pounds--it has two long white feathers; I like it very much, but I could do without it, 'cause I've got my little common garden-hat to wear. Do you think I'd get two or three pennies for my new best hat with the feathers and the lace, Susy?" "Oh, yes, missie--oh, yes, missie; I seed the hat yesterday, and I never clapped my two eyes on such a beauty. But it seems a pity to take it away from you, missie dear, and maybe the little common garden-hat would fetch enough to buy the tambourine." "Oh, I wouldn't sell that at all," said Maggie; "I am very fond of my garden-hat, 'cause father likes me in it; and 'sides, I've gathered strawberries in it, and I've had wild birds' eggs in it. I'd much, much rather sell the stupid new hat." Susy was quite agreeable to the transfer, and it was finally arranged that the two little girls were to meet each other at the same hour on the following morning, and Susy was to accompany Maggie to the pawnbroker's, where the new hat might be disposed of. If there was a commonplace, ordinary, every-day London child, it was Susy Aylmer. She was the sister of two little brothers, who also belonged to a very easily found class of human beings; she was the daughter of an industrious, hard-working, every-day mother; and yet she was also sister to Jo! How Jo got into that home was a puzzle to all who knew her; she had innate refinement; she had heaven-born beauty. Her ideas were above her class; her little flower-like face looked like some rare exotic among its ruder companions. Mrs. Aylmer alone knew why Jo was different from her other children. Jo represented a short, bright episode in the hard-working woman's life. She had been born in good days, in sweet, happy, country days. Her father had been like her, refined in feature and poetic in temperament. Shortly after Jo's birth the Aylmers had come to London, poverty and all its attendant ills had over-taken them, and after a few years Aylmer had fallen a victim to consumption, and had left his wife with four young children on her hands, the three younger of whom altogether resembled her. Mrs. Aylmer had no time to grieve--she was a brave woman; there are many brave women in the world, thank God; among the working poor they are perhaps more the rule than the exception. She turned round, faced her position, and managed after a fashion to provide for her children. Many visitors came to see her, for she was eminently respectable, and had an honest way about her which impressed people, and all these visitors pitied her when they saw Jo. Poor little Jo was a cripple, a lovely cripple, but still unable to walk or move from her little sofa. The visitors congratulated Mrs. Aylmer on her strong boys and stalwart-looking little daughter, but they invariably pitied her about Jo. Nothing made that worthy woman so angry. "For Jo is my brightest blessing," she would exclaim; "she's always like a bit of sunshine in the room. Trouble, bless her! she a trouble! Why, don't she take the trouble off my shoulders more than any one else ever did or ever will do? Ask me who never yet spoke a cross word, and I'll tell you it's that little pale girl who can never lift herself off the sofa. Ask me who keeps the peace with the others, and I'll tell you again it's little Jo. And she don't preach, not she, for she don't know how, and she never looks reproachful for all the roughness and the wildness of the others; but her life's one sarmin, and, in short, we none of us could get on without her. Jo my trouble indeed! I only wish them visitors wouldn't talk about what they knows nothing on." What Mrs. Aylmer felt for her little lame daughter was also, although perhaps in a slightly minor degree, acknowledged by the boys and Susy. They clung to Jo, and looked up to her. The boys, who were the two youngest of the family, had a habit of giving her their absolute confidence. They not only told her of their good deeds, but of their naughty ones. They had a habit of pouring out their little scrapes and misdemeanors with one of Jo's thin hands clasped to their tearful faces, and when she forgave, and when she encouraged, the sunshine came out again on them. But Susy was different from the boys, and of late she had kept the knowledge of more than one naughty little action from Jo. The history of the tambourine, the history of the purchase of that redoubtable instrument which was to make Susy's fortune and fill the Aylmers' home with not only the necessaries, but also some of the dainties of life, was, of course, known by Jo. No one had ever been more interested in the purchase of a musical instrument than she was in the collecting of that hoard which was to result in the buying of Susy's tambourine. Jo was a delightful and sympathizing listener, and Susy liked nothing better than to kneel by her sofa and pour out her longings and dreams into so good a listener's ears; but Susy had kept more than one secret to herself, and she said nothing to Jo about her interview with little Miss Ascot, nor about the arrangement she had made with that little lady to purchase the tambourine out of the proceeds of the sale of her best hat. Susy knew perfectly that Jo would not approve of anything so underhanded, and she resolved to keep her own counsel. She returned home, however, in the wildest spirits, and indulged all day long in fantastic day-dreams. Jo was having a bad day of much pain and suffering, but Susy's brightness was infectious, and Mrs. Aylmer thought as she tidied up her place and made it straight, that surely there never were happier children than hers. "But we won't have the tambourine for many and many a day yet," said Ben. "Don't be too sure, Susy; how can you tell but that Master Ralph'll get tired of saving up all his pennies for you? Hanyhow," continued Ben, with a profound sigh, "we has a sight of days to wait afore we gets 'arf a crown." "I knows what I knows," answered Susan oracularly. "Look here, Jo, you're the one for making up real 'ticing pictures. I wants to make a day-dream, and you tell me what to do with it when we get it. S'pose now--oh, do be quiet, Ben and Bob--s'pose now I 'ad the tambourine, and it wor a beauty; well, s'pose as the day is fine, and the hair balmy, and every-body goes out, so to speak, with their pockets open, and they sees me--I'm dressed up smart and tidy--" "Oh, my, and ain't you red about the face, just?" here interrupts Bob. "Well, don't interrupt; I can't help my 'plexion; I'm tidy enough--and I'm dancing round, and I'm playing the tambourine like anything, and I'm singing. Well, maybe it's 'Nelly Bly,' or maybe it's the 'Ten Little Nigger Boys;' hanyhow I takes; I'm nothing but little Susy Aylmer, but I takes. The crowd collects, and they laugh, and they likes it, and then, the ladies and the gents, they go by, so they give me their pennies--lots of 'em; and one old gent, he have no change, and he throws me a shilling. Well, now, that's my day-dream. I comes home, I gives the pennies to mother, but I keeps the shilling; I keeps the shilling for a treat for us four young 'uns. Now, Jo, speak up. What shall we do with our day-dream?" The boys were here wildly excited. To all intents and purposes the shilling was already in Susy's possession. Bob, to relieve his over-charged feelings, instantly stood on his head, and Ben set to work to punch him; Jo's eyes began to shine. "'Tis a real beautiful day-dream, Susy darlint," she said. "Yes, ain't it, Jo? a whole shilling; you mind that, Jo. Now make up what we'll do with it. Let's all sit quiet, and shut our heyes, and listen to Jo. You'll be sure to make up something oncommon, Joey dear." Jo, when she spoke, or at least when she made up what her brothers and sisters called day-dreams, always clasped her hands and gazed straight before her; her large violet-tinted eyes began to see visions, nowhere to be perceived within that commonplace, whitewashed room; the children who listened to her instinctively perceived this, and they usually closed their own eyes in order to follow her glowing words the better. On this occasion she spoke slowly, and after a pause. "A whole shilling," she began; "it's a sight of money, and it ought to do a deal. What I'm thinking is this: suppose we had a wan, a wan as would hold us all, mother, and Susy, and Ben, and Bob, and there was lots of green grass in the bottom of the wan, so we all of us sat easy, and had no pain even when it moved. Suppose there was two horses to the wan, and a kind driver, and we went werry quick; we went away from the houses, and the streets, and we left the noise ahind us, and the dust and the dirt ahind us, and we got out into fields. Fields, with trees a-growing, and real yellow buttercups looking up at you saucy and perky like, and dear little white daisies, like bits of snow with yellow eyes. S'pose we all got out there, right in the fields, and we seed a little brook running and rushing past us, and we see the fishes leaping for joy out of the water; and if the sun was werry hot we got under a big tree, where it was shady, and we sat there; mother and I sat side by side, and you, Susy, and you, Ben and Bob, just rolled about on the green, and picked the buttercups and the daisies. Why, I can think of nothing better than that, unless, maybe, angels came and talked to us while we were there." Here Jo paused abruptly, and the three children who had sat absolutely motionless opened their eyes; the two boys sighed deeply, but Susy after a time began to cut up the day-dream; while Jo thought of angels as the only possible culmination to such intense joy, it occurred to practical Susy to suggest a good substantial dinner to be eaten under the shade of the green trees. CHAPTER VIII. CHOOSING HER COLORS. Maggie had found it very delightful to talk to Susy on the doorstep of her aunt's house. The little mystery of the whole proceeding fascinated her, and as she was in reality a very romantic and imaginative child, she thought nothing could be finer than going off privately with Susy, and sacrificing her best hat for the benefit of this young person. She had also a decidedly mixed and perhaps somewhat naughty desire to out-do Ralph in this matter, and to be herself the person who was to rescue poor Susy and her family from the depths of starvation. When Susy went away, she crept upstairs and went softly into her little room, no one having heard her either leave it or return to it. There was one part, however, of the programme marked out by Susy which was not quite so agreeable to little Miss Ascot. Susy had adjured her, with absolute tears starting to her black eyes, to keep the whole thing a secret. Maggie had not the smallest difficulty in promising this at the moment, but she had no sooner reached her little bedroom than she became possessed with a frantic desire to tell her little adventure to some one. She was not yet eight years old; she had never kept a secret in her life, and the moment she possessed this one it began to worry her. Little Maggie, however, was not without a certain code of morals; she knew that it would be very wrong indeed to tell a lie. She had given her word to Susy; she must keep her poor little secret at any cost. Miss Grey, who of course knew nothing of all that had transpired, came in at her accustomed hour to assist her little pupil at her toilet. Maggie capered about and seemed in excellent spirits while she was being dressed. She had no idea of betraying her secret, but she liked, so to speak, to play with it, to show little peeps of it, and certainly fully to acquaint those she was with, with the fact that she was the happy possessor of such a treasure. She remembered Waters' remarks of the night before. Waters had said how very faithfully she preserved anything told to her in confidence. Waters kept her secrets in violet. Maggie did not quite understand the double meaning of this expression; but, as she was being dressed, she became violently enamored of what she called the "secret" color. "No, no, I won't have my pink sash this morning, please, Miss Grey; I don't like pink; I mean it isn't the fit color for me to wear to-day. You don't know why; you'll never of course guess why, but pink isn't my color to-day anyhow." "Well, Maggie, you need not wear it," replied the patient governess; "here is a very pretty blue sash, dear; it will go quite nicely with your white frock; let me tie it on in a hurry, dear, for the breakfast gong has sounded." But Maggie would not be satisfied with the blue sash, nor yet with the tartan, nor even with the pale gold. "I want a violet sash," she said; "I'll have nothing but a violet sash; I'm keeping something in violet; you'll never, never guess what." The breakfast gong here sounded a second time, and of course Miss Grey could not find any violet ribbons in Maggie's box; fortunately she had a piece of the desired color among her own stores; so when the little princess was decked in it, she went downstairs, feeling very happy and proud. Miss Grey's violet sash did not happen to be of a pretty shade; it was an old ribbon, of a dark tint of color, and was a great deal too short for its present purpose. "What a hideous thing you have round your waist," whispered Ralph to his little cousin; but here he caught his mother's eye; she did not allow him to make personal remarks, and although she herself was considerably surprised at Lady Ascot's allowing such a ribbon into Maggie's wardrobe, nothing further was said on the subject. Even the wearing of the violet sash, however, could scarcely keep the secret from bubbling to Maggie's lips. Mrs. Grenville began to form her plans for the day. Maggie and Ralph were to employ themselves over their lessons until twelve o'clock and then Mrs. Grenville would take them both out with her, first to Madame Tussaud's, and later on for a drive in the park. "To-morrow," she continued, "you are both going with me to a children's garden party. Mrs. Somerville--you know Mrs. Somerville, Ralph, and what nice children hers are--happened to hear that you and Maggie were coming to me for a short time, and she sent an invitation for you both last night. We shall not return until quite late, as it will be Hugh Somerville's birthday; and they are going to have fireworks in the evening, and even a little dance." Ralph rubbed his hands together with delight. "Won't Maggie jump when she hears the fireworks?" he said. "You never saw fireworks, did you, Mag? Oh, I say, what a jolly time we are going to have!" Maggie felt her cheeks flushing, more particularly as she had seen a few rockets, and even some Catharine wheels, and in consequence she had hitherto believed herself rather knowing on the subject of fireworks; but when Ralph proceeded to enlighten her with regard to the style of fireworks likely to be exhibited at Mrs. Somerville's garden party; when he spoke about the fairy fountains, and the electric lights, and the golden showers of fire-drops, and last, but not least, the bouquet which was to end the entertainment, she felt she had better keep silent with regard to the rockets and Catharine wheels which her father had once displayed for the amusement of the villagers. Mrs. Grenville here began to speak earnestly to Miss Grey. "I want Maggie's dress to be quite suitable. Is there anything we ought to get for her, Miss Grey?" "I think not," replied Miss Grey. "She has just had a beautifully worked Indian muslin frock from Perrett's, in Bond Street, which she has not yet worn; and I don't think anything could be more dressy than her new hat with the ostrich feathers." "Oh, yes, it is a charming hat," replied Mrs. Grenville. "Of course she must wear it to-day when she drives with me in the carriage, but that won't injure it for to-morrow. Then I need not trouble about your wardrobe, my darling; you will accompany me to-morrow, quite the little princess your father is so fond of calling you." During this brief conversation, Maggie's little face had been changing color. "I think," she said suddenly, "that perhaps I'd better have a new hat." "Why so, my love? your hat is quite new and charming. It came from Perrett's, too, did it not, Miss Grey?" "Yes, Mrs. Grenville; it was sent in the same box as the muslin costume." "Oh, it will answer admirably, Maggie, dear. Why, what is the matter, my child?" Maggie's lips were quivering, and her eyes were fixed on her violet sash. "Only perhaps--perhaps the new hat might get lost or something," she muttered incoherently. Mrs. Grenville looked at her for a moment, but as her remark was not very intelligible, she dismissed it from her mind. The rest of the day passed happily enough. In half an hour Maggie ceased to fret about her hat. She comforted herself with the thought that her plain brown straw garden-hat, trimmed with a neat band of brown velvet, and a few daisies, would be after all just the thing for a garden party, and that in any case it did not greatly matter what she wore. What was of much more consequence was, that to-morrow Susy would be capering about with her tambourine, and that pennies would be pouring in for the Aylmer children, and for Jo in particular. She was obliged to wear her best hat when she went out that afternoon, and she certainly was remarkably careful as to how she put it on, and she quite astonished Miss Grey, when she came home in the evening, by the extreme care with which she herself placed it back in its box. "Waters," she said that night, when she suddenly met Mrs. Grenville's maid, "I am quite happy again; I have done just as you do, and I have kept it in violet all day long." "What, my darling?" asked the surprised servant. "Oh, my secret; I have got such a darling secret. It would be very wrong of me to tell it, wouldn't it, Waters?" Waters looked dubious. "I don't approve of secrets for a little lady." "But, Waters, how queer you are! You always keep your own secrets in violet, don't you?" "Oh, yes, dear; yes. But I haven't many. They're sort of burdensome things; at least, I find them so. And in no case do I approve of secrets for little ladies, Miss Maggie; in no single case." Maggie knit her brows, looked exceedingly perplexed, felt a great longing to pour the whole affair into Waters' sympathizing ears, then remembered Susy and refrained. "But I promised not to tell," she said; "I promised most solemn not to tell." "Well, well; I s'pose it's something between you and Master Ralph," remarked the servant, who felt worried she scarcely knew why. Maggie jumped softly up and down. "It isn't Ralph's secret, but it's about Ralph. He needn't save up his pennies no more. It's about Ralph's pennies and the half-crown. I know what it is; I'll tell you exactly what it is, Waters, and yet I know you won't never guess. It's add sixteen to fourteen makes thirty. My secret's the sixteen. You'll never, never, never guess, will you, Waters?" Here Waters had to confess herself bamboozled, and Maggie skipped off to bed with a very light heart. She had kept her secret all day long, and now all she had to do was to wake up quite early in the morning, and go off with Susy to the pawnbroker's. CHAPTER IX. A JOLLY PLAN. Maggie, on the whole, was inclined to wake early; she was not a particularly sound sleeper, and on the summer mornings she always had an intense longing to be up and about. It occurred to her, however, as Miss Grey was helping her to undress that night, how very, very dreadful it would be if Susy were to wait down in the street on the following morning, and she were all unconsciously to oversleep herself. She thought that such a thing ought not to be left to chance, and she cast about in her active little brain for some means of rousing herself. The little room she slept in used to be occupied by Ralph; and among the rest of its furniture, it held a nice little book-shelf, full of gayly covered boy's books. Maggie could not read, but Ralph during the day had come up with her and told her the names of some of his favorite volumes. Maggie now thought that these books might help her to wake; and accordingly, after Miss Grey had left her tucked up comfortably in her little white bed, she slipped on to the floor, and going to the book-case, selected a green and gayly bound volume, which Ralph had called "Robinson Crusoe;" another, which he had entitled "Swiss Family Robinson," and a book bound in brown, which he assured her was as heavy in its contents as in its exterior, and which bore the name of "Sandford and Merton." Maggie carried these three books into her bed, and then arranged them with system. "I am sure to wake now," she said to herself. "And poor little Susy shall not be disappointed of her tambourine. The green book is 'Robinson Crusoe,' he'll do to begin with; he's rather thick, and he'll make a good clatter. Now I do call this a lovely plan." Maggie now arranged herself in bed, and placed "Robinson Crusoe" on her feet. "I'll go sound asleep, and though he's rather weighty I don't mind him, and then when I turn, he'll go bang on the floor, and that'll wake me the first time," she said. "The other two books can stay handy until they're wanted under my pillow." Then the little princess shut up her curly fringed eyes and went happily off into the land of dreams. It so happened that Miss Grey was getting into bed when the bump occasioned by "Robinson Crusoe's" fall occurred. She rushed into her little pupil's room to inquire what was wrong. Maggie was sitting up in bed and rubbing her sleepy eyes. "He did come down with a bang," she said; "it's a jolly plan. Please, Miss Grey, it's only 'Robinson Crusoe;' do you mind putting him on the shelf?" Miss Grey picked up the volume in great wonder, but concluding that Maggie, who could not read a word, must have been amusing herself looking at the pictures, laid the book down and retired to rest. In the course of the night she had again to fly into the little princess' bedroom. This time Maggie was very sleepy, and only murmured drowsily: "I think it's his 'Family' that has got on the floor now." Miss Grey picked up the "Swiss Family Robinson," and with a not unnatural reflection that there seldom was a more troublesome little girl than her pupil, once more sought her couch. The third bang was the loudest of all, and it came with daylight, and strange and unfortunate to say, awoke the pupil, and not the governess. Maggie was out of bed in a moment, and approached the window, and was gazing out to see some sign of Susy in the street. It was not yet five o'clock, and certainly Susy was not likely to put in an appearance so early; but Maggie determined not to risk going to sleep again, and she accordingly dressed herself, and then getting on the window-sill, which happened to be rather deep, curled herself up, and pressed her little face against the glass. The band-box containing the precious hat was by her side. The moment Susy appeared, therefore, she was ready to start. Six o'clock struck from a church tower hard by, but another hour had very nearly passed before a somewhat stout little figure was seen eagerly turning the corner and gazing right up to the window where Maggie, cold and tired with waiting, sat. At the sight of Susy, however, her spirits revived and her enthusiasm was once more kindled. With the band-box containing the new hat in her hand she rushed out of the room--she was too excited to be very prudent this morning--and dashed downstairs in a way which certainly would have aroused any one in the dead of the night, but was only mistaken now for a frantic housemaid's extra cleaning. Once more she reached the hall without any one seeing her, and opening the street door, found Susy Aylmer waiting on the steps. "Oh! here you are, miss--my heart was in my mouth for fear as you'd fail me. Oh, not that band-box please, Miss Maggie, anybody would notice us with the band-box! I have brought round the little broken-victual basket, and we'll stuff the hat into that." Maggie on this occasion was certainly not going to be particular, but she did feel a pang of some annoyance when she saw her lovely hat crushed and squeezed into a by no means clean basket. She concluded, however, that as the hat was now absolutely Susy's, she need not trouble any further about it. "That's all right now," she said; "you'll be able to buy the tambourine now, won't you?" "Well, I 'ope so, miss; that's if the 'at ain't a sham, and it don't look like a sham--it looks like a real good 'at. Now, then, Miss Maggie, hadn't we better come along?--it's a good step from here to the pawnshop--we'll get there a little before eight, and they opens at eight. It's a good plan to be at the pawn bright and early, and then you get served first; come along, miss." "But I didn't know you wanted me to go with you to the shop," said Maggie; "I thought you might do that by yourself; I have gived you the hat, and I thought you'd sell it by yourself. Why, what is the matter Susy?" Susy Aylmer's face had grown crimson, redder, indeed, than any face Maggie had ever seen; she began opening the basket and pulling out the hat. "Oh! oh!" she said, "and is that your kind? Is it me that 'ud take this hat and sell it by myself? Why, I'd be took for a thief, that's what I'd be took for, and I'd be put in the lock-up, that's where I'd be found. There, Miss Maggie, take back your hat, miss; it's better to be ever so hungry and holler, and have your bit of liberty. I must do without the tambourine, and Jo's day dream won't come, that's all. Good-morning to yer, miss." Susy began to walk very slowly away, but Maggie flew after her. "Why, Susy," she said, "I don't mind going with you; I think perhaps I'd rather like going, only I didn't know you wanted me. You shan't be put in the lock-up, Susy, though I'm sure I don't know what the lock-up is, and you shall have your tambourine. But oh, Susy, I hope they won't take me for a thief and put me into that funny place!" "Oh, dear, no, missy darling--any one might see at a glance that you was the rightful owner of that 'ere pretty hat, and might well sell what was your own. Come, missy dear, it's all right now, and I never thought as you'd be that real mean as to desert me." "We must be very quick, then, Susy," said Maggie; "for my Aunt Violet is going to have breakfast at half-past eight this morning and I have been up a long time--a very long time, and I never was so hungry in all my life. I had a very disturbed night, Susy, for 'Robinson Crusoe' did bump so when he fell on the floor, and so did the 'Family,' but none of them bumped quite so hard as 'Sandford and Merton.'" All the time the two little girls were talking they were going further and further away from Mrs. Grenville's door, and by the time Maggie had quite made up her mind to accompany her little companion they had turned into a side street, and if she had wished it she could not now have found her way home. Maggie, however, no longer wished to go back; it was great fun going with Susy to the pawnbroker's, and she felt very important at having something of her own to sell. She was a strong, healthy little girl, and did not feel particularly tired when they at last reached the special pawnbroker's which Susy had fixed upon as the best place for making their bargain. The doors of this shop were not yet open, but they were presently pushed back, the shutters were taken down, and a dirty-looking girl and a slovenly red-faced man entered the establishment. Maggie had never seen such an unpleasant-looking pair, and she was very glad to shelter herself behind Susy, and felt much inclined to refuse to enter the shop at all. Susy, however, marched in boldly, and very soon the white hat was laid upon the counter, and a fierce haggling ensued between this young person and the red-faced man. The dirty girl also came and stared very hard at Maggie, for certainly such a refined little face and such a lovely hat had not been seen in that pawnshop for many a day. The hat was new, and had cost several guineas, but Maggie's eyes quite glistened when the red man presented her with seven shillings in exchange for it. She thought this a magnificent lot of money--her cheeks became deeply flushed, and she poured the silver into Susy's hand with the delighted remark: "Oh, now you can get a tambourine! This will more than make up the sixteen added to fourteen, won't it?" Susy, too, thought seven shillings a splendid lot of money, and the two were leaving the pawnbroker's in a state of ecstasy, when Susy suddenly felt even her florid complexion turning pale, and Maggie exclaimed joyfully: "Oh, it's dear Waters! Waters, where have you come from, and how did you learn my secret?" For answer to Maggie's eager inquiries Waters stooped down and lifted the little girl into her arms; she held her close, and even kissed her in a quite tremulous and agitated manner. "Thank God, Miss Maggie!" she exclaimed; "thank God, my pretty innocent lamb, I'm in time. Oh, what a bad, bad girl that Susy must be! How could she tempt you to do anything so wicked? Why, Miss Maggie, you might have been stolen yourself--you might have been--you might have been! Oh, poor dear Sir John! What a near escape he has had of having his heart broke!" Here Waters shed some tears and leaned up against the counter in her agitation. "Susy was not to blame," said Maggie, when she could speak in her utter astonishment. "Poor Susy wanted the tambourine, and I wanted to give it her, and I couldn't think of no other way, 'cause I'm a dunce and can't write, and so I couldn't send no letter to father to ask him to give me the money. Don't you be frightened, Susy; come here; poor Susy you shall have your tambourine." But here the untidy-looking girl who served behind the counter raised her shrill voice. "Ef you're looking for the red-faced young person what came with you into the shop, miss, she runned away some minutes since." "And I'm grieved to say taking the money with her," added the pawnbroker. "It seems provoking," he continued, "as of course if the money had been returned I might have given up the hat. As things now stands this here hat is mine." "Not quite so," interposed Waters; "you know quite well, sir, you had no right to buy a hat from a little lady like Miss Ascot. Here's seven shillings from my purse, sir, and I'd be thankful to you to restore me the hat." Of course the pawnbroker and Waters had a rather sharp quarrel upon the spot, but in the end the pawnbroker was the better of that morning's transaction to the tune of several shillings, and Waters rescued the pretty white hat, which, much bent out of shape, and with some black marks on its pure white trimmings, was carried home. "Not that you shall wear it, my dear--not that you shall attempt to put it on your head again, for nobody knows what the hat may have contracted, so to speak, in so horrid and dirty a shop, but that I didn't wish that man to have more of a victory than I could help. Oh, Miss Maggie, darling, you did give me a fright and no mistake!" "But how did you know where I was, Waters? I kept my secret so well." "Yes, my dearie; but somehow I got fidgety last night, and I kept thinking and thinking of your words, and the idea got hold of me that maybe the secret wasn't just between you and Master Ralph. This morning I woke earlier than my wont, and as I couldn't sleep, I got up. I had to put one or two little matters right with regard to my mistress' wardrobe, and then I thought I'd see, just when I had a quiet hour, whether you had everything right to go to the garden party. Your new dress was hung up in my mistress' room, and I took it out and saw that the tucker was fastened round the neck, and that your gloves were neat, and your little white French boots wanted no buttons, and then it occurred to me that I'd just curl up the feathers of the hat. The hat was not with the dress, so I ran up to your room to fetch it, thinking of course to see you, dearie, like a little bird asleep in your nest. Well, my dear, the poor little bird was flown, and the beautiful hat was nowhere, and, I must say, I was in a taking, and it flashed across me that was the secret. I put on my bonnet and flew into the street, only just in time to see you and Susy talking very earnestly together, and turning the corner. The street, as you know, is a long one, and I couldn't get up with you, run as I might, but thank God, I kept you in sight, and at last overtook you at the pawnshop. Oh, what a wicked girl Susy Aylmer is!" "She isn't," said Maggie, "Oh, poor Susy isn't wicked. Waters, I'm sorry you found us. I did want to do something for Susy and for Jo!" Here Maggie burst into such bitter weeping that Waters found it absolutely impossible to comfort her. CHAPTER X. A GREAT FEAR. Nothing could exceed the fuss which was made over Maggie and her adventure. Mrs. Grenville turned quite pale when she heard of it--even Ralph, who was tranquilly eating his breakfast, and who, as a rule, did not disturb himself about anything, threw down his spoon, ceased to devour his porridge, and gazed at Maggie in some astonishment mingled with a tiny degree of envy and even a little shadow of respect. Mrs. Grenville took the little girl in her arms, and while she kissed and petted her, she also thought it necessary to chide her very gently. It was at this juncture that Ralph did an astonishing thing; he upset his mug of milk, he tossed his spoon with a great clatter on the floor, and dashing in the most headlong style round the table, caught Maggie's two hands and said impulsively: "She oughtn't to be scolded, really, mother. She didn't know anything about its being wrong, and I call it a downright plucky thing of her to do. She couldn't have done more even if she had been a boy--no, not even if she had been a boy," continued Ralph, nodding his head with intense earnestness. "I can say nothing better than that, can I, mother?" "According to your code you certainly cannot, Ralph," answered his mother. "Now go back to your seat, my boy, and pick up the spoon you have thrown on the floor. See what a mess you have made on the breakfast-table. Maggie, dear, you did not mean to do wrong, still you did wrong. But we will say nothing more on that subject for the present. Now, my darling, you shall have some breakfast, and then I have a surprise for you." Maggie could not help owning to her own little heart that Ralph's words had cheered her considerably; she thought a great deal more of Ralph's opinion than of any one else's, and it was an immense consolation to be compared to a boy, and to a plucky one. She accordingly ate her breakfast with considerable appetite, and was ready to receive the surprise which her aunt said awaited her at its close. This was no less joyful a piece of news than the fact that Lady Ascot's sister was much better, and that Sir John intended to come up to London for a few days. "After all, Maggie," said her aunt, "if you had shown a little patience, you could have asked your father for the money, instead of trying to sell your best hat. Now, dear, you can go up to the schoolroom with Ralph, and I hope that no bad consequences will arise from this morning's adventure." "I think, mother," here interrupted Ralph, "it would be a good plan for Maggie and me to go round and see how Jo is. Susy didn't act right, and I know Jo will be very unhappy, and Jo oughtn't to be blamed; ought she, mother?" "Certainly not, Ralph; Jo has done nothing wrong. Well, if Waters can spare the time, I don't mind you two little people going to see Jo, but remember, you must not stay long; for now I really must buy Maggie a new hat for the garden party." "Oh, auntie, but I brought my own hat back," exclaimed the little princess. "Yes, my love, but it is much injured, and there are other reasons why I should not care to see you wear it again. Now run away, children, and get your visit over, for we have plenty to do this afternoon." When Maggie, with her heart beating high, and one of her hands held tightly in Ralph's, entered Mrs. Aylmer's room, she was startled to find herself in a scene of much confusion. Mrs. Aylmer prided herself on keeping a very neat and orderly home, but there was certainly nothing orderly about that home to-day. Mrs. Aylmer herself was seated on a low, broken chair, her hands thrown down at her sides, her cap on crooked, and her face bearing signs of violent weeping. The two little boys stood one at each side of their mother: Ben had his finger in his mouth, and Bob's red hair seemed almost to stand on end. They kept gazing with solemn eyes at their mother, for tears on her face were a rare occurrence. Susy was nowhere to be seen; and most startling fact of all, Jo's little sofa was empty. It was Jo's absence from the room which Ralph first remarked. He rushed up to Mrs. Aylmer and clutched one of her hands. "What is the matter? Where's Jo? Where's our darling little Jo?" he exclaimed. "Oh, Master Ralph Grenville," exclaimed the poor woman, "you had better not come near me; you had better not, sir, it mightn't be safe. I'm just distraught with misery and terror. My little Jo, my little treasure, is tuk away from me; she's tuk bad with the fever, sir, and they've carried her off to the hospital. She's there now; I 'as just come from seeing her there." By this time Waters, panting and puffing hard, had reached the room, and had heard, with a sinking heart, the last of Mrs. Aylmer's words. She eagerly questioned the poor woman, who said that Jo had not been well for days, and yesterday the doctor had pronounced her case one of fever and had ordered her, for the sake of the other children, to be moved at once to the nearest fever hospital. "She was werry willing to go herself," continued the mother; "she wouldn't harm no one, not in life, nor in death, would my little Jo." "And Susy knew of this!" exclaimed Waters. "Oh, was there ever such a bad girl? Mrs. Aylmer, you'll forgive me if I hurries these dear children out of this infected air! I'll come back later in the day, ma'am, and do what I can for you; and if Susy comes home, you might do well to keep her in, for I can't help saying she is no credit to you. It sounds hard at such a moment, but I must out with my mind." "Susy!" here exclaimed Mrs. Aylmer, "I ain't seen nothing of Susy to-day." "No, ma'am, very like; but it's my duty to tell you she has been after no good. Now come away, darlings. I'll look in again presently, Mrs. Aylmer." Maggie could never make out why her aunt turned so pale and looked so anxiously at her when the news of Jo's dangerous illness was told to her. The pity which should have been expended on the sick and suffering little girl seemed, in some inexplicable way, to be showered upon her. A doctor even was sent for, who asked Maggie a lot of questions, and was particularly anxious to know if she held Susy's hand when she walked with her, and how long she and Ralph had been in the infected room. In conclusion, he said some words which seemed to Maggie to have no sense at all. "There is nothing whatever for us to do, Mrs. Grenville. If the children have imbibed the poison it is too late to stop matters. We must only hope for the best, and watch them. Nothing, of course, can be certainly known for several days." Maggie could not understand the doctor, and both she and Ralph thought Mrs. Grenville rather wanting in feeling not to let them go and inquire for Jo at the hospital. Under these circumstances the garden-party was a rather cheerless affair, and Maggie was glad to return home and to lay a very tired little head on her pillow. She was awakened from her first sleep by her father bending over her and kissing her passionately. Never had she seen Sir John's face so red, and his eyes quite looked--only of course that was impossible--as if he had been crying. "Oh, father, I am glad to see you," exclaimed Maggie, "only I wish you had come last night, for then I wouldn't have tried to sell my hat, and you'd have given me the money for the tambourine. I wish you had come last night, father, dear." "So do I, Mag-Mag," answered poor Sir John. "God knows it might have saved me from a broken heart." Maggie could not understand either her father or aunt. She began, perhaps, to have a certain glimmering as to the meaning of it all when, a few days later, she felt very hot, and languid, and heavy, when her throat ached, and her head ached, and although it was a warm summer's day, she was glad to lie with a shawl over her on the sofa. Then certain words of the doctor's, as he bent over her, penetrated her dull ears, and crept somehow down into her heart. "There is no doubt whatever that she has taken the fever from Susy Aylmer. Well, all we have to do now is to pull her through as quickly as possible, and of course, Mrs. Grenville, as Ralph is still quite well, and as he was not exposed to anything like the same amount of infection as Maggie, you will send him away." Mrs. Grenville responded in rather a choking voice, and she and the doctor left the room together. A few moments later Mrs. Grenville came back and bent over the sick child. "Is that you, Auntie Violet?" asked Maggie. "Yes, my darling," responded her aunt. "What's fever, auntie?" "An illness, dear." "And am I going to be very, very ill?" "I hope not very ill, Maggie. We are going to nurse you so well that we trust that will not be the case; but I am afraid my poor little girl will not feel comfortable for some time." "And did I take the fever that's to make me so sick from Susy--only Susy wasn't sick, auntie?" "No, dearest; but she carried the infection on her clothes, and there is no doubt you took it from her." "Then I'm 'fraid," continued Maggie, "you're very angry with her still." "I cannot say that I'm pleased with her, darling." "Oh, but, auntie, I want you to forgive her, and I want father to forgive her, 'cause she didn't know nothing about 'fection or fevers--and--and--do forgive her, Auntie Violet." Here poor sick little Maggie began to cry and Mrs. Grenville was glad to comfort her with any assurances, even of promises of forgiveness for the naughty Susy. After this there came very dark and anxious days for the people who loved the little princess. Ralph was sent back to Tower Hill, where he wandered about and was miserable, and thought a great deal about Maggie, and found out that after all he was very fond of her. He did not take the fever himself, but he was full of anxieties about Jo and Maggie; for both the little girls, one in the fever hospital and the other in his mother's luxurious home, were having a hard fight for their little lives. Lady Ascot and Sir John were always, day and night, one or another of them, to be found by Maggie's sick-bed, and of course there were professional nurses, and more than one doctor; but with all this care the sick child in the home seemed to have as hard a time of it as the other sick child who was away from those she loved and who was handed over to the tender mercies of strangers. It was very curious how, through all her ravings and through all the delirium of her fever, Maggie talked about Jo. She had only seen Jo once in her life, but although she mentioned her mother and her father, and her old nurse and Ralph, there was no one at all about whom she spoke so frequently, or with so keen an interest, as the lame child of the poor laundress. From the moment she heard that Susy was to be forgiven, that very mischievous little person seemed to have passed from her thoughts; but with Jo it was different, until at last Waters began to think that there was some mysterious link between the two sick children. This idea was confirmed, when one evening little Maggie awoke, cool and quiet, but with a weakness over her which was beyond any weakness she could ever have dreamed of undergoing. Her feeble voice could scarcely be heard, but her thoughts still ran on Jo. "Mother," she whispered, very, very low indeed in Lady Ascot's ear, "I thought Jo had got her day-dream." "Try not to talk, my precious one," whispered the mother back in reply. "But why not?" asked Maggie. "Jo often had day-dreams, Susy told me, and so did Ralph. She wanted to be in a cool place, where beautiful things are, in the country, or in--in heaven. And I want to be with Jo in the country--or in--heaven." Maggie looked very sweet as she spoke, and when the last words passed her pale little lips, she closed her eyes with their pretty curly lashes. The father and mother both felt, as they looked at her, that a very, very little more would take their darling away. "I wonder how the sick child in the hospital is," said Sir John Ascot to his wife. "I must own I have had no time to think about her, and she and hers have done mischief enough to us; but the little one's heart seems set on her--has been all through. It might be a good thing for our little Maggie if I could bring her word that the other child is better." "It would be the best thing in all the world for Maggie," answered Lady Ascot. "Then I will go round to the fever hospital now, and make inquiries," said Sir John. On his way downstairs he met Mrs. Grenville, and told her what he was doing. She said: "Wait one moment, John, and I will put on my bonnet and go with you." It was a lovely evening toward the end of July. The day had been intensely hot, but now a soft breeze began to stir the heated atmosphere, a breeze with a little touch of health and healing about it. "This night will be cooler than the last," said Mrs. Grenville, "and that will be another chance in our little one's favor." At this moment the lady's dress was plucked rather sharply from behind, and looking round Mrs. Grenville saw, for the first time since all their trouble, the excited and rough little figure of Susy Aylmer. Her first impulse was to shake herself free from the touch of so naughty a child, but then she remembered her promise to Maggie, and looked again at the little intruder. A great change had come over poor Susy; the confidence and assurance had all left her round face. It was round still, and was to a certain extent red still, but the eyes were so swollen with crying, and the poor face itself so disfigured by tear-channels, that only one who had seen her several times would have recognized her. "Oh, ma'am," she exclaimed, "I has been waiting here for hours and hours, and nobody will speak to me nor tell me nothing. Mrs. Cook won't speak, nor the housemaid, nor Mrs. Waters, nor nobody, and I feel as if my heart would burst, ma'am. Oh, Mrs. Grenville, how is Miss Maggie, and is she going away same as our little Jo is going away?" "Who is that child, Violet?" inquired Sir John. "Does she, too, know some one of the name of Jo, and what is she keeping you for? Do let us hurry on." "She is little Jo Aylmer's sister," whispered back Mrs. Grenville. "Susy, it is very hard to forgive you, for through your deceit we have all got into this terrible trouble; but I promised Maggie I would try, and I can not go back from my word to the dear little one. Maggie is a shade, just a shade better to-night, Susy, but she is still very, very ill. Pray for her, child, pray for that most precious little life. And now, what about Jo? It is not really true what you said about Jo, Susy?" "Yes, but it is, ma'am; they has just sent round a message to mother, and they say that our little Jo won't live through the night. It's quite true as she's going away to God, ma'am." CHAPTER XI. GOING HOME. Sir John and Mrs. Grenville left poor Susy standing with her apron to her eyes at the corner of the street, and went on in the direction of the fever hospital. Their hearts had sunk very low at Susy's words, and they began to share in Waters' belief that there was a mysterious sympathy between the two sick children, and that if one went away perhaps the other would follow quickly. The fever hospital was some little distance off, but they both preferred walking to calling a cab. It was not the visiting hour when they got there, but Mrs. Grenville scribbled some words on a little card, and begged of the porter who admitted them into the cool stone hall to send a note with her card and Sir John's at once to the lady superintendent. This little note had the desired effect, and in a few moments they were both admitted to the good lady's private sanctum. Mrs. Grenville in a few low words explained the nature of their errand. The good lady nurse was all sympathy and interest, but when they mentioned the name of the child they had come to see her face became very grave and sad. "That little one!" she remarked; "I fear that God is going to take that sweet child away to himself. She is the sweetest and prettiest child in the hospital--she has gone through a terrible illness, and I don't think I have once heard her murmur. Poor little lamb! her sufferings are over at last, thank God; she is just quietly moment by moment passing away. It is a case of dying from exhaustion." "But, good madam, can nothing be done to rouse her?" asked Sir John, his face turning purple with agitation. "Has she the best and most expensive nourishment--can't her strength be supported? Perhaps, ma'am, you are not aware that a good deal depends on the life of that little girl. It is not an ordinary case--no, no, by no means an ordinary case. My purse is at your command, ma'am; get the best doctors, the best nurses, the best care--save the child's life at any cost." While Sir John was speaking the lady nurse looked sadder than ever. "We give of the best in this hospital," she said; "and there has been from the first no question of expense or money. Perhaps the worst symptom in the case of little Joanna Aylmer is in the fact that the child herself does not wish to recover. I confess I have no hope whatever, but it is a well-known saying that, in fever, as long as there is life there is hope. Would you like to see the child, Mrs. Grenville? It might comfort your own little darling afterward to know that you had gone to see her just at the end." Mrs. Grenville nodded in reply, but poor Sir John, overcome by an undefined terror, sank down by the table, and covered his face with his hands. Mrs. Grenville followed the nurse into the long cool ward, passing on her way many sick and suffering children. The child by whose little narrow white bed they at last stopped was certainly now not suffering. Her eyes were closed; through her parted lips only came the gentlest breathing; on her serene brow there rested a look of absolute peace. Little Jo Aylmer was alive, but she neither spoke nor moved. Mrs. Grenville stooped down and kissed her, leaving what she thought was a tear of farewell on her sweet little face. As she was walking home by Sir John's side, she said abruptly, after an interval of silence: "It is quite true, John--we must do what we can to keep Maggie, but little Jo is going home." "She must not die. We must keep her somehow," replied Sir John. That night it seemed to several people that two little children were about to be taken away to their heavenly home, for Maggie's feeble strength fluttered and failed, and, as the hours went by, the doctors shook their heads and looked very grave. She still talked in a half-delirious way about Jo, and still seemed to fancy that she and Jo were soon going somewhere away together. All through her illness no one had been more devoted in her attentions to the sick child than the faithful servant Waters. When the day began to break, Waters made up her mind to a certain line of action. Her mistress had told her how very ill little Jo Aylmer was--she had described fully her visit to the hospital--had told Waters that she herself had no hope whatever of Jo, and had further added that the child herself did not wish to live. "That's not to be wondered at," commented Waters. "What have she special to live for, pretty lamb? and there's much to delight one like her where she's going; but all the same, ma'am, it will be the death-knell of our little Miss Maggie if the other child is taken." When the morning broke, Waters felt that she could bear her present state of inaction no longer, and accordingly she tied on her bonnet and went out. First of all she wended her steps in the direction of the Aylmers' humble dwelling. She mounted the stairs to Mrs. Aylmer's door and knocked. The poor woman had not been in bed all night, and flew to the door now, fearing that Waters' knock was the dreaded message which she had been expecting from the hospital. "'Tis only me, ma'am," said Waters, "and you has no call to be frightened. I want you just to put on your bonnet and shawl, and come right away with me to the hospital. We has got to be let in somehow, for I must see Jo directly." "For aught I know," said Mrs. Aylmer, "little Jo may be singing with the angels now." "We must hope not, ma'am, for I want that little Jo of yours to live. She has got to live for our Miss Maggie's sake, and there is not a moment to lose; so come away, ma'am, at once." Mrs. Aylmer stared at Waters; then, because she felt very weak, and feeble, and wretched herself, she allowed the stronger woman to guide her, and the two went out without another word being said on either side. It was, of course, against all rules for visitors to be admitted at five o'clock in the morning; but in the case of mothers and dying children such rules are apt to become lax, and the two women presently found themselves behind the screen which sheltered little Jo from her companions. "She won't hear you now," said the nurse; "she has not noticed any one for many hours." Waters looked round her almost despairingly--the poor mother had sunk down by the bedside, and had covered her face with her hands. Waters, too, covered her face, and as she did so she prayed to her Father in heaven with great fervor and strong faith and hope. After this brief prayer she knelt by the little white cot, and took the cold little hand of the child who was every moment going further away from the shore of life. "Little Jo," she said, "you have got to live. I don't believe God wishes you to die, and you mustn't wish it either. You have got your work to do, Jo; do you hear me? Look at me, pretty one--you have got to live." Waters spoke clearly, and in a very decided voice. The little one's violet eyes opened for a brief instant and fixed themselves on the anxious, pleading woman; both the nurse and the mother came close to the bed in breathless astonishment. "Have you got a cordial?" said Waters, turning to the nurse. "Give it to me, and let me put it between her lips." The nurse gave her a few drops out of a bottle, and Waters wetted the parched lips of the child. "There's another little one, my pretty, and she's waiting for you. If you go I fear she'll go, but if you stay I think she'll stay. There are them who would break their hearts without her, and she ought to do a good work down on the earth. Will you stay for her sake, little Jo?" Here the sick child moved restlessly, and Waters continued. "Send her a message, Jo Aylmer," she said. "Tell her where you two are next to meet--in the country, where the grass is green, or in--heaven. Oh, Jo! do say you will meet Miss Maggie in the cool, shady, lovely country, and wait until by and by for heaven, my pretty lamb." Whether God really heard Waters' very earnest prayer, or whether little Jo was at that moment about to take a turn for the better, she certainly opened her eyes again full and bright and wide, and quite intelligible words came from her pretty lips. "My day-dream," said little Jo Aylmer; "tell her--tell her to meet me where the grass is green." CHAPTER XII. IN THE WOOD. The little princess of Tower Hill and the child of the poor laundress were both pronounced out of danger. Death no longer with his terrible sickle hovered over these pretty flowers; they were to make beautiful the garden of earth for the present. Waters felt quite sure in her own heart that she, under God, had been the means of saving Maggie's life, for Maggie had smiled so sweetly and contentedly when Waters had brought her back the other child's message, and after that she had ceased to speak about meeting Jo in heaven. When the scales were turned and the children were pronounced out of danger, they both grew rapidly better, and at the end of a fortnight Maggie was able to sit up for a few moments at a time, and almost to fatigue those about her with her numerous inquiries about Jo. Every day Waters went to the hospital, and came back with reports of the sick child, whose progress toward recovery was satisfactory, only not quite so rapid as Maggie's. At last the doctor gave Sir John and Lady Ascot permission to take their little darling back to Tower Hill. Mrs. Grenville accompanied her brother and sister and little niece; and of course in the country Maggie would have the great happiness of meeting Ralph again. Ralph by this time had taken the hearts of Miss Grey and the numerous servants at Tower Hill by storm. He was thoroughly at home and thoroughly happy, assumed a good deal the airs of a little autocrat, and had more or less his own way in everything. He was delighted to see Maggie, and immediately drew her away from the rest to talk to her and consult her on various subjects. [Illustration: HE PUT HIS ARM AROUND HIS LITTLE COUSIN.--Page 158.] "You look rather white and peaky, Mag, but you'll soon brown up now you've got into the real country. You must run about a great deal, and forget that you were ever ill. You mustn't even mind being a little tottery upon your legs at first. I know you must be tottery, because I've been consulting Miss Grey about it, and she once had rheumatic fever, and she used to totter about after it awfully; but the great thing is not to be sentimental over it, but to determine that you will get back your muscle. Now what do you think I have found? Come round with me into the shrubbery and you shall see." Ralph's words were decidedly a little rough and tonicky, but his actions were more considerate, for he put his arm round his little cousin and led her quite gently away. Maggie found the sweet country air delicious; she was also very happy to feel Ralph's arm round her waist, and she could not help giving his little brown hand a squeeze. "I wish you'd kiss me, Ralph," she said. "I have thought of you so often when I was getting better; I know you must think me not much of a playfellow, and I am so sorry that I began by vexing you about the rabbits." "I'll kiss you, of course, Mag," said Ralph. "I don't think kisses are at all interesting things myself, but I'd do a great deal more than that to make you happy, for I was really, really sorry when you were ill. I don't think you're at all a bad sort of playfellow, Mag--I mean for a girl. And as to the rabbits, why, that was the best deed you ever did. You are coming to see my dear bunnies now." "Oh, Ralph, you don't mean Bianco and Lily?" "Yes, I mean my darling white beauties that Jo gave me. I found them again in the wood, and they have grown as friendly as possible. I don't shut them up in any hutch; they live in the wood and they come to me when I call them. Yesterday I found that they had made a nest, and the nest was full of little bunnies, all snow white, and with long hair like the father and mother. I'm going to show you the nest now." At the thought of this delightful sight Maggie's cheeks became very pink, her blue eyes danced, and she forgot that her legs were without muscle, and even tried to run in her excitement and pleasure. "Don't be silly, Mag!" laughed her cousin; "the bunnies aren't going to hide themselves, and we'll find them all in good time. You may walk with those tottery legs of yours, but you certainly cannot run. Here, now we're at the entrance to the wood; now I'll help you over the stile." The children found the nest of lovely white rabbits, and spent a very happy half-hour sitting on the ground gazing at them. Then Maggie began to confide a little care, which rested on her heart about Jo, to her cousin. "She has got well again, you know, Ralph, and I promised she should meet me in the country somewhere where the grass is green, and yet I don't know how she's to come. I have got no money, and Jo has got no money, and father and mother don't say any thing about it. It would be a dreadful thing for Jo to stay away from heaven--for she was very, very near going to heaven, Ralph--and then to find that I had broken my word to her, and that after all we were never to see each other where the grass is green." "It would be worse than dreadful," answered Ralph, "it would be downright cruel and wicked. Dear little Jo! she'd like to come here and look at the bunnies, wouldn't she? Well, I've got no money either, and she can't be got into the country without money; that I do know. Perhaps I'd better speak to mother about it." But Ralph, when he did question Mrs. Grenville on the subject, found her wonderfully silent, and in his opinion unsympathetic. She said that she could not possibly interfere with Sir John and Lady Ascot in their own place, and that if she were Ralph she would let things alone, and trust to the Ascots doing what was right in the matter. But Ralph was not inclined to take this advice. "I like Maggie for being good about Jo," he said, "and Jo shan't be disappointed. I'll go myself to Uncle John; he probably only needs to have the thing put plainly to him." Sir John listened to the little boy's somewhat excited remarks with an amused twinkle in his eyes. "So the princess has sent you to me, my lad?" he said. "You tell her to keep her little mind tranquil, and to try to trust her old father." Little Jo Aylmer came very slowly back to health and strength, but at last there arrived a day when the hospital nurse pronounced her cured, and when her mother arrived in a cab to take her away. The hospital nurse had tears in her eyes when she kissed Jo, and the other sick children in the ward were extremely sorry to say good-by to her, for little Jo, without making any extraordinary efforts, indeed without making any efforts at all, had a wonderful faculty for inspiring love. No doubt she was sympathetic, and no doubt also she was self-forgetful, and her ready tact prevented her saying the words which might hurt or doing the deeds which might annoy, and these apparently trivial traits in her character may have helped to make her popular. On that particular sunshiny afternoon the preparations made by certain excited little people in Philmer's Buildings were great. From the day Jo was pronounced out of danger Susy had begun to recover her spirits, and at any rate to forgive herself for her conduct in the matter of the tambourine. She had not spent any of the seven shillings which the pawnbroker had given for poor Maggie's best hat; it had all been securely tucked away in her best white cotton pocket-handkerchief, and neither her mother nor the boys knew of its existence, for to purchase a tambourine while Jo was so ill, and Maggie supposed to be dying was beyond even thoughtless Susy's desires. After her own fashion, this rather heedless little girl had suffered a good deal during the past weeks, and suffering did her good, as it does all other creatures. Now, while the boys were very busy getting the room into a festive condition for Jo, Susy quietly and softly withdrew one shilling from her mysterious hoard, and went out to make purchases. A shilling means almost nothing to some people; they spend it on utter rubbish--they virtually throw it away. This was, however, by no means the case with Susy Aylmer; she knew a shilling's worth to the uttermost farthing, and it was surprising with what a number of parcels she returned home. "Now, Ben and Bob, we'll lay the tea-table," she said, addressing her excited little brothers. "Yere, put the cloth straight, do--you know as Jo can't abide nothing crooked. Now then, out comes the fresh loaf as mother bought; pop it on the cracked plate, and put it here, a little to one side--it looks more genteel--not right away in the very middle. Here goes the teapot--oh, my! ain't it a pity as the spout is cracked off?--and here's the little yaller jug for the milk! Here's butter, too--Dosset, but not bad. Now then, we begins on my purchases. A slice of 'am on this tiny plate for Jo; red herrings, which we'll toast up and make piping hot presently; a nice little bundle of radishes, creases ditto. Oh, my heyes! I do like creases, they're so nice and biting. Now then, what 'ave we 'ere?--why, a big packet of lollipops; I got the second quality of lollipops, so I 'as quite a big parcel; and the man threw in two over, 'cause I said they was for a gal just out of 'ospital. Shrimps is in this 'ere bag. Now, boys, there ain't none of these 'ere for you, they're just for mother and Jo, and no one else--don't you be greedy, Ben and Bob, for ef you are, I'll give you something to remember. Yere's a real fresh egg, which must be boiled werry light--that's for Jo, of course--and 'ere's a penn'orth of dandy-o-lions to stick in the middle of the table. Yere they goes into this old brown cracked jug, and don't they look fine? Well, I'm sure I never see'd a more genteel board." The boys thoroughly agreed with Susy on this point, and while they were skipping and dancing about, and making many dives at the tempting eatables, and Susy was chasing them with loud whoops, half of anger, half of mirth, about the room, Mrs. Aylmer and the little pale, spiritual-looking sister arrived. At the sight of Jo the children felt their undue excitement subsiding--their happiness became peace, as it always did in her blessed little presence. There was no wrangling or quarreling over the tea-table--the look of pretty Jo lying on her sofa once again kept the boys from being over-greedy, and reduced Susy's excitement to due bounds. Mrs. Aylmer said several times, "I'm the werry happiest woman in London," and her children seemed to think that they were the happiest children. The pleasant tea-hour came, however, to an end at last, and Susy was just washing up the cups and saucers and putting the remainder of the feast into the cupboard, when the whole family were roused into a condition of most alert attention by a sharp and somewhat imperative knock on the room door. "Dear heart alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Aylmer. "Whoever can that be? It sounds like the landlord, only I paid my bit of rent yesterday." "It's more likely to be some one after you as laundress, mother," remarked practical Susy; and then Ben flew across the room and, opening the door wide, admitted no less a person than Sir John Ascot himself. Mrs. Aylmer had never seen him, and of course did not know what an important visitor was now coming into her humble little room. Susy, however, knew Maggie's father, and felt herself turning very white, and took instant refuge behind Jo's sofa. "Now, which is little Jo?" said Sir John, coming forward and peering round him. "I've come here specially to-day to see a child whom my own little girl loves very much. I've something to say to that child, and also to her mother. My name is Ascot, and I dare say you all, good folks, have heard of my dear little girl Maggie." "Miss Maggie!" exclaimed Jo, a delicate pink coming into her face, and her sweet violet eyes becoming, not tearful, but misty. "Are you Miss Maggie's father, sir? I seems to be near to Miss Maggie somehow." "So you are, little lassie," said the baronet; and then he glanced from pretty Jo to the other children, and from her again to her mother, as though he could not quite account for such a fragile and pure little flower among these plants of sturdy and common growth. "My little Jo favors her father, Sir John," said Mrs. Aylmer, dropping a profound courtesy and dusting a chair with her apron for the baronet. "Will you be pleased to be seated, sir?" she went on. "We're all pleased to see you here--pleased and proud, and that's not saying a word too much. And how is the dear, beautiful little lady, Sir John, and Master Ralph, bless him?" "My little girl is well again, thank God, Mrs. Aylmer, and Ralph is as sturdy a little chap as any heart could desire. Yes, I will take a seat near Jo, if you please. I've a little plan to propose, which I hope she will like, and which you, Mrs. Aylmer, will also approve of. This is it." Then Sir John unfolded a deep-laid plot, which threw the Aylmer family into a state of unspeakable rapture. To describe their feelings would be beyond any ordinary pen. CHAPTER XIII. THANK GOD FOR ALL. On a certain lovely evening in the beginning of September, when the air was no longer too warm, and the whole world seemed bathed in absolute peace and rest, little Maggie Ascot and her Cousin Ralph might have been seen walking, with their arms round each other, in very deep consultation. Maggie was quite strong again, had got her roses back, and the bright light of health in her blue eyes. She and Ralph were pacing slowly up and down a shady path not far from the large entrance gates. "I can't think what it means," exclaimed Maggie; "it is the fourth time Aunt Violet has gone up there to-day, and Susan the scullery-maid has gone with her now, carrying an enormous basket. Susan let me peep into it, and it was full of all kinds of goodies. She said it was for the new laundress. I never knew such a fuss to make about a laundress." Here Ralph thought it well to administer a little reproof. "That's because you haven't been taught to consider the poor," he said. "Why shouldn't a laundress have nice things done for her? and if this is a poor lonely stranger coming from a long way off, it's quite right for mother to welcome her. Mother always thinks you can't do too much for lonely people, and she'll wash your dresses all the whiter if she thinks you're going to be kind and attentive. Why, Maggie, our little Jo's mother is a laundress, you forget that. Laundresses are most respectable people." At the mention of Jo's name Maggie sighed. "There's nothing at all been done about her, Ralph," she said. "Nobody seems to take any notice when I speak about her. She must be tired of waiting and watching by this time. She must be dreadfully sorry that she did not go away to heaven and God; for she must know now that I never meant anything when I wanted to meet her in the country--and yet I did, Ralph, I did!" Here Maggie's blue eyes grew full of tears. "Never mind, Mag," replied her little cousin soothingly; "it is very odd, and I don't understand it a bit, but mother says things are sure to come right, and you know Uncle John wished us to trust him." "But the time is going on," said Maggie; "the summer days will go, and Jo won't have seen the lovely country where the grass is green. Oh! Ralph, we must do something." "If only Mrs. Aylmer were the new laundress!" began Ralph. "You can't think what a nice cottage that is, Mag--four lovely rooms, and such a nice, nice kitchen, with those dear little lattice panes of glass in the window, and lots of jasmine and Virginia creeper peeping in from outside, and a green field for the laundress to dry her clothes in, just beyond. Poor laundress! she will like that field awfully, and it would be very unkind of us to wish to take it away from her and give it to Mrs. Aylmer, for of course Mrs. Aylmer knows nothing about it, and the new laundress has probably arrived, and set her heart on it by this time; and she may be a widow, too, with lots and lots of little children." "But none of the children could be like Jo," said Maggie. "Well, perhaps not," answered Ralph. "Oh, here comes mother; let's run to meet her. Mother darling, has the new laundress come?" "Yes, Ralph, she and her family arrived about an hour ago; they are settling down nicely into the cottage, and seem to be respectable people. They all think the cottage very comfortable." "And are you going to see them again to-night, Auntie Violet?" asked Maggie with rather a sorrowful look on her little face. "Why, yes, Maggie; they are all strangers here, you know, and I fancy they rather feel that, so it might be nice to walk up presently and take a cup of tea with them. There are some children, so you and Ralph might come too." "Didn't I tell you how mother considered the poor?" here whispered Ralph, poking the little princess rather violently in the side. "Oh, yes, mother, we'd like to go to tea with the little laundresses. Is there anything we could take them--anything they would like, to show that we sympathize with them for having come so far, and having left their old home?" "They don't seem at all melancholy, Ralph," said Mrs. Grenville, smiling, "and when they have seen you and Maggie, I fancy they will none of them have anything further to desire to-night. Why, Maggie dear, you look quite sad; what is the matter?" "I am thinking of little Jo," whispered Maggie. "Her mother is a laundress, too, and she's poor. Why couldn't you have considered the poor in the shape of Jo's mother, Aunt Violet?" Mrs. Grenville stooped down and kissed Maggie. "Here come your father and mother," she said, "and I know they too want to see the new people who have come to the pretty cottage. Now let us all set off. I told the laundress and her family that you were coming to have tea with them, Maggie and Ralph. Suppose you two run on in front; you know the cottage and you know the way." "Tell the good folks we'll look in on them presently," shouted Sir John Ascot, and then the children took each other's hands and ran across some fields to the laundress' cottage. They heard some sounds of mirth as they drew near, and saw two rather wild little boys tumbling about, turning somersaults and standing on their heads; they also heard a high-pitched voice, and caught a glimpse of a remarkably round and red face, and it seemed to Maggie that the voice and the face were both familiar, although she could not quite recall where she had seen them before. "We must introduce ourselves quite politely," said Ralph as they walked up the narrow garden path. "Now here we are; I'll knock with my knuckles. I wish I knew the laundress' name. It seems rude to say, 'Is the laundress in?' for of course she has got a name, and her name is just as valuable to her as ours are to us. How stupid not to have found out what she is really called. Perhaps we had better inquire for Mrs. Robbins; that's rather a common name, and yet not too common. It would never do to call her Mrs. Smith or Jones, for if she wasn't Smith or Jones, she wouldn't like it. Now, Maggie, I'll knock rather sharp, and when the new laundress opens the door you are to say, 'Please is Mrs. Robbins the laundress in?'" All this time the girl with the red face was making little darts to the lattice window and looking out, and there were some stifled sounds of mirth from the boys with the high-pitched voices. "The laundress' family are in good spirits," remarked Ralph, and then he gave a sharp little knock, and Maggie prepared her speech. "Please is the new--is Mrs. Rob--is, is--oh! Ralph, why, it's Mrs. Aylmer herself!" Nothing very coherent after this discovery was uttered by any one for several minutes. Maggie found herself kneeling by Jo, with her arms round Jo's neck, and two little cheeks, both wet with tears, were pressed together, and two pair of lips kissed each other. That kiss was a solemn one, for the two little hearts were full. In different ranks, belonging almost to two extremes, the child of riches and the child of poverty knew that they possessed kindred spirits, and that their friendship was such that circumstances were not likely again to divide them. Waters was right when she said there was a strong link between Maggie and Jo. That is the story, an episode, after all, in the life of the little princess, but an episode which was to influence all her future days. THE END. TOM, PEPPER, AND TRUSTY. "Therefore, to this dog will I, Tenderly, not scornfully, Render praise and favor: With my hand upon his head Is my benediction said, Therefore, and forever." --E. B. BROWNING. CHAPTER I. THE THREE FRIENDS. A child and a dog sat very close to the fast-expiring embers of a small fire in a shabby London attic. The dog was very old, with palsied, shaking limbs, eyes half-blind, and an appearance about his whole person of almost disreputable ugliness and decrepitude, He was a large white-and-liver-colored dog, of no particular breed, and certainly of no particular beauty. Never, even in his best days, could this dog have been at all good-looking. The child who crouched close to him was small and thin. He was a pale child, with big, sorrowful eyes, and that shrunken appearance of the whole little frame which proclaims but too clearly that bread-and-milk have not sufficiently nourished it. He sat very close to the old dog, half-supporting himself against him; his head was bent forward on his little chest--he was half-asleep. A little apart from the dog and the sleepy child stood a very bright boy, a boy with rosy cheeks and sparkling eye. He poised himself for a moment on one leg, kicked off the snow from his ragged trousers with the other, then flinging his cap and an old broom into a corner of the attic, he sang out in a clear, ringing tone: "Hillow! Pepper and Trusty, is that h'all the welcome yer 'ave to give to a feller?" At the first sound of his voice the dog feebly wagged his tail and the little child started to his feet. "Hillow!" he answered with a pitiful attempt at the elder boy's cheerfulness; "I 'opes as yer 'ave brought h'in some supper, Tom." "See yere," said Tom, just turning back a morsel of his ragged jacket to show what really was still a pocket. This pocket bunched out now in a most suggestive manner, and Pepper, thrusting in his tiny hand, pulled from it the following heterogeneous mixture: an old bone--very bare of even the pretense of meat; an orange; some nuts; a piece of moldy bread, and a nice little crisp loaf; also twopence and a halfpenny. "Ain't it prime, Pepper?" said the elder boy. "Yere's the bone for old Trusty, and the broken bread, and the pretty little loaf, and the nuts, and th' orange, for you and me." "Oh, Tom! where did you get the nuts?" "They were throwing 'em to a dancing monkey, and an old 'oman gave me a handful h'all to myself. I say, didn't I clutch 'em!" "Well, let's crunch 'em up now," said Pepper, whose face had grown quite bright with anticipation. "And give Trusty his bone," said Tom. "I picked it h'out o' the gutter, and washed it at the pump. 'Tis a real juicy bone--full o' marrow. Yere, old feller! Don't he move his lazy h'old sides quickly now, Pepper?" "Yes," said Pepper, clapping his tiny hands. CHAPTER II. WHY HE WAS CALLED TRUSTY. The two little boys and the dog ate their supper in perfect silence, the only noise to be heard during the meal being the crunching of three sets of busy teeth. Then, the fire being quite out, the children lay down on a dirty mattress in a corner of the room, and Trusty curled himself up at their feet. However lazy Trusty might be in the daytime while the fire was alight, at night he always assumed the character of a protector. Let the slightest sound arise, above, around, or beneath him, and he raised a bay, cracked it is true, but still full of unspeakable consolation to the timid heart of little Pepper. In the daytime Pepper was often guilty of very wicked and treacherous thoughts about Trusty. When he was so often hungry, and could seldom enjoy more than half a meal, why must Tom, however little money or food he brought in after his day's sweeping, always insist on Trusty having his full share? Why must Tom--on those rare occasions when he was a little cross and discontented--too cross and discontented to take much notice of him (Pepper), yet still put his arms so lovingly round the old dog's neck? and why, why above all things must Trusty be so very selfish about their tiny fire, sitting so close to it, and taking all its warmth into his own person, while poor little Pepper shivered by his side? Pepper was younger than Trusty, and he never remembered the day when the dog was not a great person in his home; he never remembered the day when his mother, however poor and pinched, had not managed, with all the good-will in the world, to pay the dog-tax for him. And when that mother--six months ago--died, she had enjoined on Tom, almost with her last breath, the necessity of continuing this, and whatever straits they were placed in, begged of them never to forsake the old dog in his need. Of course Pepper knew the reason of all this love and care for old Trusty; and the reason, notwithstanding those treacherous and discontented thoughts in which he now and then found himself indulging, filled him with not a little pride and pleasure. It was because of him--of him, poor little insignificant Pepper--that his mother and Tom loved Trusty so well. For when he was a baby Trusty had saved his life. How Pepper did love to hear that story! How he used to climb on his mother's knee, and curl in her arms, and get her to tell it to him over and over again; and then, as he listened, his big, dark eyes used to get bright and wondering, while he pictured to himself the country home with the roses growing about the porch; and the pretty room inside, and the cradle where he lay warm and sheltered. Then, how his heart did beat when his mother spoke of that dreadful day when she went out and left him in charge of a neighbor's daughter, paying no heed to his real caretaker, the large strong dog--young then, who lay under the table. How often his cheek had turned pale, as his mother went on to tell him how the neighbor's daughter first built up the fire, and then, growing tired of her dull occupation, went away and left him alone with no companion but the dog. And then, how his father, returning from his day's work, had rushed in with a cry of horror, to find the cradle burned and some of the other furniture on fire; but the baby himself lying, smiling and uninjured, in a corner of the room; for the brave dog had dragged him from his dangerous resting-place, and had himself put out the flames as they began to catch his little night-shirt. Trusty was severely burned, and for the rest of his days was blind of one eye and walked with a limp; but he earned the undying love and gratitude of the father and mother for his heroic conduct. After this adventure his name was changed from Jack to Trusty, and any member of the family would rather have starved than allow Trusty to want. Pepper never listened to this exciting tale without his chest beginning to heave, and a moisture of love and compunction filling his brown eyes. To-night, as he lay curled up as close as possible to Tom, with Trusty keeping his feet warm by lying on them, he thought of it all over again. As he thought, he felt even more than his usual sorrow, for he had certainly been very cross to Trusty to-day. These feelings and recollections so occupied him that he forgot to chatter away as usual, until, looking up suddenly, he felt that his brother's eyes were closing--in short, that Tom was going to sleep. Now, of all the twenty-four hours that comprised Pepper's day and night, there was none that compared with the hour when he lay in his brother's arms, and talked to him, and listened to his adventures. This hour made the remaining twenty-three endurable; in short, it was his golden hour--his hour marked with a red letter. "Oh, Tom!" he said now, rousing himself and speaking in a voice almost tearful, so keen was his disappointment, "yer never agoin' to get drowsy?" "Not I," answered Tom, awakened at once by the sorrowful tones, and half-sitting up. "Wot is it, Pepper? I'm as lively as a lark, I am." "Yer h'eyes were shut," said Pepper. "Well, and your mouth wor shut, Pepper, that wor wy I fastened h'up my h'eyes, to save time." "Tom," said Pepper, creeping very close to his big brother, "does yer really think as yer'll 'ave the money saved h'up for dear old Trusty's tax, wen the man comes fur it?" "Oh, yes! I 'opes so; there's three months yet." "'E's a dear old dog," said Pepper, in an emphatic voice, "and I won't mind wot Pat Finnahan says 'bout 'im." "Wot's that?" asked Tom. "Oh, Tom! 'e comes h'in, some days, wen 'tis bitter cold, and Trusty 'ave got hisself drawed in front o' the fire (Trusty do take h'up h'all the fire, Tom) and 'e says as Trusty is h'eatin' us h'out o' 'ouse and 'ome, and ef you pays the tax fur 'im, wy, yer'll be the biggest fool h'out." "Dear me," said Tom, "'e must be a nice 'un, 'e must! Why, Trusty's a sight better'n him, and a sight better worth lookin' arter." This remark of Tom's, uttered with great vehemence, startled Pepper so much that he lay perfectly silent, staring up at his big brother. The moonlight, which quite filled the attic, enabled him to see Tom's face very distinctly. A strongly marked face, and full of character at all times; it was now also so full of disgust that Pepper quite trembled. "Well, he is a mean 'un," continued Tom. "See if I don't lay it on him the next time I catches of him coming spyin' in yere; and, Pepper," he added, "I'm real consarned as yer should 'ave listened to such words." "'Ow could I 'elp it?" answered Pepper. "'E comed h'in, and 'e kicked at Trusty. I didn't want fur h'old Trusty not to be paid fur, Tom." "I should 'ope not, indeed," replied Tom; "that 'ud be a nice pass for us two boys to fursake Trusty. But look yere, Pepper. Yer never goin' to be untrue to yer name, be yer?" "Oh, Tom! 'ow so?" "Does yer know wy Trusty was called Trusty?" Now, of course, Pepper knew no story in the world half so well, but at this question of Tom's he nestled close so him, raised beseeching eyes, and said: "Tell us." "'E wor called Trusty," continued Tom, "'cause wen yer were a little 'un he wor faithful. Trusty means faithful; it means a kind of a body wot won't fursake another body what-h'ever 'appens. That wor wy father and mother changed 'is name from Jack to Trusty, 'cause 'e wor faithful to you, Pepper." "Yes," answered Pepper, half-sobbing, and feeling very gently with his toes the motion of Trusty's tail; for Trusty, hearing his name mentioned so often, was beating it softly up and down. "And does yer know wy you was called Pepper?" continued Tom, by no means intending to abate the point and the object of his lecture by the break in Pepper's voice. "Tell us," said the little child again. "You was christened Hen-e-ry [Henry]; but, lor! Pepper, that wor no name fur yer. That name meant some 'un soft and h'easy. But, bless yer, young 'un! there wor nothink soft nor h'easy about yer. What a firebrand yer were--flying h'out at h'everybody--so touchy and sparky-like, that mother wor sure you 'ad got a taste o' the fire as poor Trusty saved yer from, until, at last, there wor no name 'ud suit yer but Pepper. Lor, lad, wot a spirrit yer 'ad then!" With these words Tom turned himself round on his pillow, and, having spoken his mind, and being in consequence quite comfortable, dropped quickly to sleep. But to poor little Pepper, listening breathlessly for another word, that first snore of Tom's was a very dreadful one. He knew then that there was no hope that night of any further words with Tom. He must lie all night under the heavy weight of Tom's displeasure; for, of course, Tom was angry, or he would never have turned away with such despairing and contemptuous words on his lips. As Pepper thought of this he could not quite keep down a rising sob, for the Tom who he felt was angry with him meant father, mother, conscience--everything--to the poor little fellow. And Tom had cause for his anger; this was what gave it its sting. There was no doubt that Pepper was not at all the spirited little boy he had been during his mother's lifetime--the brave little plucky fellow, who was afraid of no one, and who never would stoop to a mean act. How well he remembered that scene a few months ago, when a rough boy had flung a stone at Trusty--yes! and hit him, and made him howl with the cruel pain he had inflicted; and then how Pepper had fought for him, and given his cowardly assailant a black eye, and afterward how his mother and Tom had praised him. Oh, how different he was now from then! His tears flowed copiously as he thought of it all. But the times were also different. Since his mother's death he had spent his days so much alone, and those long days, spent in the old attic with no companion but Trusty, had depressed his spirit and undermined his nerves. The unselfish, affectionate little boy found new and strange thoughts filling his poor little heart--thoughts to which, during his mother's lifetime, he was altogether a stranger. He wished he was strong and big like Tom, and could go out and sweep a crossing. It was dreadful to stay at home all day doing nothing but thinking, and thinking, as he now knew, bad thoughts. For the idea suggested by that wild, queer Irish boy downstairs would not go away again. That boy had said with contempt, with even cutting sarcasm, how silly, how absurd it was of two poor little beggars like himself and Tom to have to support a great, large dog like Trusty; how hard it was to have to pay Trusty's tax; how worse than ridiculous to have to share their morsel of food with Trusty; and Pepper had pondered over these words so often that his heart had grown sour and bitter against the old dog who had once saved his life. But not to-night. To-night, as he lay in his bed and sobbed, that heart was rising up and saying hard things against itself. Tom, with rough kindness, had torn the veil from his eyes, and he saw that he had gone down several pegs in the moral scale since his mother's death. Could his mother come back to him now, would she recognize her own bright-spirited little Pepper in this poor, weak, selfish boy? He could bear his own thoughts no longer; he must not wake Tom, but he could at least make it up with Trusty. He crept softly down in the bed until he reached the place where the old dog lay, and then he put his arms round him and half-strangled him with hugs and kisses. "Oh, Trusty!" he said, "I does love yer, and I 'opes as God 'ull always let me be a real sperrited little 'un. I means h'always to stand up fur yer, Trusty; and I'll be as fiery as red pepper to any 'un as says a word agen yer, Trusty." To this fervent speech Trusty replied by raising a sleepy head and licking Pepper's face. CHAPTER III TOM AT WORK. Early the next morning, long before Pepper was awake, Tom got up, washed his face and hands in the old cracked hand-basin in one corner of the room, laid a small fire in the grate, and put some matches near it, ready for Pepper to strike when he chose to rise. These preparations concluded, he thrust his hands into his ragged trousers pocket and pulled from thence twopence and a halfpenny. The pence he laid on the three-legged stool, by the side of the matches, the halfpenny he put for safety into his mouth. Then, with a nod of farewell at the sleeping Pepper, and a pat of Trusty's head, he shouldered his broom and ran downstairs. The month was January, and at this early hour, for it was not yet eight o'clock, the outside world gave to the little sweeper no warm welcome. There was a fog and thaw, and Tom, though he ran and whistled and blew his hot breath against his cold fingers, could not get himself warm. With his halfpenny he bought himself a cup of steaming coffee at the first coffee-stall he came to, then he ran to his crossing, and began to sweep away with all the good-will in the world. The day, dismal as it was, promised to be a good one for his trade, and Tom hoped to have a fine harvest to carry home to Pepper and Trusty to-night. This thought made his bright face look still brighter. Perhaps, in all London, there was not to be found a braver boy than this little crossing-sweeper. He was only twelve years old, but he had family cares on his young shoulders. For six months now--ever since his mother's death--he had managed, he scarcely himself knew how, to keep a home for his little brother, the old dog, and himself. He had proudly resolved that Pepper--poor little tender Pepper--should never see the inside of a workhouse. As long as he had hands, and wit, and strength, Pepper should live with him. Not for worlds would he allow himself to be parted from his little brother. In some wonderful way he kept his resolve. Pepper certainly grew very white, and weak, and thin; old Trusty's ribs stuck out more and more, his one remaining eye looked more longingly every day at the morsel of food with which he was provided; and Tom himself knew but too well what hunger was. Still they, none of them, quite died of starvation; and the rent of the attic in which they lived was paid week by week. This state of things had gone on for months, Tom just managing, by the most intense industry, to keep all their heads above water. As he swept away now at his crossing, his thoughts were busy, and his thoughts, poor brave little boy! were anxious ones. How very ill Pepper was beginning to look, and how strangely he had spoken the night before about Trusty! Was it possible that his poor life of semi-starvation was beginning to tell not only on Pepper's weak body, but on his kind heart? Was Tom, while working almost beyond his strength, in reality only doing harm by keeping Pepper out of the workhouse? Would that dreadful workhouse after all be the best place for Pepper? and would his fine brave spirit revive again if he had enough food and warmth? These questions passed often through Tom's mind as he swept his crossing, but he had another thought which engrossed him even more. He had spoken confidently to Pepper about his ability to pay the tax for Trusty when the time came round, but in reality he had great anxiety on that point. The time when Trusty's tax would be due was still three months away--but three months would not be long going by, and Tom had not a penny--not a farthing toward the large sum which must then be demanded of him. It was beginning to rest like a nightmare on his bright spirit, the fact that he might have to break his word to his dying mother, that in three months' time the dear old dog might have to go. After all, he, not Pepper, might be the one faithless to their dear old Trusty. As he swept and cleaned the road so thoroughly that the finest lady might pass by without a speck on her dainty boots, he resolved, suffer what hunger he might, to put by one halfpenny a day toward the necessary money which much be paid to save Trusty's life. With this resolve bright in his eyes and firm on his rosy lips, he touched his cap to many a passer-by. But what ailed the men and women, the boys and girls, who walked quickly over Tom's clean crossing? They were all either too busy, or too happy, or too careless, to throw a coin, even the smallest coin, to the hungry, industrious little fellow. His luck was all against him; not a halfpenny did he earn. No one read his story in his eyes, no one saw the invisible arms of Pepper round his neck, nor felt the melting gaze of Trusty fixed on his face. No one knew that he was working for them as well as for himself. By noon the wind again changed and fresh snow began to fall. Tom knew that now his chance was worse than ever, for surely now no one would stop to pull out a penny or a halfpenny--the cold was much too intense. Tom knew by instinct that nothing makes people so selfish as intense cold. When he left home that morning he had only a halfpenny in his pocket, consequently he could get himself no better breakfast than a small cup of coffee. The cold, and the exercise he had been going through since early morning, had raised his healthy appetite to a ravenous pitch, and this, joined to his anxiety, induced him at last to depart from his invariable custom of simply touching his cap, and made him raise an imploring voice, to beseech for the coins which he had honestly earned. "Please, sir, I'm h'awful cold and 'ungry--give us a penny--do, for pity's sake," he said, addressing an elderly gentleman who was hurrying quickly to his home in a square close by. Would the gentleman stop, pause, look at him? Would he slacken his pace the least morsel in the world, or would he pass quickly on like those cross old ladies whom he had last addressed? His heart, began to beat a trifle more hopefully, for the old gentleman certainly did pause, pushed back his hat, and gave him--not a penny, but a quick, sharp glance from under two shaggy brows. "I hate giving to beggars," he muttered, preparing to hurry off again. But Tom was not to be so easily repressed. "Please, sir, I ain't a beggar. I works real 'ard, and I'm h'awful 'ungry, please, sir." He was now following the old gentleman, who was walking on, but slowly, and as though meditating with himself. "That's a likely story!" he said, throwing his words contemptuously at poor Tom: "you, hungry! go and feed. You have your pocket full of pennies this moment, which folks threw to you for doing nothing. I hate that idle work." "Oh! h'indeed, sir, I ain't nothink in 'em--look, please, sir." A very soiled pocket, attached to a ragged trouser, was turned out for the old gentleman's benefit. "You have 'em in your mouth," replied the man. "I'm up to some of your dodges." At this remark Tom grinned from ear to ear. His teeth were white and regular. They gleamed in his pretty mouth like little pearls; thus the heart-whole smile he threw up at the old gentleman did more for him than all the tears in the world. "Well, little fellow," he said, smiling back, for he could not help himself, "'tis much too cold now to pull out my purse--for I know you have pence about you--but if you like to call at my house to-morrow morning,--Russell Square, you shall have a penny." "Please, sir, mayn't I call to-day?" "No, I shan't be home until ten o'clock this evening." "Give us a penny, please, now, sir, for I'm real, real 'ungry." This time poor Tom very nearly cried. "Well, well! what a troublesome, pertinacious boy! I suppose I'd better get rid of him--see, here goes----" He pulled his purse out of his pocket--how Tom hoped he would give him twopence! "There, boy. Oh, I can't, I say. I have no smaller change than a shilling. I can't help you, boy; I have not got a penny." "Please, please, sir, let me run and fetch the the change." "Well, I like that! How do I know that you won't keep the whole shilling?" "Indeed, yer may trust me, sir. Indeed, I'll bring the eleven-pence to--Russell Square to-morrer mornin'." The old gentleman half-smiled, and again Tom showed his white teeth. If there was any honesty left in the world it surely dwelt in that anxious, pleading face. The old gentleman, looking down at it, suddenly felt his heart beginning to thaw and his interest to be aroused. "Oh, yes; I'm the greatest, biggest fool in the world. Still--No, I won't; I hate being taken in; and yet he's a pleasant little chap. Well, I'll try it, just as an experiment. See here, young 'un; if I trust you with my shilling, when am I to see the change?" "At eight o'clock to-morrer mornin', sir." "Well, I'm going to trust you. I never trusted a crossing-sweeper before." "H'all right, sir," answered Tom, taking off his cap and throwing back his head. "There, then, you may spend twopence; bring me back tenpence. God bless me, what a fool I am!" as he hurried away. This was not the only favor Tom got that day; but soon the lamps were lighted, sleet and rain began to fall, and no more business could be expected. CHAPTER IV. IN TROUBLE. When Tom returned home that night, he had not only the old gentleman's shilling unbroken in his pocket, but three pennies which had been given to him since then, and which jingled and made a very nice sound against the shilling. But though this was a pleasant state of affairs, there was nothing pleasant in poor little Tom's face; its bright look had left it, it was white and drawn, and he limped along in evident pain and difficulty. The fact was, Tom had fallen in the snow, and had sprained his ankle very badly. When he entered the house his pain was so great that he could scarcely hobble upstairs. On the first landing he was greeted by the rough, rude tones of Pat Finnahan, who stopped him with a loud exclamation, then shouted to his mother that Tom had arrived. Mrs. Finnahan was Tom's Irish landlady, but as he did not owe her any rent he was not afraid of her. She called to him now, however, and he stood still to listen to what she had to say. "Ah, then, wisha, Tom, and when am I to see me own agen?" she demanded, with a very strong Irish brogue. "Wot does yer mean?" asked Tom, staring at her. "I pays my rent reg'lar. I owes yer nothink." "Oh, glory!" said Mrs. Finnahan, throwing up her hands, "the boy have the imperence to ax me to my face what I manes. I manes the shilling as I lent to yer mother, young man, and that I wants back agen; that's what I manes." At these words Tom felt himself turning very pale. He remembered perfectly how, in a moment of generosity, Mrs. Finnahan had once lent his mother a shilling, but he was quite under the impression that it had been paid back some time ago. "I thought as my mother give it back to yer afore she died," he said, but a great fear took possession of his heart while he spoke. Mrs. Finnahan pushed him from her, her red face growing purple. "Listen to the likes of him," she said; "he tells me to me face as 'tis lies I'm afther telling. Oh, musha! but he's a black-hearted schoundrel. I must have me shilling to-morrow, young man, or out you goes." With these words Mrs. Finnahan retired into her private apartment, slamming the door behind her. "Tom," whispered Pat, who during this colloquy had stood by his side, "can yer give mother that 'ere shilling to-morrer?" "Yer knows I can't," answered Tom. "Well, she'll turn yer h'out, as sure as I'm Pat Finnahan." "I can't help her," answered Tom, preparing once more, as well as his painful ankle would allow him, to mount the stairs. "Yes; but I say?" continued Pat, "maybe I can do somethink." With these words the Irish boy began fumbling violently in his pocket, and in a moment or two produced from a heterogeneous group a dull, battered shilling. This shilling he exhibited in the palm of his hand, looking up at Tom as he showed it, with an expression of pride and cunning in his small, deep-set eyes. "Look yere, Tom. I really feels fur yer, fur mother's h'awful when she says a thing. There's no hope of mother letting of yer off, Tom. No, not the ghost of a hope. But see yere--this is my h'own. I got it--no matter 'ow I got it, and I'll give it to yer fur yer h'old dog. The dog ain't nothink but a burden on yer, Tom, and I'd like him. I'd give yer the shilling for h'old Trusty, Tom." But at these words all the color rushed back to Tom's face. "Take that instead of Trusty," he said, aiming a blow with all his might and main at Pat, and sending him and his shilling rolling downstairs. The false strength with which his sudden indignation had inspired him enabled him to get up the remaining stairs to his attic; but when once there, the poor little sweeper nearly fainted. CHAPTER V. THE TEMPTATION. Perhaps on this dark evening there could scarcely be found in all London three more unhappy creatures than those who crouched round the empty grate in Tom's attic. In truth, over this poor attic rested a cloud too heavy for man to lift, and good and bad angels were drawing near to witness the issues of victory or defeat. "We'll get into bed," said Tom, looking drearily round the supperless, fireless room. "Pepper," he continued as he pressed his arms round his little brother, "should yer mind werry much going to the work'us arter h'all?" "Oh, yes, yes, Tom! Oh, Tom! ef they took me from yer, I'd die." "But ef we both went, Pepper?" "What 'ud come o' Trusty?" asked Pepper. "I doesn't know the ways of work'uses," said Tom, speaking half to himself. "Maybe they'll take h'in the h'old dog. Ef you and I were to beg of 'em a little 'ard, they might take h'in old Trusty, Pepper." "But I doesn't want to go to no work'us," whispered Pepper. "I only says perhaps, Pepper," answered poor Tom. "I'd 'ate to go." "Well, don't let's think of it," said Pepper, putting up his lips to kiss Tom. "Yer'll be better in the morning, Tom; and, Tom," he added, half-timidly, half-exultantly, "I've been real sperrited h'all day. Pat came in and began to talk 'bout dear Trusty, but I flew at him, I boxed im right up h'in the ear, Tom." "Did yer really?" answered Tom, laughing, and forgetting the pain in his ankle for the moment. "Yes, and 'e's nothink but a coward, Tom, fur 'e just runned away. I'll never be a Hen-e-ry to him no more," added the little boy with strong emphasis. "No; yer a real nice, peppery young 'un," said Tom, "and I'm proud o' yer; but now go to sleep, young 'un, for I 'as a deal to think about." "'Ow's the pain, Tom?" "Werry 'ot and fiery like; but maybe 'twill be better in the morning." "Good-night, Tom," said Pepper, creeping closer into his arms. Under the sweet influence of Tom's praise, resting in peace in the delicious words that Tom was proud of him, poor hungry little Pepper was soon enjoying dreamless slumber. But not so Tom himself. Tom had gone through a hard day's work. He was tired, aching in every limb, but no kind sleep would visit that weary little body or troubled mind. His sprained ankle hurt him sadly, but his mental anxiety made him almost forget his bodily suffering. Dark indeed was the cloud that rested on Tom. His sprained ankle was bad enough--for how, with that swollen and aching foot, could he go out to sweep his crossing to-morrow? And if the little breadwinner was not at his crossing, where would the food come from for Pepper and Trusty? This was a dark cloud, but, dark as it was, it might be got over. Tom knew nothing of the tedious and lingering pain which a sprain may cause; he quite believed that a day's rest in bed would make his foot all right, and for that one day while he was in bed, they three--he, Pepper, and Trusty--might manage not quite to starve, on the pence which were over from that day's earnings. Yes, through this cloud could be seen a possible glimmer of light. But the cloud that rested behind it! Oh, was there any possible loophole of escape out of that difficulty? Tom had told nothing of this greater anxiety to Pepper. Nay, while Pepper was awake he tried to push it away even from his own mental vision. But now, in the night watches, he pulled it forward and looked at it steadily. In truth, as the poor little boy looked, he felt almost in despair. Since his mother's death he had managed to support his little household, and not only to support them, but to keep them out of debt. No honorable man of the world could keep more faithfully the maxim, "Owe no man anything, but to love one another," than did this little crossing sweeper. But now, suddenly, a debt, a debt the existence of which he had never suspected, stared him in the face. His mother had borrowed a shilling from Mrs. Finnahan. Mrs. Finnahan required that shilling back again. If that enormous sum--twelve whole pennies--was not forthcoming by to-morrow, he and Pepper and Trusty would find themselves homeless--homeless in mid-winter in the London streets. Tom knew well that Mrs. Finnahan would keep her word; that nothing, no pleading language, no entreating eyes, would induce Mrs. Finnahan to alter her cruel resolve. No; into the streets they three must go. Tom did not mind the streets so very much for himself, he was accustomed to them, at least all day long. But poor little, tender, delicate Pepper, and old broken-down Trusty! Very, very soon, those friendless, cold, desolate streets would kill Pepper and Trusty. As Tom thought of it scalding drops filled his brave, bright eyes and rolled down his cheeks. It was a moonlight night, and its full radiance had filled the little attic for an hour or more; but now the moon was hidden behind a bank of cloud, and in the dark came to little Tom the darker temptation. No way out of his difficulty? Yes, there were two ways. He might sell Trusty to Pat Finnahan for a shilling--it was far, far better to part with Trusty than to let Pepper die in the London streets; or he might keep the old gentleman's shilling and never bring him back the tenpence he had promised to return to-morrow morning. By one or other of these plans he might save Pepper from either dying or going to the workhouse. As he thought over them both, the latter plan presented itself as decidedly the most feasible. Both his pride and his love revolted against the first. Part with Trusty? How he had blamed Pepper when he had even hinted at Trusty being in the way! How very, very much his mother had loved Trusty! how, even when she was dying, she had begged of them both never to forsake the faithful old dog! Oh, he could not part with the dog! if for no other reason, he loved him too much himself. At this moment, as though to strengthen him in his resolve, Trusty, who from hunger and cold was by no means sleeping well, left his place at the little boy's feet and came up close to Tom; lying down by Tom's side, he put his paws on his shoulders and licked his face with his rough tongue; and also, just then, as though further to help Trusty in his unconscious pleading for his own safety, the moon came out from behind the cloud, shedding its white light full on the boy and the dog; and oh! how pleading, how melting, how full of tenderness did that one remaining eye of Trusty's look to Tom as he gazed at him. Clasping his arms tightly round the old dog's neck, Tom firmly determined that happen what would, he must never part from Trusty. He turned his mind now resolutely to the other plan, the one remaining loophole out of his despair. Need he give back that change to the old man? That was the question. The money he had pleaded so earnestly for still lay unbroken in his pocket; for immediately after it had been given to him, fortune seemed to turn in his favor, and other people had become not quite so stony-hearted, and a few pence had fallen to his share. With two or three pence he had bought himself some dinner, and he had brought threepence back, for Pepper's use and his own. Yes, the shilling was still unbroken--and that shilling, just that one shilling, would save them all. But--the old gentleman had trusted him--the old gentleman had said: "I never trusted a crossing-sweeper before. I am going to trust you." And Tom had promised him. Tom had pledged his word to bring him back tenpence to-morrow morning. Strange as it may seem--incomprehensible to many who judge them by no high standard--here was a little crossing-sweeper who had never told a lie in his life. Here, lying on this trundle-bed, in this poor room, rested as honorable a little heart as ever beat in human breast; he could not do a mean act; he could not betray his trust and break his word. What would his mother say could she look down from heaven and find out that her Tom had told a lie? No, not even to save Trusty and Pepper would he do this mean, mean thing. But he was very miserable, and in his misery and despair he longed so much for sympathy that he was fain at last to wake Pepper. "Pepper," he said, "we never said no prayers to-night; fold yer 'ands, Pepper, and say 'Our Father' right away." "Our Father chart heaven," began Pepper, folding his hands as he was bidden, and gazing up with his great dark eyes at the moon, "hallowed be thy name ... thy kingdom come ... thy will be done in earth h'as 'tis in heaven ... give us this day h'our daily bread ... and furgive us h'our trespasses h'as we furgive ... h'and lead us not into temptation----" "Yer may shut up there, Pepper," interrupted Tom; "go to sleep now, young 'un. I doesn't want no more." "Yes," added Tom, a few moments later, "that was wot I needed. I won't do neither o' them things. Our Father, lead us not inter temptation. Our Father, please take care on me, and Pepper, and Trusty." CHAPTER VI. TRUE TO HIS NAME. It was apparently the merest chance in the world that brought the old gentleman, who lived in--Russell Square, to his hall-door the next morning, to answer, in his own person, a very small and insignificant-sounding ring. When he opened the door he saw standing outside a very tiny boy, and by the boy's side a most disreputable-looking dog. "Well," said the old gentleman, for he hated beggars, "what do you want? Some mischief, I warrant." "Please, sir," piped Pepper's small treble, "Tom 'ud come hisself, but 'e 'ave hurt 'is foot h'awful bad, so 'e 'ave sent me and Trusty wid the tenpence, please, sir.' "What tenpence?" asked the old man, who had really forgotten the circumstance of yesterday. "Please, sir," continued Pepper, holding out sixpence and four dirty pennies, "'tis the change from the shilling as yer lent to Tom." At these words the old gentleman got very red in the face, and stared with all his might at Pepper. "Bless me!" he said suddenly; then he took hold of Pepper's ragged coat-sleeve and drew him into the hall. "Wife," he called out, "I say, wife, come here. Bless me! I never heard of anything so strange. I have actually found an honest crossing-sweeper at last." But that is the story--for the old gentleman was as kind as he was eccentric--and he failed not quickly to inquire into all particulars with regard to Tom, Pepper, and Trusty; and then as promptly to help and raise the three. Yes, that is the story. But in the lives of two prosperous men--for Tom and Pepper are men now--there is never forgotten that dark night, when the little crossing-sweeper risked everything rather than tell a lie or break a trust. And Trusty was true to his name to the last. BILLY ANDERSEN AND HIS TROUBLES. CHAPTER I. BILLY'S BABY. Billy was a small boy of ten; he was thin and wiry, had a freckled face, and a good deal of short, rather stumpy red hair. He was by no means young-looking for his ten years; and only that his figure was small, his shoulders narrow, and his little legs sadly like spindles, he might have passed for a boy of twelve or thirteen. Billy had a weight of care upon his shoulders--he had the entire charge of a baby. The baby was a year old, fairly heavy, fairly well grown; she was cutting her teeth badly, and in consequence was often cross and unmanageable. Billy had to do with her night and day, and no one who saw the two together could for a moment wonder at the premature lines of care about his small thin face. A year ago, on a certain January morning, Billy had been called away from a delightful game of hop-scotch. A red-faced woman had come to the door of a tall house, which over-looked the alley where Billy was playing so contentedly, and beckoned him mysteriously to follow her. "Yer'd better make no noise, and take off those heavy clumps of shoes," she remarked. Billy looked down at his small feet, on which some very large and much-battered specimens of the shoemaker's craft were hanging loosely. "I can shuffle of 'em off right there, under the stairs," he remarked, raising his blue eyes in a confident manner to the red-faced woman. She nodded, but did not trouble to speak further, and barefooted Billy crept up the stairs; up and up, until he came to an attic room, which he knew well, for it represented his home. He was still fresh from his hop-scotch, and eager to go back to his game; and when a thin, rather rasping woman's voice called him, he ran up eagerly to a bedside. "Wot is it, mother? I want to go back to punch Tom Jones." Alas! for poor Billy--his fate was fixed from that moment, and the wild bird was caged. "Another time, Billy," said his mother; "you 'as got other work to see to now. Pull down the bedclothes, and look wot's under 'em." Billy eagerly drew aside the dirty counterpane and sheet, and saw a very small and pink morsel of humanity--a morsel of humanity which greeted his rough intrusion on her privacy with several contortions of the tiny features, and some piercing screams. "Why, sakes alive, ef it ain't a baby," said Billy, falling back a step or two in astonishment. "Yes, Billy," replied his mother, "and she's to be your baby, for I can't do no charring and mind her as well, so set down by the fire, this minute and mind her right away." Billy did not dream of objecting; he seated himself patiently and instantly, and thought with a very faint sigh of Tom Jones, whose head he so ached to punch. Tom Jones would be victorious at hop-scotch, and he would not be present to abate his pride. Well, well, perhaps he could go to-morrow. CHAPTER II. MORE TROUBLE. Day after day passed, and month after month, and Tom Jones, the bully of Aylmer's Court, quite ceased to fear any assaults from a certain plucky and wiry little fellow, who used to fly at him when he knocked down the girls, and who made himself generally unpleasant to Tom, when Tom too violently transgressed the principle of right and justice. Not that Billy Andersen knew anything of right and justice himself; he was mostly guided by an instinct which taught him to dislike everything that Tom did, and perhaps he was also a wee bit influenced by a sentiment which made him dislike to see any thing weaker or smaller than himself bullied. Since that January morning, however, Billy's head and heart and hands were all too full for him to have any time to waste upon Tom Jones. The girls and the very little ones of the court crowded round Billy the first time he went out with his charge. One of the biggest of them, indeed, carried the little thing right up into her own home, followed by a noisy crowd eager to make friends with the little arrival. Billy was flattered by their attentions, but he preferred to keep his charge entirely to himself. At first, it was his head and hands alone which were occupied over the baby, but as she progressed under his small brotherly care, and wrinkled up her tiny features with an ugly attempt at a smile, and stretched out her limbs and cooed at him, he began gradually to discover that the baby was getting into his heart. From the moment he became certain on this point, all the irksomeness of his duties faded out of sight, and he did not mind what care or trouble he expended over Sarah Ann. Mrs. Andersen, true to her word, had given Billy the entire charge of this last addition to her family. Her husband had deserted her some months before the birth of the baby, and the poor woman had about as much as she could do, in earning bread to put into her own mouth and those of her two children. Now, it is grievous to relate that notwithstanding all Billy's devotion and good nature, Sarah Ann was by no means a nice baby. In the first place, she was very ugly--not even Billy could see any beauty in her rather old and yellow face; in the next place, she had a temper, which the neighbors were fond of describing as "vicious." Sarah Ann seemed already to have studied human nature for the purpose of annoying it. She cried at the wrong moments, she cut her teeth at the most inopportune times, she slept by day and stayed awake at night, in a manner enough to try the patience of an angel; she tyrannized over any one who had anything to do with her, and in particular she tyrannized over Billy. Night after night had Billy to pace up and down the attic, with Sarah Ann in his arms, for nothing would induce the infant to spend her waking moments except in a state of perpetual motion. In vain Billy tried darkness, and his mother tried scolding. Sarah Ann, when placed in her cot, screamed so loud that all the neighbors were aroused. When once, however, this strange and wayward little child had got into Billy's heart, he was wonderfully patient with all her caprices, and treasured the rare and far-between smiles she gave him, as worth going through a great deal to obtain. On fine days Billy took Sarah Ann for a walk; and even once or twice he went with her as far as Kensington Gardens, where they both enjoyed themselves vastly, under the shadow of a huge elm tree. It was on the last of these occasions, just before the second winter of Sarah Ann's existence, that that small adventure occurred which was to land poor Billy in such hot water and such perplexity. Sarah Ann was quite nice that afternoon; she cooed and smiled, and allowed her brother to stroke her face, and even to play tenderly with the tiny rings of soft flaxen hair which were beginning to show round her forehead. Billy's heart and head were quite absorbed with her, when a harsh, mocking laugh and a loud "Hulloa, you youngster," caused him to raise his head, and see, to his unutterable aversion, the well-remembered form of Tom Jones. "Well, I never; and so that's the reason you've bin a-shunnin' of me lately; and so you've been obliged to go and turn nursemaid; well--well--and you call yourself a manly boy." "So I be manly," retorted Billy, glaring angrily and defiantly at his adversary. "I don't want none of your cheek, Tom Jones, and I'd a sight rayther be taking care of a cute little baby like this than idling and loafing about and getting into trouble all day long--like yourself." "Oh! we has turned nice and good," said Tom Jones, trying to affect a fine lady's accent; "ain't it edifying--ain't it delicious--to hear us speaking so well of ourselves? Now then, Billy, where's that punched head you promised me a year ago now? I ain't forgot it, and I'd like to see you at it; you're afeard, that's wot you are; you're a coward, arter all, Billy Andersen." "No, I ain't," said Billy, "and I'll give it yer this 'ere blessed minute, if you like. Yere, Sarah Ann darling, you set easy with yer back up agin' the tree, and I'll soon settle Tom Jones for him." Sarah Ann strongly objected to being removed from Billy's lap to the ground; all her sunshiny good temper deserted her on the spot; she screamed, she wriggled, she made such violent contortions, and altogether behaved in such an excited and extraordinary manner, that Tom, who by no means in his heart wished to test Billy's powers, found a ready excuse for postponing the moment when his head must be punched, in her remarkable behavior. "Well, I never did see such a baby," he began; "now, I likes that sort of a baby; why, she have a sperrit. No, no, Billy, I ain't going to punch you; now, I'd like to catch hold of that 'ere little one"--but here Billy frustrated his intention. "You shan't touch my baby; you shan't lay a hand on her," he exclaimed, snatching Sarah Ann up again in his arms, and covering her with kisses. "Well, see if I don't some day," said Tom; "you dare me, do you? Well, all right, we'll see." As Billy walked home that afternoon, he was a little troubled by Tom's words; he knew how vindictive Tom could be, and there was an ugly light in his green eyes when he, Billy, had refused to give him the baby. Tom was capable of mischief, of playing such a practical joke as might cause sad trouble and even danger to poor little Sarah Ann. Hitherto Billy had kept all knowledge of the baby's existence from Tom Jones. What evil chance had brought him to Kensington Gardens that day? Troubles, however, were not to fall singly on poor Billy Andersen that day. He was greeted on his return to his attic by eager words and excited ejaculations. It was some time before his poor little dazed head could take in the fact that his mother had broken her leg, and was taken to the hospital. He must then for the time being turn the baby's breadwinner as well as her caretaker. CHAPTER III. TOM JONES' TRICK. The neighbors were full of suggestions to Billy at this crisis of his fate. It was ascertained beyond all doubt that Mrs. Andersen would be six weeks, if not two months, away; and this being the case, the neighbors one and all declared roundly that there was nothing whatever for Sarah Ann but to become a workhouse baby. One of them would carry her to the house the very next morning, and of course she would be admitted without a moment's difficulty, and there would be an end of her. Billy might manage to earn a precarious living by running messages, by opening cab-doors, and by the thousand-and-one things an active boy could undertake, and so he might eke out a livelihood till his mother came back; but there was no hope whatever for Sarah Ann--there was no loophole for her but the workhouse. To these admonitions on the part of his friendly neighbors, Billy responded in a manner peculiar to himself. First of all, he raised two blue and very innocent eyes, and let them rest slowly and thoughtfully on each loquacious speaker's face; then he suddenly and without the slightest warning winked one of the said eyes in a manner that was so knowing as to be almost wicked, and then without the slightest word or comment he dashed into his attic and locked the door on himself and Sarah Ann. "Sarah Ann, darling," he said, placing the baby on the floor and kneeling down a few paces from her, "will yer go to the workhouse, or will yer stay with yer h'own Billy?" Sarah Ann's response to this was to wriggle as fast as possible up to her affectionate nurse, and rub her little dirty face against his equally dirty trousers. "That's settled, then," said Billy; "yer has chosen, Sarah Ann, and yer ain't one as could ever abear contradictions, so we 'as got to see how we two can live." This was a problem not so easily managed, for the neighbors took offense with Billy not following their advice, and it was almost impossible for him to leave Sarah Ann long at home by herself. True to this terrible infant's character, she now refused to sleep by day, as she had hitherto done, thus cutting off poor Billy's last loophole of earning his bread and her own with any comfort. Billy had two reasons which made it almost impossible for him to leave the baby in the attic; the first was his fear that Tom Jones, who still hovered dangerously about, might find her and carry her off; the second was the undoubted fact that if Sarah Ann was left to enjoy her own solitary company, she would undoubtedly scream herself into fits and the neighbors into distraction. There was nothing whatever for it but for Billy to carry the baby with him when he went in search of their daily bread. Poor little brave man, he had certainly a hard time during those next two months, and except for the undoubted fact that he and the baby were two of the sparrows whom our Father feeds, they both must have starved; but perhaps owing to a certain look in Billy's eyes, which were as blue as blue could be, in the midst of his freckled face, and also, perhaps, to a certain pathetic turn which the baby's ugliness had now assumed, the two always managed to secure attention. With attention, came invariably a few pence--fourpence one day--sixpence and even eightpence another. The greater portion of the food thus obtained was given to Sarah Ann, but neither of the two quite starved. Billy counted and counted and counted the days until his mother would be home again; and as, fortunately for him, Mrs. Andersen had paid the rent of their attic some weeks in advance, the children still had a shelter at night. All went tolerably well with the little pair until a certain bitter day in the beginning of November. Billy was very hopeful on the morning of that day, for his mother's time of captivity in the hospital had nearly expired, and soon now she would be back to take the burden of responsibility off his young shoulders. Sarah Ann had hitherto escaped cold; indeed, her life in the open air seemed to agree with her, and she slept better at nights, and was really becoming quite a nice tempered baby. Billy used to look at her with the most old fatherly admiration, and assured her that she was such a darling duck of a cherub that he could almost eat her up. No, Sarah Ann had never taken cold, but Billy felt a certain amount of uneasiness on this particular morning, which was as sleety, as gusty, as altogether melancholy a day as ever dawned on the great London world. There was no help for it, however, the daily bread must be found; and he and the baby must face the elements. He wrapped an old woolen comforter several times round Sarah Ann's throat, and beneath the comforter secured a very thin and worn Paisley shawl of his mother's, and then buttoning up his own ragged jacket, and shuffling along in his large and untidy boots, he set forth. Whether it was the insufficient food he had lately partaken of or that the baby was really growing very heavy, poor Billy almost staggered to-day under Sarah Ann's weight. He found himself obliged to lean for support against a pillar box, and then he discovered to his distress that the baby began to sneeze, that her tiny face was blue, and that her solemn black eyes had quite a weary and tearful look. "She's a-catchin' cold, the blessed, blessed babby," exclaimed poor Billy; "oh, Sairey Ann, darlin', don't you go and take the brownchitis, and break the heart of your h'own Billy. Oh! lady, lady, give us a 'ap'enny, or a penny. Give us a copper, please, kind lady." The lady so aprostrophized was good-natured enough to bestow a few pence on the starved-looking children, and after a certain miserable fashion the morning passed away. This was, however, Billy's only money success, and he was just making up his mind to go home, and to prefer starvation in his attic to running the feeble chance of securing any more charities. Sarah Ann still continued to sneeze and her eyes still looked watery, and Billy was sorrowfully giving up his hope of receiving any more coppers, when he came face to face with his old adversary and tormentor, Tom Jones. In the anxiety of these latter few weeks, Billy had lost his old fear of Tom, and he was now so spent and exhausted that he greeted him with almost pleasure. "Oh! Tom, do hold the babby just for one minute, just for me to get a wee bit of breath. I'm all blown like, and I'm afeard as Sarah Ann 'as taken cold; jest hold her for one minute--will yer?" Tom, who was looking rather white and shaken himself, just glanced into Billy's face, and some gibing words, which were on the tip of his tongue, were restrained. "Why, yer does look bad, Billy Andersen," he said, and then, without another word, he lifted the baby out of the little lad's trembling arms, and held her in an awkward but not altogether untender fashion. "Look you here, Billy," he said, "ef yer likes to round quick this 'ere corner, there are two cabs coming up to a house as I passed, and they are sure to want a boy to help in with the boxes, and you maybe earn sixpence or a bob; run round this yere minute--quick, Billy, quick." "I'd like to, awful well," said Billy, "and the run will warm me, and wouldn't the bob be fine--but, oh! Tom, will yer hold Sairey Ann? and will yer promise not to run away with her? will yer promise sure and faithful, Tom?" "What in the world should I do that for?" said Tom. "What good would yer Sairey Ann be to me? My h'eyes--I has work enough to get my h'own victuals. There, Billy, I'll not deprive you of the babby; you jest run round the corner, or yer'll lose the chance. There, Billy, be quick; you'll find Sairey Ann safe enough when yer comes back." The poor thin and cold baby gave a little cry as Billy ran off, but the chance was too good for him to lose; and, after all, what earthly use could Tom have with Sairey Ann? CHAPTER IV. WHAT IT MEANT. Poor Billy! After all, Tom had told him a story, for there was no cab whatever waiting in the long and dreary street, into which he ran so eagerly. He ran up and down its entire length, and even stopped at the very number Tom had indicated. A little girl was coming slowly down the steps, and Billy could not help saying to her, "Oh, missy, am I too late, and have all the boxes been stowed away afore I come?" "There have been no boxes stowed away," said the little girl, stopping and staring in astonishment at the ragged boy. "Oh, but, missy, out of the two cabs, yer knows." "There have been no cabs here for many a day," replied the child in a sorrowful, dull kind of tone, which seemed to say that she only wished anything half so nice and interesting would arrive. Billy saw then that the whole thing had been a hoax, and he flew back down the long street, with a great terror in his heart. Oh! what did Tom mean, and was the baby safe? There was no Tom anywhere in sight when the poor little boy returned to the more crowded thoroughfare; but a policeman was stooping down and looking curiously at something on the pavement, and one or two people were beginning to collect round him. Billy arrived just in time to see the policeman pick up a little shivering, crying, half-naked baby. Yes, this baby was his own Sarah Ann, but her woolen comforter, and mother's old Paisley shawl, and even a little brown winsey frock had all disappeared. "Oh! give her to me, give her to me," sobbed poor Billy; "oh, Sairey Ann, Sairey Ann, yer'll have brownchitis and hinflammation now, sure and certain; oh, wot a wicked boy Tom Jones is." The policeman asked a few leading questions, and then finding that the baby was Billy's undoubted property, he was only too glad to deliver her into his arms. The poor baby was quiet at once, and laid her little head caressingly against Billy's cheek. Billy tore off his own ragged jacket and wrapped it round her, and then flew home, with the energy and terror of despair. A pitiless sleet shower overtook him, however, and the two were wet to the skin when they arrived at their attic. CHAPTER V. BILLY'S ILLNESS. All that day Billy anxiously watched the baby; he tore off her wet clothes, and wrapped the blanket and the sheet tightly round her, and then he coaxed a neighbor to expend one of his pennies on milk, which he warmed and gave with some broken bread to the little hungry creature. He forgot all about himself in his anxiety for Sarah Ann, and as the day passed on, and she did not sneeze any more, but sat quite warm and bright and chirrupy in his arms, he became more and more light-hearted, and more and more thankful. In his thankfulness he would have offered a little prayer to God, had he known how, for his mother was just sufficiently not a heathen to say to him, now and then, "Don't go out without saying your prayers, Billy, be sure you say your prayers," and once or twice she had even tried to teach him a clause out of Our Father. He only remembered the first two words now, and, looking at the baby, he repeated them solemnly several times. At last it was time to go to bed, and as Sarah Ann was quite nice and sleepy, Billy hoped they would have a comfortable night. So they might have had, as far as the baby was concerned, for she nestled off so peacefully, and laid her soft head on Billy's breast. But what ailed the poor little boy himself? His head ached, his pulse throbbed as he lay with the scanty blankets covering him; he shivered so violently that he almost feared he should wake Sarah Ann. Yes, he, not the baby, had taken cold. He, not the baby, was going to have brownchitis or that hinflammation which he dreaded. The mischief had been done when he tore off his jacket and ran home, through the pitiless sleet, in his ragged shirt-sleeves. Well, he was glad it was not Sairey Ann, and mother would soon be home now, and find her baby well, and not starved, and perhaps she would praise him a little bit, and tell him he was a good boy. He had certainly tried to be a good boy. All through the night--while his chest ached and ached, and his breath became more and more difficult, and the baby slumbered on, with her little downy head against his breast--he kept wondering, in a confused sort of way, what his mother would say to him, and if the Our Father, in the only prayer he ever knew, was anything like the father who had been cruel, and who had run away from him and his mother a year ago. All his thoughts, however, were very vague, and as the morning broke, and his suffering grew worse, he was too ill to think at all. CHAPTER VI. THE END OF HIS TROUBLES. Tom Jones, having secured the baby's comforter, the thin Paisley shawl, and the little winsey frock, ran as fast as he could to a pawnbroker's hard by. There he received a shilling on the articles, and with this shilling jingling pleasantly in his pocket he entered an eating-house which he knew, and prepared to enjoy some pea pudding and pork. Tom expended exactly the half of the shilling on his dinner; he ate it greedily, for he was very hungry indeed, and then he went back into the street, with sixpence still to the good in his trouser pocket. With sixpence in his pocket, and a comfortable dinner inside of him, Tom felt that his present circumstances were delightfully easy. He might walk about the streets with quite fine gentlemanly airs for an hour or two, if he so willed. Or he might flatten his nose against the shop windows, or he might play halfpenny pitch and toss. His circumstances were really affluent, and of course he ought to have been correspondingly happy. The odd thing was that he was not very happy; he could not get Billy's white face out of his head, and he could not altogether forget the icy cold feel of the baby's little arms, when he slipped off that brown winsey frock. Tom was as hard a boy as ever lived, and a year ago his conscience might not have troubled him, even for playing so wicked a prank as he had done that day. But since then he had met with a softening influence. Tom Jones had been very ill with a bad fever, and during that time had been taken care of in the London fever hospital. In that hospital, the wild, rough street boy had listened to many kind and gentle words and had witnessed many noble and self-denying actions. Two or three children had died while Tom was in the hospital, and the nurses had told the other children that this death only meant going home for the little ones, and that they were now safely housed, and free from any more sin and any more temptation. Tom had listened to the gentle words of the kind Sister nurse, without heeding them much. But the memory of the whole scene came back to him to-day, all mingled strangely with Billy's pale face and the baby's cold little form, until he became quite compunctious and unhappy, and finally felt that he could not spend that remaining sixpence, but must let it burn a hole in his pocket, and do anything, in short, rather than provide him with food and shelter. Tom was accustomed to spending his nights under archways and huddled up in any sheltered corner he could discover. This particular night he was lucky enough to find a cart half-full of hay, and here he would doubtless have had a delicious sleep, had not the baby and Billy come into his dreams. The baby and Billy between them managed to give poor Tom a horrible time of it, and at last he felt that he could bear it no longer: he must go and give Billy the sixpence which remained out of his shilling. He started tolerably early the next morning, and carefully turning his face away from the bakers' shops and coffee-stalls as he passed them, he found himself presently in Aylmer's Court. He had conquered himself in the matter of the bakers' shops and the coffee stalls, and in consequence he felt a good deal elated, his conscience became easier, and he began to say to himself that very few boys would restore even a stolen sixpence when they were starving. He ran up the stairs, calling out to a neighbor to know if Billy Andersen was within. "I believe yer," she replied; "jest listen to That 'ere blessed babby, a-screamin' of itself into fits; oh! bother her for as ill-mannered a child as ever I came across." Tom ran up the remainder of the stairs, and entered Billy's attic without knocking. There he saw a sight which made him draw in his breath with a little start of surprise and terror; the baby was sitting up in bed and crying lustily, and Billy was lying with his back to her, quite motionless, and apparently deaf to her most piteous wails. Billy's usual white face was flushed a fiery red, and his breathing, loud and labored, fell with solemn distinctness on Tom's ears. Tom knew these signs at a glance; he had seen them so often in the fever hospital. Shutting the door softly behind him, and first of all taking the baby in his arms and thrusting a sticky lollipop, which he happened to have in his waistcoat pocket, into her mouth: "Be yer werry bad, Billy Andersen?" he said, stooping down over the sick boy. "Our Father," replied Billy, raising his blue eyes and fixing them in a pathetic manner on Tom. "'Tis our Father I wants." "Why, he were a bad'un," said Tom; "he runned away from yer, he did; I wouldn't be fretting about him, if I was you, Billy lad." "'Tis the other one--'tis t'other one I means," said Billy in a weak gasping voice. "I has 'ad the words afore me all night long--our Father; tell us what it means, Tom, do." "I know all about it," said Tom in a tone of wisdom; "I larned about it in hospital. There, shut up, Sairey Ann, do; what a young 'un yer are for squallin'. Our Father lives in heaven, Billy, and he'll--he'll--oh! I am sure I forgets--look yere, wouldn't yer like some breakfast, old chap?" "Water," gasped Billy, "and some milk for the babby." Tom found himself, whether he wished it or not, installed as Billy's nurse. He had to run out and purchase a penny-worth of milk, and he had also the forethought to provide himself with a farthing's worth of bull's eyes, one of which he popped into Sarah Ann's mouth whenever she began to howl. Never had Tom Jones passed so strange a day. It did not occur to him that Billy was in any danger, but neither did it come into his wild, untutored, hard little heart to desert his sick comrade. By means of the lollipops, he managed to keep Sarah Ann quiet, and then he kindled a tiny fire in the grate, and sat down by Billy, and gave him plentiful drinks of cold water whenever he asked for them. Billy shivered and flushed alternately, and his blue eyes had a glassy look, and his breath came harder and faster as the slow sad day wore away. Tom, however, never deserted his post, satisfying his own hunger with a hunk of dry bread, and managing to keep Sarah Ann quiet. Toward evening, Billy seemed easier; the dreadful oppression of his breathing was not quite so intense, and the flush on his face had given way to pallor. Tom lit a morsel of candle and placed it in a tin sconce, and then he once more sat down by his little comrade. For the first time then Tom noticed that solemn and peculiar look which Billy's well-known features wore. He puzzled his brain to recall where he had last seen such an expression; then it came back to him--it was in the fever hospital, and the little ones who had worn it had soon gone home. Was Billy going home? The baby lay asleep in Tom's arms, and he looked from her to the sick child whose eyes were now closed, and whose breath was faint and light. "Shall I fetch a doctor, old chap?" he whispered. Billy shook his head. "Tell us wot yer knows about our Father," he said in a very low and feeble voice. "Our Father," began Tom. "He lives in heaven, he do. He's kind and he gives lots of good things to the young 'uns as lives with him in heaven. It sounds real fine," continued Tom, "the way as our Father treats them young 'uns, only the worst of it is," he added with the air of a philosopher, "we 'as to die first." "To die," said Billy, "yes, and wot then?" "I 'spect," continued Tom, "as our Father fetches us up 'ome somehow, but I'm very ignorant; I don't know nothing, but jest that there's a home and a Father somewheres. Look yere, Billy, old chap, you ain't going to die, be yer?" "I 'spect I be," said Billy; "a home somewheres, and our Father there, it sounds werry nice." Then he closed his eyes again, and his breath came a little quicker and a little weaker, and the solemn look grew and deepened on his white face. "Give me my babby," he said an hour later; "lay her alongside o' me; oh! my darling, darling Sairey Ann; and I'll tell mother when she comes in." But mother never got her message, for when next Billy spoke, it was in the safe home of our Father. Billy's baby grew up by and by, but no one ever loved her better than Billy did. THE OLD ORGAN-MAN. "The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain." CHARLES KINGSLEY. CHAPTER I. PLAYING FOR LOVE. He was always called old Antonio, and though he doubtless possessed a surname of some sort, no one seemed to know anything about it. He had white hair, and a bronzed face, and kindly soft brown eyes, and he got his living by pacing up and down the streets and turning a hurdy-gurdy. This instrument was a rather good one of its class--it could play six different airs, and all the airs were Italian, and even played by the hurdy-gurdy had a little of the sweet cadence and soft pathetic melody of that land of music. Antonio lived in an attic all by himself, and the grown people wondered at him and asked each other what his history could be, but the children loved him and his music, and were to be seen about him wherever he went. He looked like a man with a story, but no one had ever troubled themselves to find it out or to ask him any questions. He did, however, receive stray pennies enough to keep him alive, and the street children loved him, and whenever they had a chance danced merrily to his music. One cold and snowy afternoon, about a week before Christmas Day, old Antonio sat up in his attic and looked gloomily out at the snow-laden clouds. Nothing but the fact that there was no oil for his stove, and no pennies in his pockets, would have induced the old Italian to brave such inclement weather. But no fire and no food will make a man do harder things than Antonio was now thinking about. He must get something to eat and some fire to warm himself by. He shouldered his hurdy-gurdy and went out. "Poor Marcia," he said to himself as he trudged along. "Well, well, we of the south are mistaken in the generous land of England. The milk and honey-bah, they are nowhere. The inhabitants--they freeze like their frozen skies. Poor Marcia, no doubt she has long ceased to look for the footfall of her Antonio." The old man, feeling very melancholy and depressed, walked down several streets without once pausing or attempting to commence his music. At last he stopped at the entrance of a very dull square. He had never yet received a penny in this square, and had often said to himself that its inhabitants had not a note of music among them. He took the square now as a short cut, meaning to strike out toward Holborn and the neighborhood of the shops. Half-way through the square he stopped. A house which used to be all over placards and notices to let presented a different appearance. It was no longer dead and lifeless. From its windows lights gleamed, and lie could see people flitting to and fro. He stopped for a moment to look at the house and comment on its changed appearance, then with a slight little start, and a look of pleased expectation, he put down his hurdy-gurdy and began softly to turn the handle and to bring out one by one his beloved Italian melodies. The first, a well-known air from "Il Trovatore," was scarcely finished before a little dark head was popped up from behind a window-blind, and two soft eyes gazed eagerly across the street at the old organ-grinder. "Bless her! what a depth of color, what eyes, what hair! she comes from the south, the pretty one." Antonio nodded his head to her as he made these remarks, and the child, with her face pressed against the pane, gazed steadily back at him, now and then smiling in an appreciative manner. The six airs were all played out and repeated a second time, and then Antonio, looking up at the sky, from which the snow was still steadily falling, began to think of moving on. In his pleasure at playing for the child he had forgotten all about the money part of his profession. He was indeed indulging in a happy dream, in which Marcia, and a certain little Marcia, who had long ago gone back to God, were again by his side. He threw a cloth over his hurdy-gurdy and prepared to mount it on his shoulder. The moment he did so the child disappeared from the window. There was a quick, eager patter of little feet in the hall, the front door was opened, and the next moment the little dark child was standing by his side. "Here's sixpence of my very own, and you shall have it, poor man, and thank you for your lovely, lovely music." "You liked it, dearie?" said Antonio, not touching the sixpence, but looking down at the pretty child with reverence. "Oh! didn't I just? I used to hear those airs in Italy, and they remind me of my dear mamma." "Little missy has got eyes dark and long like almonds; perhaps she comes from our sunny south?" said Antonio eagerly. "No, I am a little English girl; but my mamma was ill, and they took her to Italy, and Marcia nursed her. God has taken my mamma away, and now I am in England, and I don't like it; but I shall only stay here until my father comes home." "Missy, you make my heart beat when you talk of Italy and of Marcia--but your Marcia, was she young?--the name is a common one, and mine, if the good Lord has not removed her, must be very old now." "My Marcia was young and good," said the little girl. "I loved her, and I cry for her still. I am so sorry your Marcia is old, poor man. Thank you for the music. I must run in now, or Janet will scold. Good-by. Here's your sixpence." "No, no, missy. I'll get some pence in the other streets. Let me feel that I played the old airs for you only for love." CHAPTER II. A FRIEND IN NEED. Antonio did not stay out much longer in the snow. This enterprise of his had not turned out a profitable one; no one on such a miserable day felt inclined to listen to his Italian airs, the snow seemed to be locking up people's hearts, and he went back to his attic hungry and cold, and quite as penniless as when he started on his expedition. Still there was a glow in his heart, and he was not at all sorry that he had played for the pretty child for love. He sat down in an old broken arm-chair and wrapped a tattered cloak about him, and indulged in what he called a reverie of Italy and old times. This reverie, as he said afterward, quite warmed him and took away his desire for food. "The child has brought all back to me like a golden dream," he murmured. "Poor, poor Marcia! why do I think of her so much to-night? and there's no money in the little box, and no hope of going back to her, and it's fifteen years ago now." The next day Antonio went back to the quiet square off Bloomsbury, and played all his Italian airs opposite the house where he had played them yesterday; but though he looked longingly from one window to another, he could not get any glimpse of the child who reminded him of Italy. As he walked through the square on his way home he could see the people passing to the week-night service at the church, which stood in the center. But no trace of the little one could he catch. As far as money was concerned, he had had a much better day than yesterday, but he went home, nevertheless, disappointed and with quite a blank at his old heart. The next day he hoped he would see the child, and he again went slowly through the square, but he could not catch a glimpse of her, and after doing this every day in vain he soon came to the conclusion that she had gone. "Her father has come for the pretty one, and she has gone back to the fair south," he murmured. "Ah, well! I never saw such eyes as hers on an English maiden before." On Christmas Day Antonio shouldered his organ, as usual, and went out. On this morning he made quite a little harvest; people were so merry and so bright and so happy that even those who did not want his Italian airs gave him a penny to get rid of him. Quite early in the afternoon he turned his steps homeward. On his way he bought half a pound of sausages and a small bottle of thin and sour claret. "Now," he said to himself, "I shall have a feast worthy of my Italy," and he trudged cheerfully back, feeling all the better for his walk through the pleasant frosty air. Antonio never indulged in fires, but he had a small paraffin stove in his attic, and this he now lit, and spread out his thin hands before the poor little attempt at a fire. Then he drank his claret and ate his sausages and bread, and tried to believe that he was having quite a bright little Christmas feast. There were many voices in the room below, and cheerful sounds coming up now and then from the court, and altogether there was a festive air about everything, and Antonio tried to believe himself one with a merry multitude. But, poor old man, he failed to do so. He was a lonely and very old man--he was an exile from his native country. No one in all this great world of London cared anything at all about him, and he was parted from his good wife Marcia. Fifteen years ago now they had agreed to part; they both supposed that this parting would be a matter of months, or a year at most. "The good land of England is paved with gold," said Antonio. "I will go there and collect some of the treasure and then come back for you and little Marcia." "And in the mean time the good God will give me money enough to keep on the little fruit stall and to support our little sweet one," said Marcia, bravely keeping back her tears. Antonio came to England, and quickly discovered that the streets paved with gold and the abundant wealth lived only in his dreams. The little money he had brought with him was quickly spent, and he had no means to enable him to return to Italy. Neither he nor his wife could write, and under these circumstances it was only too easy for the couple to lose sight of each other. Once, a few years back, an Italian had brought him word that little Marcia was dead, and that his wife was having a very poor time of it. When Antonio heard this he came home in a fit of desperation, and finding a small box, bored a hole in the lid, and into this hole he religiously dropped half of all he earned, hoping by this means to secure a little fund to enable him to return to Naples and to Marcia. The winter, however, set in with unusual severity, and the contents of the little box had to be spent, and poor Antonio seemed no nearer to the only longing he now had in his old heart. On this particular Christmas Day, after his vain attempt at being merry and Christmas-like, he dropped his head into his hands and gave way to some very gloomy thoughts. There was no hope now of his ever seeing his old wife again. How tired she must be of standing by that fruit stall and watching in vain for him to turn the corner of the gay and picturesque street! There she would stand day after day, with her crimson petticoat, and her tidy bodice, and the bright yellow handkerchief twisted round her head. Her dark eyes would look out softly and longingly for the old man who was never coming back. Yes, since the child had gone back to God, Marcia must be a very lonely woman. After thinking thus for some time, until all the short daylight had faded and the lamps were lit one by one in the street below, Antonio began to pace up and down his little attic. He was feeling almost fierce in his longing and despair; the patient submission to what he believed an inevitable fate, which at most times characterized him, gave place to passionate utterances, the natural outcome of his warm southern nature. "Oh, God! give me back Marcia--let me see my old wife Marcia once again before I die," he pleaded several times. After a little he thought he would change the current of his sad musings, and go out into the street with his hurdy-gurdy. As I have said before, he was always a favorite with the children, and they now crowded round him and begged for that merry Italian air to which they could dance. Antonio was feeling too unhappy to care about money, and it afforded him a passing pleasure to gratify the children, so he set down his barrel-organ in the dirty crowded street, and began to turn the handle. The children, waiting for their own favorite air, collected closely round the old man; now it was coming, and they could dance, oh! so merrily, to the strains they loved. But--what was the matter? Antonio was looking straight before him, and turning the handle slowly and mechanically. Suddenly his whole face lit up with an expression of wonder, of pleasure, of astonishment. He let go the handle of the barrel organ, and the music went out with a little crash, and the next instant he was pushing his way through the crowd of dirty children, and was bending over a little girl, with dark hair and dark, sweet, troubled eyes, who was standing without either bonnet or jacket spell-bound by the notes of the old hurdy-gurdy. "Why, my little one--my little sweet one from the south, however did you come to a dreadful place like this?" said old Antonio. At the sound of his voice, the child seemed to be roused out of a spell of terror; she trembled violently, she clasped her arms round his knees, and burst into sobs and cries. "You are my organ-man--you are my own darling organ-man. Oh! I knew it must be you, and now you will take me home to my father." "But however did you come here, my dear little missy?" "My name is Mona. I am Mona Sinclair, and Janet my maid--oh! how cruel she is; she was jealous of the dear Marcia I used to have in Italy, and she said she would punish me, and she would do it on Christmas Day. Father has not come home yet, and I have been so unhappy waiting for him, and Janet said she was tired of my always crying and missing my mamma, and she took me for a walk this afternoon, and she met some grandly dressed people, and they wanted her to go with them, and she said she would for a little, and she told me to stand at the street corner, and she would be back in ten minutes, but it seemed like hours and hours," continued the child excitedly, "and I was so cold, and so miserable, and I could not wait any longer, and I thought I would find my own way home, and I have been looking for it ever since, and I cannot find it. I asked one woman to tell me, but all she did was to hurry me into a corner and take off my fur cap and my warm jacket, and she looked so wicked, and I've been afraid to ask any one since; but now you will take me home, you won't be unkind to me, my dear organ-man." "Yes, I will take you home, my darling," said Antonio, and he lifted the little child tenderly into his arms. CHAPTER III. GLAD TIDINGS. "I must not leave my barrel-organ in the street," said Antonio to the child; "will you let me take it home first, missy? and then I can take you back to your father." Little Mona, holding Antonio's hand, and walking by his side in the midst of the rabble, was a totally different child from Mona, standing by herself under the street lamp. "I shall like to see your home, organ-man," she said in her sweet voice. "Do you really live in an attic? Marcia and her mother live in an attic in Italy, too, and Marcia likes it." Then they walked through the streets together, and Mona went upstairs with Antonio. She seemed quite contented in the funny little place, and sat down on a low seat with a sigh of satisfaction. "I am so glad I met you, organ-man, and I like your home. I would much rather live here with you than go back to Janet. I am dreadfully afraid of Janet, and I sometimes think my father will never come. I wish I could live with you, organ-man," continued little Mona in a piteous voice, "for you could talk to me about Italy, where my dear mamma died, and oh! organ-man, you do remind me of Marcia." "I once had two Marcias," said old Antonio in a grave and troubled voice; "the little one is with God, and the wife whom I love, I don't know what shelter she is finding for her gray hairs. It troubles me to hear you speak of Marcia, missy. It brings back painful memories." The child had a thoughtful and serious face; she now fixed her eyes on old Antonio, and did not speak. "And I must take you home," continued the old man. "I should like to keep you with me, my little bright missy, but suppose your good father has returned, fancy his agony." "If I could think my father had come, how glad I should be!" said little Mona, and she went over to Antonio and took his hand. It was not a very long way from Antonio's attic to the house in B---- Square. Antonio was too old and too feeble to carry the little girl all the way. He would have liked to do so, for the feel of her little arms round his neck, and her soft brown cheek pressed to his, brought the strangest peace and comfort to his heart. Antonio had not had such a good time since he left Italy, and he could not help feeling, in some inexplicable way, that he was going back to Marcia. At last they reached the house, and the old organ-man's ring was speedily answered. Immediately there was a shout of delight and a great bustle, and little Mona was almost torn from her companion and carried into a dining-room, which was very bright with firelight and gaslight. Antonio, standing on the hall-door steps, heard some very tender and loving words addressed in a manly voice to the little girl. Then he said to himself, "The dear little one's father has come and her heart will be at rest." And he began slowly to go down the steps, and to turn back to a world which was once more quite sunless and cold. But this was not to be, for little Mona's voice arrested him, and both she and her father brought him into the house and into the warm dining-room. There Mr. Sinclair shook his hand, and thanked him many times, and tried to explain to him something of the agony he had undergone when he had listened to the terrified Janet's confession, and had discovered that his only child was gone. "I too have lost a child," said old Antonio. "I can sympathize with your feelings, sir." "But you have got to tell my father all that story of the Marcia with gray hair," said little Mona. She was a totally different child now, her timidity and fear were gone, she danced about, and put Antonio into a snug chair, and insisted once more on his telling his story. When he had finished, Mr. Sinclair said a few words: "I believe God's providence sent you here to-night in a double sense, and I begin to see my way to pay you back in some measure for what you have done for me. The young girl who so devotedly nursed my wife during her long illness was called Marcia. We wished to bring her to England, for my child loved her much, but we could not induce her to go away from an old mother of the same name. She often told us what hard times this mother had undergone, and how her heart was almost broken for her husband, who had gone away to England to seek his fortune, but had never come back. Now, can it be possible that these two Marcias are yours, and that the man who said your child was dead was mistaken?" "It may be so," said old Antonio, whose face had grown very white. "Oh! sir, if ever you go back to Naples could you find out from that Marcia with gray hairs if the husband she laments was one Antonio, an old man, who played Italian airs?" "My child and I are going back to Naples next week," said Mr. Sinclair, "and suppose you come with us and find out for yourself, Antonio." CHAPTER IV. AT LAST. There came a warm day, full of light, and life, and color; a day over which the blue sky of Italy smiled. Beside an artistically arranged fruit stall a slender and handsome Italian girl stood. Behind the stall, on a low seat, sat an old woman; she was knitting, but her restless eyes took eager count of every passer-by. "Did you observe that old man, Marcia?" she said in her rapid Italian to the young girl. The girl turned her beautiful and pitying eyes full on the old woman. "He was not my father, mother. Ah! dear mother, can you not rest content that the good God has taken my father to himself?" "Fifteen years," muttered the old Italian woman. "Fifteen years, with the love growing stronger, and the heart emptier, and the longing sorer. No, I have not given him up. Oh! my merciful Father in heaven, what--who is that?" A little group was coming up to the fruit stall, a child who danced merrily, an old man with a bent white head, and a gentleman on whose arm he leaned. They came up close. The child flew to the younger Marcia, the old couple gazed at each other with that sudden trembling which great and wonderful heart-joy gives, they came a little nearer, and then their arms were round each other's necks. "At last, Marcia," said old Antonio--"at last!" THE END. * * * * * A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS For Young People BY POPULAR WRITERS. 52-58 Duane Street, New York. Bonnie Prince Charlie: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in French service. The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scotland. "Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'Quentin Durward.' The lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself."--Spectator. With Clive in India; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and of the greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. "He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_Scotsman._ The Lion of the North: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. "The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."--_Times._ The Dragon and the Raven; or, The Days of King Alfred. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. "Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--_Athenæum._ The Young Carthaginian: A Story of the Times of Hannibal. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of Carthage, that Hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannæ, and all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. "Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_Saturday Review._ In Freedom's Cause: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. "It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--The Schoolmaster. With Lee in Virginia: A Story of the American Civil War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. "One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--_Standard._ By England's Aid; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-1604) By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting Veres." After many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in getting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz. "It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness."--_Boston Gazette._ By Right of Conquest; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY, and Two Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.50. The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With this as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the Spaniards in the New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec bride. "'By Right of Conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published."--_Academy._ In the Reign of Terror: The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by J. SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a French marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nantes. There the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. "Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... The story is one of Mr. Henty's best."--_Saturday Review._ With Wolfe in Canada; or, The Winning of a Continent. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the nations of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the English language, and English literature, should spread right round the globe. "It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_Illustrated London News._ True to the Old Flag: A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which American and British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. The historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of Lake Huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. "Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook."--_The Times._ The Lion of St. Mark: A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the victories of the Venetians at Porto d'Anzo and Chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice. "Every boy should read 'The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--_Saturday Review._ A Final Reckoning: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The hero, a young English lad, after rather a stormy boyhood emigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. "Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."--_Spectator._ Under Drake's Flag: A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. "A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_Harper's Monthly Magazine._ By Sheer Pluck: A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their march to Coomassie. "Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'By Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read."--_Athenæum._ By Pike and Dyke: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN, and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea-captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. He ultimately settles down as Sir Edward Martin. "Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite of themselves."--_St. James' Gazette._ St. George for England: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the destruction of the Spanish fleet; the plague of the Black Death; the Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "St. George for England." The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince. "Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir Walter Scott in the land of fiction."--_The Standard._ Captain's Kidd's Gold: The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor Boy. By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes--sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the Spanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. Perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts' true story of an adventurous American boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. The document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book, Paul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. Captain Bayley's Heir: A Tale of the Gold Fields of California By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves England for America. He works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_Christian Leader._ For Name and Fame; or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. An interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the Afghan passes. He accompanies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is transferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of Ayoub Khan. "The best feature of the book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan people."--_Daily News._ Captured by Apes: The Wonderful Adventures of a Young Animal Trainer. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. The scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archipelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of New York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo and young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. The lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as Goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. The brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. The Bravest of the Brave; or, With Peterborough in Spain. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peterborough. This is largely due to the fact that they were over-shadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed. "Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read 'The Bravest of the Brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_Daily Telegraph._ The Cat of Bubastes: A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. They become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. "The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated."--_Saturday Review._ With Washington at Monmouth: A Story of Three Philadelphia Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Three Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British officers;" Enoch Ball, "son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing school was situated on Letitia Street," and little Jacob, son of "Chris, the Baker," serve as the principal characters. The story is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the American spies who make regular and frequent visits from Valley Forge. One reads here of home life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. For the Temple: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by S. J. SOLOMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Mr. Henty here weaves into the record of Josephus an admirable and attractive story. The troubles in the district of Tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of Jotapata, of Gamala, and of Jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of Josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the Temple, and after a brief term of slavery at Alexandria, returns to his Galilean home with the favor of Titus. "Mr. Henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to Roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world."--_Graphic._ Facing Death; or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "Facing Death" is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story is a typical British boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. "The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_Standard._ Tom Temple's Career. By HORATIO ALGER. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Tom Temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of Nathan Middleton, a penurious insurance agent. Though well paid for keeping the boy, Nathan and his wife endeavor to bring Master Tom in line with their parsimonious habits. The lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. As Tom is heir to $40,000, he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. He leaves Plympton village to seek work in New York, whence he undertakes an important mission to California, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. Some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. Maori and Settler: A Story of the New Zealand War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The Renshaws emigrate to New Zealand during the period of the war with the natives. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. He has for his friend Mr. Atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant New Zealand valleys. "Brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--_Schoolmaster._ Julian Mortimer: A Brave Boy's Struggle for Home and Fortune. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. There is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi River, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. One of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of Indians. Our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young American in every sense of the word. He enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. Surrounded by an unknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. Harry Castlemon has written many entertaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of America regard him as a favorite author. "Carrots:" Just a Little Boy. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_Examiner._ "A genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. Children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane's illustrations."--_Punch._ Mopsa the Fairy. By JEAN INGELOW. With Eight page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "Mrs. Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and 'Mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius Miss Ingelow has and the story of 'Jack' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of childhood."--_Eclectic._ A Jaunt Through Java: The Story of a Journey to the Sacred Mountain. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The central interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their trip across the island of Java, from Samarang to the Sacred Mountain. In a land where the Royal Bengal tiger runs at large; where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. Hermon not only distinguishes himself by killing a full-grown tiger at short range, but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. There is much in this narrative to instruct as well as entertain the reader, and so deftly has Mr. Ellis used his material that there is not a dull page in the book. The two heroes are brave, manly young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. They cope with the many difficulties that arise during the trip in a fearless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is so fortunate as to read their adventures. Wrecked on Spider Island; or, How Ned Rogers Found the Treasure. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A "down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by which he can gain a livelihood. While in his bunk, seasick, Ned Rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. Once it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons him on Spider Island, explaining to the crew that the boy is afflicted with leprosy. While thus involuntarily playing the part of a Crusoe, Ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material with which to build a hut, finds a considerable amount of treasure. Raising the wreck; a voyage to Havana under sail; shipping there a crew and running for Savannah; the attempt of the crew to seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire. Geoff and Jim: A Story of School Life. By ISMAY THORN. Illustrated by A. G. WALKER. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "This is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. Both Geoff and Jim are very lovable characters, only Jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."--_Church Times._ "This is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the book tastefully bound and well illustrated."--_Schoolmaster._ "The story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."--_Standard._ The Castaways; or, On the Florida Reefs. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This tale smacks of the salt sea. It is just the kind of story that the majority of boys yearn for. From the moment that the Sea Queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower New York bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of Florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. Off Marquesas Keys she floats in a dead calm. Ben Clark, the hero of the story, and Jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the water. They determine to capture him, and take a boat for that purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles begin. They take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. Their adventures from this point cannot fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young people Mr. Otis is a prime favorite. His style is captivating, and never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. In "The Castaways" he is at his best. Tom Thatcher's Fortune. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Like all of Mr. Alger's heroes, Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports his mother and sister on meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in John Simpson's factory. The story begins with Tom's discharge from the factory, because Mr. Simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too closely about his missing father. A few days afterward Tom learns that which induces him to start overland for California with the view of probing the family mystery. He meets with many adventures. Ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing consternation to the soul of John Simpson, who only escapes the consequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man whose friendship he had betrayed. The story is told in that entertaining way which has made Mr. Alger's name a household word in so many homes. Birdie: A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. CHILDE-PEMBERTON. Illustrated by H. W. RAINEY. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier years."--_New York Express._ Popular Fairy Tales. By the BROTHERS GRIMM. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "From first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful."--_Athenæum._ With Lafayette at Yorktown: A Story of How Two Boys Joined the Continental Army. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The two boys are from Portsmouth, N. H., and are introduced in August, 1781, when on the point of leaving home to enlist in Col. Scammell's regiment, then stationed near New York City. Their method of traveling is on horseback, and the author has given an interesting account of what was expected from boys in the Colonial days. The lads, after no slight amount of adventure, are sent as messengers--not soldiers--into the south to find the troops under Lafayette. Once with that youthful general they are given employment as spies, and enter the British camp, bringing away valuable information. The pictures of camp-life are carefully drawn, and the portrayal of Lafayette's character is thoroughly well done. The story is wholesome in tone, as are all of Mr. Otis' works. There is no lack of exciting incident which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following the adventures of Ben Jaffreys and Ned Allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized from text-books has been forgotten. Lost in the Canon: Sam Willett's Adventures on the Great Colorado. By ALFRED R. CALHOUN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story hinges on a fortune left to Sam Willett, the hero, and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before he shall have reached his majority. The Vigilance Committee of Hurley's Gulch arrest Sam's father and an associate for the crime of murder. Their lives depend on the production of the receipt given for money paid. This is in Sam's possession at the camp on the other side of the cañon. A messenger is dispatched to get it. He reaches the lad in the midst of a fearful storm which floods the cañon. His father's peril urges Sam to action. A raft is built on which the boy and his friends essay to cross the torrent. They fail to do so, and a desperate trip down the stream ensues. How the party finally escape from the horrors of their situation and Sam reaches Hurley's Gulch in the very nick of time, is described in a graphic style that stamps Mr. Calhoun as a master of his art. Jack: A Topsy Turvy Story. By C. M. CRAWLEY-BOEVEY. With upward of Thirty Illustrations by H. J. A. MILES. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to the interest of this amusing volume for children. Jack falls asleep with his mind full of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to find himself an inhabitant of Waterworld, where he goes through wonderful and edifying adventures. A handsome and pleasant book."--_Literary World._ Search for the Silver City: A Tale of Adventure in Yucatan. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Two American lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark on the steam yacht Day Dream for a short summer cruise to the tropics. Homeward bound the yacht is destroyed by fire. All hands take to the boats, but during the night the boat is cast upon the coast of Yucatan. They come across a young American named Cummings, who entertains them with the story of the wonderful Silver City, of the Chan Santa Cruz Indians. Cummings proposes with the aid of a faithful Indian ally to brave the perils of the swamp and carry off a number of the golden images from the temples. Pursued with relentless vigor for days their situation is desperate. At last their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. Mr. Otis has built his story on an historical foundation. It is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Thrown upon his own resources Frank Fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-sister Grace. Going to New York he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. He renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman named Wharton, who takes a fancy to the lad. Frank, after losing his place as cash boy, is enticed by an enemy to a lonesome part of New Jersey and held a prisoner. This move recoils upon the plotter, for it leads to a clue that enables the lad to establish his real identity. Mr. Alger's stories are not only unusually interesting, but they convey a useful lesson of pluck and manly independence. Budd Boyd's Triumph; or, the Boy Firm of Fox Island. By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The scene of this story is laid on the upper part of Narragansett Bay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt-water flavor. Owing to the conviction of his father for forgery and theft, Budd Boyd is compelled to leave his home and strike out for himself. Chance brings Budd in contact with Judd Floyd. The two boys, being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch and sell fish. The scheme is successfully launched, but the unexpected appearance on the scene of Thomas Bagsley, the man whom Budd believes guilty of the crimes attributed to his father, leads to several disagreeable complications that nearly caused the lad's ruin. His pluck and good sense, however, carry him through his troubles. In following the career of the boy firm of Boyd & Floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson--that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success.