11213	----	[Illustration] BROTHERLY LOVE; SHEWING That as merely human it may not always be depended upon. BY MRS. SHERWOOD AND HER DAUGHTER, MRS. STREETEN. 1851. THE BROTHERS; OR, BE NOT WISE IN YOUR OWN CONCEIT. It was at that time of year when leaves begin to lose their green hue, and are first tinctured with a brown shade that increases rather than decreases their beauty, that Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer received a letter from a brother of Mrs. Mortimer's, at Portsmouth, requiring such immediate attention that it was thought advisable that the answer should be given in person and not in writing, and without a day's loss of time. So it was determined that Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer should leave their home, even as soon as the following morning, to visit their brother at Portsmouth, and that they then should settle the business for which they went as quickly as possible, that their absence from home need not be prolonged unnecessarily, nor indeed for any length of time. It did not take long to arrange this part of the affair, and what packing was requisite was also done quickly, but the point which required most attention and thought was, what was to become of Marten and his young brother Reuben while their papa and mamma were away. "I have never left them before," said their mamma, "and I feel somewhat anxious about their being left now." "Anxious, dear mamma," exclaimed Marten, who had overheard the remark. "Anxious," he repeated, "why I am a great boy now, and I shall soon be a man, when I shall have to take care of myself altogether; and if I cannot take care of myself for a week, what is to become of me when I am grown up? Indeed, mamma, I think you forget how old I am. I was thirteen on the 21st of April." "Tirteen," lisped little Reuben--"Marten tirteen--April--Oh, Marten very old mamma--very, very wise;" and Reuben opened his eyes quite wide and looked so very earnestly in his mother's face, that one would have thought he was trying to read therein what she could mean about being anxious as to leaving Marten,--the Marten who appeared so very old and so very wise to him,--to take care of himself for a few days without his parents protection. "Thirteen," repeated Mrs. Mortimer, "thirteen no doubt seems very, aye very old, to you Reuben, for you are not yet half that age; but I am more than three times that age," she added, smiling, "and that you know must make me very, very much wiser than Marten, and now once again I say I am anxious about leaving you without your father or myself, and I should be more anxious than I am if I did not believe it is our duty to go at once to Portsmouth; and that it being right for us to go, I can leave you, my boys, in God's care, who is the tenderest of fathers to his children." "But mamma," asked Marten, "why do you fear for me? Am I not steady, mamma? Do not I like to do what you and papa tell me to do? Am I ever obstinate or rebellious to you? Indeed, mamma, I feel quite grieved; I think it is unjust to mistrust me, mamma, really I do." "If you feared for yourself, I should have less fear for you, Marten," replied Mrs. Mortimer, "for I know well that the heart of man is by nature prone to sin, and that our thoughts and desires while we are on earth are like our natures, full of imperfections. Temptations are ever before us--they press upon us every minute, and it is not in our own strength we can resist or overcome even one of them, and while this life lasts we are not safe, unless we acknowledge their powerful influence and trust in the Divine Spirit alone to be able to withstand them." "I have not been thought a disobedient boy till now," said Marten somewhat sulkily. "I think my usual conduct should plead for me." "Every child has temptations, Marten," replied his mamma, "and every well behaved child, though not a pious one, resists them: and in truth these temptations are so numerous, that one scarcely thinks of them, unless we witness the conduct of a spoiled baby, as shame prevents grown up persons giving way to many things. But I want you to see that in this life we are in a state of constant trial, and as St. Paul says, if it were only for this life, a Christian is of all men most miserable; for added to these outward temptations, which assail all mankind daily and hourly, the Christian knows he must resist inward temptations, which perhaps are known to none but himself and his God. These temptations are more pressing than other temptations, on account of their peculiar nature: for the one, if indulged in, brings the displeasure or frowns of the world--the other, as I said before, is perhaps unknown to all human beings but oneself." "Well, but mamma," said Marten impatiently, "I do know all this, for you have taught it me before. It is not like as if I had to learn the thing now for the first time. I think you are too severe, mamma, indeed I do; and when you come back, I believe you will say so. Trust me, mamma, and do not be anxious about me. I shall do very well, and I promise to take good care of Reuben. I will see to his lessons, and do my own, and he shall sleep with me while you are away, and I will attend carefully to him and never leave him, and when I am learning my Latin, he can be in the room with me, and we shall do very well together, I promise you. So trust me, mamma, without anxiety of any sort." "I will trust you," replied Mrs. Mortimer smiling kindly, "but not with yourself Marten, for I see clearly you have a lesson to learn, my boy, and I hope you will learn it shortly, without much trouble to yourself. You think you are going to fulfil all your duties in your own strength, as they ought to be fulfilled. You will see that you cannot. Could human nature, unassisted by the Divine nature, have done so, then what need would there have been for the Son of God to have taken our form and purified our nature in himself? By grace alone are we saved, for there is none good--no, not one; but as God is holy, we must be holy, ere we can dwell with Him, and the work of the Divine Spirit is to make us pure; and while we are in the flesh, to uphold us in the right and straight road, till being made one with God our sanctification is accomplished. Now then is our hour of temptation. Marten--and believe me, my boy, if you attempt to withstand that temptation in your own strength, you are like one putting fire to tow, and expecting it will escape conflagration." Marten made no reply, for he was tired of the subject; but after Mrs. Mortimer had left the room, he said to Reuben--"Well, we shall see what we shall see, and mamma shall acknowledge I am right after all." So the carriage came to the door next morning betimes, and Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer got into it, and Marten and Reuben stood in the coach drive to hold the gate open for the carriage to pass through; and the great dog Nero stood by them very much excited, not knowing whether to go with the carriage or to stay with the boys. "Be sure you see Nero has a run every day, Marten," said Mr. Mortimer, as the carriage passed through the gate--"that dog wants plenty of exercise." "Oh! don't fear, papa, I shall not forget him," replied Marten, running a step or two after the carriage; "and mamma, I will attend to your doves--you had forgotten to speak about them, had you not, mamma? I will remember them and Nero too, papa, and Reuben also. Yes, I will attend to all--I shall have plenty of time for all. Have you anything more you wish done, papa?" and Marten was obliged to stop speaking, as the carriage was now going on rapidly, and he found he could not talk and keep up with it at the same time. "No, no, Marten," replied Mr. Mortimer laughing--"No, no, my boy--you have got more on your hands now than will suffice you: so off with you home, and take care that when we return we do not find the doves flown, Nero lost, or Reuben with black eye or bruised leg, and yourself in some unlucky plight, my boy. Now go home, and God bless and watch over you, my sons. We hope it will not be long before we return," and he waved his hand to bid good bye. Marten had run himself out of breath, so he was not able to answer his father, and he was not sorry to stand still an instant or two to watch the carriage out of sight, and give time for Reuben to overtake him, for the child could not keep up with his brother's quick running. And even now Marten might have read this lesson, had he been wise enough so to do that already, he had been led away by temptation to forget his brother, and that though he had done so, Nero had been more faithful than himself; for Nero, though he could have outran Marten, yet would not forsake the child, but restrained his impatience that he might keep near the little one, who ever needed a protector by his side, for the child was young, and his mother had perhaps reared him too delicately. Reuben had never before been separated from his mamma, and he was half inclined to cry, and perhaps fret at her absence; but Marten, who was a very kind brother, and really loved the child tenderly, contrived so to divert his attention that he soon forgot his troubles. Marten was so bent upon behaving well during his mamma's and papa's absence and of fulfilling every duty, that though Reuben wished to stay out all morning and play, his brother would not allow it, but persuaded him to go in with him and say his lessons, as if his mamma had been at home. But Marten had taken upon himself much more than was required of him by his parents, and it was not without difficulty, even on the first day, determined as he was upon the point, that he could fulfil all his intentions, for Marten had not taken into consideration that if he thoroughly devoted himself to Reuben, he could not spend his time in learning his own lessons, which usually occupied the best hours of the morning. The doves could be fed whilst Reuben was by his side--indeed Reuben could be very useful in this matter, for he had been accustomed to visit the aviary daily with his mamma, and the pretty birds knew him and were not as afraid of him as they were of his big brother Marten. So Reuben fed the doves himself, and stroked their soft feathers, and washed out their little tin in which the water was put for them to drink; and he placed the food for them in its right corner, and he swept out the floor of the aviary, for he was small enough to stand upright within it, and he knew how to do it without frightening the birds. So far all was well, and all was well too whilst Reuben was saying his lessons; but when Marten wanted to study his Latin exercise, the child was so restless and troublesome, that it was only by speaking very decidedly to him--indeed almost crossly--that Marten could get a moment to himself. But even then Marten had to shut up his book somewhat hastily, for Reuben began to cry for his mamma, who never spoke sharply to him, and was always ready to attend to the little one by a kind look or tender word. Marten was, however, so satisfied with himself in having accomplished all his plans for the day, that he did not see how he had given way to temptation in being cross when provoked; and as he put Reuben to bed, for he chose to do it himself, he could not help saying aloud, "I wish mamma could have followed me unseen all day: how pleased she would have been with me, for I have done all I meant to do, even though I was tempted more than once to leave something undone." The next morning Marten arose, perhaps not quite so earnest in his intentions as the day before, but still there was only a slight disinclination to fulfil all his duties--so slight, indeed, that he would have been very angry if any one had spoken to him about it, and hinted at the truth. In this frame of mind, though most things were done, some few were slurred over, particularly the Latin Exercise and Grammar, for Marten's papa had not set him any task, and had even said Marten might have a holiday during his absence; and at any other time the boy would have been glad of this indulgence, but now he fancied himself so good, that he believed he could do everything, and everything well. "I will do an exercise to-morrow, Reuben," said Marten. "Papa does not expect any done, and if I have one for every other day to shew him, he will be very much pleased, I know." Reuben, as may be supposed, could not make a suitable reply to this; for all he understood about it was, that Marten was going out with him instead of staying at home to do that troublesome Latin. So Reuben was pleased and Marten was thoughtless, and out together they went and enjoyed themselves not a little, in the pleasant autumn weather. Thus hours passed on, and the third day brought a letter from Mrs. Mortimer, which was not quite satisfactory, for it said that the business which took her and her husband from home could not be easily settled, and they feared they would be detained a whole fortnight at Portsmouth. Mrs. Mortimer, however, was not uneasy about her boys, for she knew that the servants, with whom she had left them, were quiet steady persons, who would not allow them to do what was wrong without speaking to them; and then Reuben was such an universal favourite, that she felt sure no one would be wilfully unkind to him. But above all, Mrs. Mortimer trusted her children with Him who "knoweth our frame and remembereth we are but dust." Psal. ciii. 14. Mrs. Mortimer had been absent about a week, and Marten was still in ignorance of the weakness of human nature, at least as far as he was himself personally concerned, when one morning Reuben came running to him in great distress, to say that the doves were missing--his mamma's own pretty birds that she loved so much; and Reuben, whose tears were somewhat too ready, began to cry, for he feared, poor child, the cat had eaten them, or some other misfortune equally distressing had befallen them. "Was the door of the aviary open?" asked Marten. "Are you sure it was open, Reuben? or did you open it yourself?" "It was open," said Reuben, "wide, wide open--so wide, Marten;" and he made his brother understand that he had gone inside without stirring it the least little bit. "It was open, you say," replied the elder boy, "but how could that be? You or some one have been careless, very careless, Reuben; for it is certain the birds could not open it for themselves." Reuben was about to cry again, but Marten soothed him, for all at once Marten remembered that the careless--very careless person was none other than himself; for on the day before, whilst Reuben was sweeping out the aviary, Marten had called him hurriedly, and though the child had once proposed to return, his brother had kept him by his side for some trifling purpose, and so they had both forgotten the aviary door was open. However, the doves were gone, and they must be reclaimed, if alive, but if dead--what a sad story would there be for Mrs. Mortimer. So the books were put by, and the two boys went out in search of the birds, and Reuben, who understood their ways, took the precaution to carry with him the box in which their food was usually placed. On this occasion there was a nice piece of cake put into the box, which was to be crumbled for the doves, and Reuben knew that they liked cake as well as he did himself, and more especially the kind of cake which cook had given him. Have you ever heard of a person who it is said once looked for a needle in a pottle of hay? for if so, you may picture to yourself the feelings of Marten when he started to find the ringdoves. But perhaps you will say, anyhow, the needle would lie still, unless the man who was searching for it should shake the straw too roughly, and throw it out, therefore the space of its concealment, being a limited space, supposing the pottle the very largest ever made, there would be a chance in time of its discovery, but not so the case of the birds. They had wings to fly with, and miles of lovely blue sky to fly through, and green branches to rest on, and harvest fields to alight in, that is if they were in the land of the living; but, perhaps, after all, mistress pussy had destroyed them, and their pretty feathers, perhaps their only relics left, might be so scattered by the wind, that already they might be yards and yards separated from each other. With these sad forebodings clouding his brow, Marten set off with Reuben on his search, feeling that it was a hopeless one, and not one word did the boy utter to all Reuben's lamentations as they crossed the meadow which was spread in front of their house towards a little wood, which was the home of many a bird of the pigeon or dove species, and therefore Marten thought would be the most likely place to go first to look after the strayed ones. Think, then, what must have been his joy as they entered the second meadow not far from the stile, absolutely to behold the ringdoves, his mamma's own ringdoves walking upon the grass cooing and billing, and turning about their soft eyes in this direction and the other, as if half afraid of the freedom they had acquired for themselves. As to Reuben, he was so pleased, that the little foolish fellow clapped his hands and shouted for joy, which so alarmed the doves, that they took to their wings and soared high, but flutteringly in the air, as if in their fright they did not know what they ought to do for their own safety. Marten was very angry with Reuben for his folly--very angry indeed, and I hardly know what it was he said; only this I do know, that he took the box of cake from the child's hand, and bade him stand at a particular spot--about twenty yards or so, in a direction farthest from the wood, and from the stile leading to their home; "and there," he added, "remain till I tell you you may stir, if you are so stupid as not to know that clapping your hands and shouting loud will frighten any birds, particularly timid ones like doves--tame doves, especially, who have strayed from their home." Marten looked so cross, that Reuben did not even like to cry, for he felt he had been very silly; so the poor little fellow stood where his brother had bade him stand, half afraid to breathe, and quite afraid of moving--lest by any noise he should again drive away the doves, and Marten should again be angry. And there we will leave him to speak of how his brother set himself to work to reclaim his mother's birds. I have said before that he had some cake in a box in his hand, and having tossed off his hat--lest by any accident it should fall off when he was stooping forwards, he threw himself upon the grass his full length, and as he rested on his right hand; with his left he sprinkled some of the cake he had with him on the ground, to attract the doves near to him, in the hope he would catch one; and the second, he rightly guessed, would not then be long out of his power. Marten relied on the tame habits of the doves, who had been accustomed not only to eat out of his brother's hands, but also from his mother's, and occasionally of late from his own; but it is a different thing feeding birds in their own aviary, and when they have escaped half wild to their native haunts. And now, whilst the boy stretched upon the ground, was wholly occupied in the earnest desire of reclaiming the wanderers, Reuben's attention after awhile was diverted by seeing that some one was approaching towards them from a hill, in a direction farthest from their home. This person was riding at no slow pace, and as I said before, as his road led him down hill, he seemed not to spare his horse; meeting the wind, as Reuben thought gloriously, and passing along at a pace, the child considered more glorious still. "When I am a man," the little fellow said to himself, "I will ride so, I will have a horse, and I will ride very very fast,--yes,--that I will." Now it seemed that the rider from the elevated road could look over the meadows below, and probably having good eyes, for they certainly were young and sharp ones, he soon spied out Marten and Reuben, and as it came out afterwards that Marten was the person he sought after, he caused his pony to leap over a small ditch that was in his way, and then guiding it to a gate he dismounted and fastened the animal to the post by its bridle. In leaping the ditch his hat had fallen off, and making signs to a large Newfoundland dog that had accompanied him, the noble animal was by him directed to lie down near the horse and take charge of the hat, whilst his master stepped lightly along the grass in the direction where Marten lay extended, so occupied about the doves as to regard nothing that was passing round him. The new comer was a youth of about Marten's own age, the only child of a gentleman who lived about four miles from Marten's father, and the most constant companion that Marten possessed. His name was Edward Jameson, and he shall himself say the cause of his present visit. Reuben knew Edward well, and he recognized him before he had tied his pony to the gate post, but he had not seen the fine Newfoundland dog before, and Reuben was so fond of dogs. The little fellow remembered that Marten had forbidden him to leave the tree or to speak, but he could not keep his small feet from moving up and down restlessly, nor could he scarce command himself not to call out and tell his brother of Edward's arrival. But Edward wanted to see what Marten was doing in the very odd attitude he had taken, so he crept noiselessly on, his head turned somewhat sideways to Reuben, and his hand held up threateningly to the child, for he saw he had been recognised, and he was afraid of some hasty word, which would cause Marten to start up, and then he feared he should not surprise his friend. Edward was able to get quite close to Marten, and even to touch him before Marten was aware of his presence; and he stepped up so quietly, that the doves were so little frightened, that they hardly stopped a moment from picking up the crumbs. "Why Marten, old fellow, what are you doing here?" asked Edward. "Whose doves are those, I say? are they your mother's? have you let them loose--Eh?" Edward spoke softly, but not so softly that he did not cause Marten to start at the unexpected sound of his voice; still, as the birds were at some little distance, and were accustomed to the human voice, they scarcely were alarmed, and hardly moved a step or two away from the crumbs scattered for them, and Marten recovering himself quickly, said--"Oh! Edward, do help me to catch these doves: they have escaped from their aviary, and my mother will be so vexed if they fly away." "To be sure I will," replied Edward; "but my boy, who is in the habit of feeding them, for that person would best know how to catch them I should say." "My mother feeds them herself chiefly," said Marten, "and Reuben sometimes attends to them when she is engaged." "Well, set Reuben to decoy them now, for I am in a hurry and have got something to say to you as quickly as possible, and it is very important. Anyhow, the child can watch them whilst you are attending to me." So Reuben was called from his station at the tree, and Marten gave him directions what he was to do; and the now little important one lay down on the grass, as Marten had done before him; and as might have been expected, the doves, accustomed to his baby voice and small figure, soon drew nearer and nearer to him, so that when the conference was over between the two elder boys, Reuben was able proudly to shew not one, but both doves, so wrapped up in his pinafore, that though they fluttered about a little, they were quite secure. "Come here a step or two from the child," said Edward, "and don't think of those troublesome birds just now, but tell me at once, can you come and pay me a visit for a couple of days? my cousins William Roscoe and Jane and Mary are expected at our house to night on their way to London. You know William Roscoe, Marten, and what a fine fellow he is and I have asked my father and mother, and they have allowed me to get as many young ones together as the short time would allow, and we are to have splendid fun. Won't you come, Marten? I promise you a glorious time of it, if you will but come." [Illustration] "My father is from home," replied Marten thoughtfully, "and so is my mother, but I don't think that matters, Edward: they have never refused my visiting you, and I do not think they would now. Indeed, I am sure they would not, if they were at home, but what am I to do with Reuben? I have taken charge of Reuben whilst mamma is away, and what can I do about him?" "About Reuben," returned Edward? "can't the servants take care of him at home? he will do very well at home, and be very contented, I know." "But I have undertaken the charge of him," said Marten, "and I should not like, after what I have said, to leave him, even for a couple of days. I must either bring him with me, Edward, or stay at home with him--indeed, I must." "Well, then, bring the little fellow," replied Edward kindly; "anything so as you come, Marten; and remember there will be plenty of girls invited, for Jane and Mary Roscoe, and Reuben can surely play with them, and they will take care of him, no doubt. So bring him, by all means, if that is the only hindrance; but still, I say, you would do better to leave him at home with the servants; however, that's your business, not mine. I reckon on you to-morrow, about eleven o'clock--to stay all night, next day, and the night following, if you like; so good bye, till then. I have half the country to ride over to beat up my recruits;" and without waiting another word from his friend, Edward ran across the meadow, snatched up his hat from where the faithful dog was carefully guarding it, sprang upon his pony, and then once again leaping the ditch, he cantered off at a pace so rapid, he was soon lost to Marten's sight. How pleased was Reuben to shew his brother that he had caught the doves, and Marten was also pleased: for any how he need not distress himself about them, as they were secured, but he thought it advisable to take them under his own charge, as he considered he could hold them firmer than the little one. And now the boys ran home as quickly as they could, and the pretty birds were shut up in their aviary, and Marten hastened to the kitchen to find the house-maid, who was called nurse, as she had been Reuben's nurse before she had changed her occupation in the family, the child no longer requiring a personal attendant. In the kitchen Marten learnt that she was gone out into the garden to gather some herbs for the cook, and thither he followed her to tell her that his friend Edward Jameson had been with him, and what had been the purport of his visit. "Nurse," said Marten, when he found her, "I am come to ask you to get mine and Reuben's things ready to-night, for I am going to take him with me to spend a couple of days at Mr. Jameson's; and there will be company there in the evenings, so we must have our best things, nurse, and will you be so kind as to see after the doves, and tell Thomas to loosen Nero's chain every day, that he may have a good scamper over the fields, for papa says he should have plenty of exercise." "Stop, stop, master Marten," replied nurse, "what is all this about? your things and master Reuben's, do you say, are to be got ready for two day's visit--and the doves fed? am I to find them before I feed them, master Marten?" and nurse laughed. "They are found, nurse," answered the boy, "and they are now safe in the aviary, and I will take care the door shall not be opened again while mamma is away. I mean to put a padlock on, nurse, so you see no one can let them out, and I shall keep the key myself." "Oh! master Marten, master Marten!" said nurse, laughing again--"I see, if it depended upon you, we should all be in a bad way, and so the poor birds are to be locked up, are they: and master Reuben is not to be allowed to go into the aviary to talk to them, as the little one loves to do--and all for what? Give me a steady ruler, if you please--not such as you, master Marten--a fine head of a family you will make, if one may judge of your boasted management of the doves in the first part of the story, and then the leaving the aviary door open and finishing with locking them up and keeping the key yourself. Well for their happiness--mistress will soon be at home to attend to them herself; but what are you going to do with the child, my own darling? I can't have any tricks played with him, I tell you." "Tricks, nurse," repeated Marten passionately. "What? do you mean to say I would play tricks with my own brother? No one loves Reuben, I am sure, better than I do, unless it is mamma. What do you mean, nurse?" "What do you mean, then, master Marten, by saying you are going to take the child amongst strangers, neither me nor his mamma being with him, and he never accustomed to strangers--and company in the house too--I don't half like it--and I know I feel half inclined to say he shan't go." "And pray under whose charge was he left?" asked Marten. "Your's or mine, nurse? I should like to know." "It was much of a muchness," replied the good woman. "Missis said to you, take care of your brother; but missis knew I loved the sweet darling too dearly to require even half a word on the subject. And supposing he does go with you, master Marten, who is to put the dear child to bed at nights? I must insist, indeed I must, that you see to it yourself. I know how frightened he will be amongst strangers at bed time." "To be sure I will, nurse," said Marten, glad to see the good woman was so far giving in to his wishes. "I promise not only to sleep with him, but to take him to bed myself and stay with him till he is asleep." "Well, well, master Marten," exclaimed nurse impatiently--"Well, well, don't undertake too much and then do nothing; and I must say again," she continued warming with her subject, "that the child had better be left at home where there are plenty to look after him, and not be carried off to that strange house, away from us all." "Oh! me go with Marten, nurse, dear nurse! me go with Marten!" said little Reuben imploringly, for the child had just joined them in time to hear nurse's last remark. "Oh! Reuben so like to go with Marten." "You don't know what is best for you, silly one," replied nurse, "nor who is your truest friend either, but your little head is bent upon being a man soon, and you must ever be trying to do what your brother does. But, master Marten, how can you play or go about with master Jameson, and yet attend to this child too?" "Oh! I can take care of Reuben, and yet have plenty of time for myself, nurse, I am sure," said Marten. "That's according," answered nurse, "for if you are always giving your company to this little one here, and she patted Reuben on the back, he will keep you smartly to it whenever he is awake, I promise you. Won't you, my pet? Are you not a weary little fellow, darling?" she added, as she stooped to kiss him, "that is when you can get folks to be wearied with you." "No, nurse," answered the child stoutly;--"no--me not weary--me not tired--me don't want to go to bed." "Bless your pretty tongue," exclaimed nurse; "but here, take this parsley to cook, and say it is the finest double parsley I can find, there's a darling." As Reuben ran away on his errand, nurse addressed herself to Marten in a kind motherly manner, for nurse was not a young woman, and she was also a pious one. "Master Marten," she said, "I am sure you will be kind to the little one--you always are--for I must say you are one of the very best brothers I know, and that is saying a deal for you--for I believe there are many good brothers and sisters in the world, and yet, pardon your old nurse, young master, when she tells you you are doing wrong, though I think your intention is good. Look to your own heart, master Marten, and ask yourself why are you dragging this poor child after you to Mr. Jameson's. I was in the room with Missis when she was speaking to you the day before she left, and I heard what she said about temptation, and how we are tempted every hour in the day. You did not believe her, master Marten, and you do not believe her now, and you are going to try temptation to the very utmost, and you think you will stand it, and I know you won't, for I remember what my dear lady said, that no one can resist temptation in their own strength. This is the reason why I don't like my baby to go with you, but if you, my dear young master, will just think over what your mamma said, and ask for the approval of your Saviour and the direction of his Holy Spirit in all things--why then, as I said before, I will trust my darling with you any where, for I know that you love him dearly, and would not willingly hurt a hair of his precious little head." "Nurse," exclaimed Marten indignantly, "one would imagine I had been very unkind to Reuben whilst mamma has been away; now I don't think it is fair, and if I were to leave my brother at home and stay out a couple of days enjoying myself, papa and mamma might both justly think I had neglected him; No, I have undertaken the care of him till their return, and I mean to fulfil my undertaking: and I must say, unless you have any unkindness to charge me with, I consider you have no business to speak to me as you have done." And Marten walked away with a heart determined to resist the wise advice of nurse. And now nurse had nothing for it but to get the things ready for the boys the next day, for nurse knew that Marten was always allowed, if convenient, to go to Mr. Jameson's when invited, and as the houses were about four miles apart, she also knew he was in the habit of staying there all night, if asked so to do. As regards Reuben, he too had been there once or twice to stay with his mamma, but nurse considered very wisely, that it was a very different thing, a child of the little one's age going from home with or without his mamma; but still she could not interfere more than she had done, for Reuben had certainly been put under his brother's care. She did, however, try to persuade the little one that he would be better at home with her, but any person who knows the ways of children might easily guess nurse might as well have spoken to a post as to Reuben, for all the good she did, for the boy began to cry, and begged so hard to go with his brother to play with the big boys at Mr. Jameson's, that she thought it as well to say no more on the subject. And now I must pass over some hours till the time came for John to drive the boys over in the pony carriage to Mr. Jameson's. Marten could have walked the four miles very well, or he could have rode there on his own pony, but Reuben could not have walked half so far, and thus it happened, that as John had something to do he could not leave undone, it was quite twelve o'clock before the three arrived at Mr. Jameson's house, and thus it chanced that they were almost the last comers of the party of children invited to meet the Roscoes. It was a lovely day, and as warm as any summer day, though the autumn was just setting in, and such a group of young children were at play on the grass plat, near the house, that the like Marten nor Reuben had never seen before. It was such a very pretty sight, that John quite forgot to give out of the carriage the parcel nurse had made of the young gentlemen's clothes; and the consequence was, he had all the trouble to come back half a mile of the road, when he suddenly bethought himself of his forgetfulness. But as to the pretty sight John saw, I wish I could draw you a picture of it; if I could I would, I promise you, and I would put it in this very page for you to see. Fancy, then, a beautifully soft velvet lawn, in front of a large handsome house, upon which lawn the sun shines warmly but kindly, and the blue sky looks most pleasingly there and here, broken by white clouds that relieve the eye without obscuring the light. At the farthest end of the lawn from the house were some fine trees, under the shelter of which two girls were playing at battledore and shuttlecock, and very well they played too. A little nearer this way, that is where John and the carriage stood, in the direction of the house, was a young child seated on the turf holding a dog, whilst two other children were trying to make it jump to catch a flower, one held in her hand. There was also a big boy on a pony talking to a great girl, who was lying on the grass; but the prettiest group of girls were standing or kneeling round a pet lamb which they were decking with wreaths of flowers. They none of them wore bonnets nor walking dresses, and even the boy on the pony was without a hat. Why they had all agreed to uncover their heads, I cannot say exactly, but I know they had been having some joke about it before the young Mortimers arrived; and the great girl on the turf had even then got her brother's cap and had hidden it somewhere, and it was to ask her about it he had ridden up to her on his pony, as she rested on the grass. [Illustration] "Oh! they are all girls but one," exclaimed Marten in a disappointed tone, "and I am afraid I shall not find the boys easily, and I hate playing with girls." "As much as we girls dislike playing with rude boys, master Mortimer," said Jane Roscoe, advancing forwards and replying to Marten's speech, which had really been addressed to John; "but understand we are the fairies of this lawn--this is our territory, and my aunt Jameson has bestowed it upon us. We take tribute if you intrude on our premises, so either be off to your own mates, or lay down your cap as owning our sway as ladies and queens of the lawn." "I am sure I would rather go to your brother, or Edward, Miss Roscoe," replied Marten, "if you would but tell me where I should find them." "No doubt near the stables, or at the dog kennels," she answered pertly, "so you had better go, for I tell you we don't want boys amongst us; we have had some trouble in ridding ourselves of them just now." "And if they are all like you, I am sure I for one don't want to stay," thought Marten; and he took Reuben's hand to seek his friends, where the young lady had so uncourteously directed him to find them. And here, before I would follow Marten to find his young friends, I would wish to remark that it is such girls as Jane Roscoe who make rude boys, and such young women that make rude men. Boys and men generally take their manners from the females with whom they associate, and when one sees a very rude boy, it does not speak well for his sisters at home, or at least for the young ladies with whom he may happen to be most intimate. As to regular schoolboys, they are rude, because schoolboys in general are famed for bad manners, and young gentlemen seem to like to bring this odium on schools, fancying rudeness is manliness, when in reality it is a decided sign of the contrary. Think of the bravest men that have been known, that is bravest in their own persons, and I will venture to say they have been gentle and courteous in female society, for they know and feel they can dare to be so, as their credit for manly daring is known and acknowledged by every one. Take one of your rough ones, and I for one set him down as a mere bully, that hides his cowardice under blustering words. But I have wandered somewhat from my point, for I was saying rude girls make rude boys, as shewn in the case of Jane Roscoe; and civil girls make civil boys, as evinced in her sister Mary, as I am going to relate. "Me want to go to the pretty lamb," said Reuben, hanging heavily on his brother:--"Me go to the lamb--me don't like horses." "But you shall see the great big Newfoundland, Reuben, that you admired so much yesterday," said his brother. "Should you not like to see the large black dog?" "Reuben wants to go to lamb," replied the child, and he resolutely stood still. "Pretty lamb, Reuben, go to lamb now." "You can't go to the lamb, Reuben," said his brother impatiently, "so you must be content to go with me to see the large black dog. I am not going to give up my cap to any one, I promise you; so come on now, and don't keep me staying here all day." But Reuben, as nurse had said, was a weary little fellow when bent upon any thing, and now he was bent upon going to play with the lamb, so he was determined not to move, or if he did it should only be in the direction of the lawn. Marten was, however, almost as determined to go the other way, on account of Jane Roscoe, and for a moment there seemed a doubt which boy should carry the day. The elder had the most strength, and he was inclined to use it, for Miss Roscoe had offended him, and lifting the child from the ground he was about to run off with him in the direction of the stables, when Reuben, not accustomed to opposition of this description, set up a loud cry of passion, which at once drew the attention of all near to himself and his brother. "There," exclaimed Jane, "what are you teasing the little one so for? why not let him have his own way and come amongst us, if he will?" "Well, go," said Marten angrily, "go, Reuben, if you like; but I tell you I will not come with you." But this was not what Reuben desired, and he stood at a little distance from his brother looking, I am sorry to say, very naughty and selfish, for he was really wishing Marten to give up his own desires to attend to and humour his; and so now he stood moving neither one way nor another, his face turned towards the lamb so finely bedecked with flowers. His cry, however, had aroused the young girls from their occupation, and Mary Roscoe, whom one would have supposed had been really kissing the lamb, so close was her face to it, when Marten had first seen her; sprang from her knees, and running across the lawn to the gravel path, now stooped down to Reuben, and looking him kindly in the face--"Little boy," she said, "what did you cry for? what did you want? tell me, little boy, and I will see what I can do. I am a fairy, little boy. We are all fairies on that turf, and I will take you with me to fairy land and shew you some fairy wonders." Reuben at once and without hesitation put his hand in hers, saying--"Me go see pretty lamb me go with you--me will go." "Then come along," said Mary, and turning her head over her shoulder towards Marten, she added, "I will take care of him; so you may go to Edward and William if you like, and I dare say you will like it better than playing with girls." "Oh! thank you, Miss Mary, thank you," replied Marten most gratefully to the kind little girl, "thank you, I am so much obliged to you." But Marten spoke aloud, and thus drew Reuben's attention to the fact that he was going to be left with strangers, and once more he raised a cry as much of passion as of fear. So Marten, to soothe him, made a step towards the lawn with the child, though Mary still held his hand, giving a private sign to Marten that he might slip away on the first opportunity. "Your tribute, your tribute," exclaimed Jane Roscoe: "not one step upon the grass, Master Mortimer, without giving up your cap as a sign you own us 'The ladies of the lawn.' Give it up, I command, or stay where you are." "Will you give it me again in a minute or two, as I come back," asked Marten? "Ask Frank Farleigh there if he has got his," said Jane. "You shall have yours when he has found his, that is if we can hide it as securely." "Then you may get it as you can," retorted Marten rudely, stepping upon the grass, and on Jane's springing after him setting off on a race as fast as he could across the lawn, in utter defiance of the young girls. A cry was raised instantly, and all the children left their sports to pursue the boy, who had thus boldly defied their power; and lucky was it for him that he was agile and could twist and turn in his course as rapidly as a hare. But when there is at least twelve to one and a clear space, the raced has little chance, and thus it came about that the boy in self defence was forced to fly towards the stables as the only place of safety, having no leisure even to think that he was leaving his brother amongst strangers, proving himself unable to withstand temptation, even during one short hour of his visit. Marten, too, had raised a war between himself and the young girls of the party, which was not likely to be settled peacefully during the time of their stay at Mrs. Jameson's, and thus he had, to a certain sense, separated himself either from Reuben or from the bigger boys, without intending to do so for the two parties, as might be foreseen by any experienced eye, were of too different a sort to get on hourly together, as their tastes and amusements were utterly at variance. As my story is intended to shew that temptations hourly assail us, and that in our own strength we cannot often resist them, else wherefore did Our Lord teach his disciples to pray that they might not be led into temptation, but because he knew that man of himself never turns away from the forbidden fruit. I shall not here speak much of how after a good run hither and thither, Marten at last found Edward and his companions in an open field, most of the horses and dogs from the stables being collected together, and such a scene of excitement going on that the boy had no leisure to think of anything that was not passing before his eye; and therefore, as Reuben did not appear, he, like the rest being unseen, was forgotten. In excuse for Marten I must say that he first ran to the stables, and there learnt from a boy whom he found there, that Master Jameson had had permission that morning from his papa to have out one or two of the horses and ponies, on condition that Chambers, the old coachman, and Rogers, the groom, were present with the young gentlemen, and that every obedience were paid to their directions, so that if they saw anything wrong they might enforce attention to their requests. As many of the young gentlemen too had ridden over on their ponies to Mr. Jameson's, there were a goodly collection of horses assembled together, and the races that ensued, and the leaping over low fences that followed, so quickly passed away the time that when the first bell rang, announcing that dinner would shortly be served, Marten was quite astonished to find that it was nearly three o'clock, and that almost two hours had passed since he had seen his brother. But now, as the boys were taking the horses and dogs to the stables, he hastened towards the house as fast as he could, for he saw the lawn was tenant-less, and knowing the way to the room where he usually slept when at Mrs. Jameson's, he hurried up the stairs only to find that his things had been placed there, and that Reuben's little parcel had been taken elsewhere and was probably where the child also was, for no Reuben was to be seen. As Marten could meet with no servant, he ran along the gallery trying to distinguish amongst the many voices he heard on all sides that of his brother's, but in vain, so many were the sounds that reached his ear, and as he did not like to open any of the doors, or push those farther open that were not quite closed, he raised his voice and called aloud "Reuben, Reuben, I want you--Reuben come to me in the passage--here I am--come to me Reuben." To Marten's annoyance, instead of his brother replying to his call, Jane Roscoe stepped out into the gallery, exclaiming--"Oh! it is you, is it? Whom do you want? What are you come here for? these are the girl's rooms! those are our bedrooms, and this is our sitting room. Are you come to make an apology for your rudeness this morning? If so, I will call the rest out to hear what you have to say." "I want my brother, Miss Roscoe," replied Marten, trying to speak civilly. "May I go into your sitting room, or would you have the goodness to tell him to come to me here." "I shall do no such thing," answered Miss Jane, "you may get him as you can, though I do not know how you will manage to do that either; for Mary has taken such a fancy to the little fellow, that she will not give him up easily." "Would you tell me if Reuben is content?" asked Marten, "for if so I would rather leave him with Miss Mary." "Just pop your head inside that door," said the rude girl, "and judge for yourself, that is, if you dare to do so--for your brother is there, and Mary and a dozen more girls. Do you dare?" she inquired mockingly, "come let me see you do it, then." "Dare," repeated Marten indignantly, "and why should I not dare--I want my brother." "Do it then," said Jane, "if you are not a coward, which I strongly suspect you are;" and when was a spirited boy of thirteen so urged on that had the prudence to know where to stop with propriety to himself. Marten, choking with rage, did advance to the door pointed out, and put his head inside, and there, on beholding a group of young ladies of all ages, from eight to fourteen, and no little brother, and finding all eyes turned upon himself as an impertinent intruder, he drew his head back quickly, and was met with a loud laugh from Jane, which so annoyed him, that without stopping to think, he ran off to his own room as fast as he could. The voice of Mary Roscoe however reached him as he ran along the gallery, uttering these words: "I'll take care of Reuben, Master Marten--I'll take care of Reuben, he is very happy." And so Marten allowed himself to be content, and as he knew dinner would shortly be ready, he lost no more time, but set to dress himself in his best as quickly as he could. Mr. and Mrs. Jameson did not dine with the young people, but Mrs. Jameson came in and walked round the table, and spoke to most of the young ladies and gentlemen, and asked after their papas and mammas, and she said she hoped they would be good children and enjoy themselves very much, and in the evening she and Mr. Jameson would come in to see them at play. She told Jane Roscoe she expected her and Mary to take care of the young ladies and see that they had everything they wanted, and she said much the same to her son and William Roscoe about the boys. There was a very long dining table laid out, and, as might be expected, all the boys got together at the end where Edward sat, and all the girls got round Jane Roscoe, for it must be remembered that hostilities had begun in the morning between the boys and girls, and Jane was not the kind of girl to make peace, or desire to make peace and conduct herself as would be becoming a young lady. Frank Farleigh, indeed, crossed the barrier, and once again demanded his cap from his sister, but he pleaded in vain, and I do not know how the matter would have been settled if good-natured Mary Roscoe had not proposed that it should be considered as a forfeit, and that the cap should be cried with the other forfeits in the evening games. "And I promise you it shall be hardly won," cried Jane, and Frank's sister then whispered to her as if they were settling what Frank was to do for it, and then Jane laughed--her teasing laugh--and if Frank did give his sister a most cruel schoolboy pinch, I can't but say she had only herself and her rude companion to thank for it. "I don't care," he said, as he joined the boys, "I can wear that old cap of Edward's, and when I go home they _must_ give it back to me." During this time Marten was looking about for Reuben, and soon he saw that the little fellow was seated by Mary Roscoe, as happy as possible, for Mary was a kind-hearted girl, and loved every thing and every body, and every body loved her, and now she was taking care that the child was helped before herself, and with what he liked, and when she met Marten's eye, she kissed Reuben very earnestly, and called him a sweet darling and her own pet, and she asked the little one if he did not love Mary. Reuben returned the kiss and looked so smilingly up at Marten, that his brother could not but be contented, and having thanked Mary most heartily for her very great kindness, he was only too glad to get away once more to where the boys were seated. Poor Marten was not aware, and I do not exactly see how he should have been aware, that the easy kindness of Mary Roscoe was but too likely now to bring his brother into trouble, for Mary did not like to refuse the little fellow any thing; and as the child was hungry and more than ready for the meal, for it was past his usual dinner hour, I am obliged to confess he ate greedily of the good things set before him, one after another without moderation or discernment, pudding following meat, and cheese after pudding, and fruit after that, till quantity and diversity were so mingled together, that it was a wonder the babe endured himself as well as he did. He was, however, so satisfied and even cloyed, that towards the end of the time he contented himself with a taste of this and that, and under the easy rule of Miss Mary, the remnants of his desert were transferred to his pockets, to serve to regale him at some future moment. I have said that Marten could not have been aware of this foolish weakness of Mary Roscoe, but Marten was not free of blame in the affair, for he had started wrongly as regarded Reuben, and in his self conceit he had placed himself in circumstances where the temptations that surrounded him were more than his nature unaided could resist. Marten would not listen to those who would have taught him that our blessed Saviour verily took not on him the nature of angels, but he took on him the seed of Abraham, wherefore in all things it behoved him to be made like unto his brethren, that he might be a merciful and faithful high priest in things pertaining to God, to make reconciliation for the sins of the people, for in that he himself hath suffered being tempted, he is able to succour those that are tempted. Heb. ii. 16, 17, 18. But we shall soon see from Marten's story a verification of the words of St. Paul addressed to the children of God. "Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall. There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man; but 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." 1 Cor. x. 12, 13. And now,--to return to Reuben, he had ate and ate so much, that I am almost ashamed even to think of it; and silly Mary Roscoe, who should have put a bridle on his little mouth, never once thought of doing so, and how should she, for she had never had one on her own? till the poor child felt so uncomfortable that he was half ready to cry--for, added to the over quantity he had contrived to swallow, he was very weary, for he was but a young one, and he had been out in the air all the morning and undergoing more active exercise than even he was accustomed to go through, for he had moved about at the direction of others, and not by his own voluntary will. So feeling uneasy, he was just about to raise a cry, which I believe would have recalled Marten to a sense of his duty, when the whole troop of children rose from table to amuse themselves as best they liked till six o'clock, when tea was to be served in a large room for them, and the evening was to be finished in games of whatever description they chose, Mr. and Mrs. Jameson having promised to be present. Marten just stopped to see Mary Roscoe lead off his brother, who accompanied her very contentedly, and then I am obliged to own he thought no more of the little fellow for such a length of time, that we who take an interest in poor little Reuben must banish Marten from our thoughts and follow the child, the poor little victim of his brother's self conceit. The young ladies on leaving the dining room ascended the stairs and went to the room with which Marten had so daringly put his head in the morning, and here they divided into groups of two or three, as chance might be, and a chattering began, the like of which could never be heard again, unless under the like circumstances. It seems a cruel thing to try to put down any of the nonsense, and perhaps worse than nonsense, that was then and there talked; and I would not do so if I did not hope it would prove a warning to some girls that persons do listen to their conversation sometimes when they fancy no one hears, and that those same persons do think them very silly and ignorant, and occasionally wrong. And first, I will take a party of three girls, who all went to the same school, and these three, I am sorry to say, were talking of their governess and teachers in a way they ought never to have done. It was not Mrs. Meredith and Miss Williams, and Miss Smith, but it was "Meredith, that cross old thing," and "pretty little Smith," and that "detestable Williams." And then one asked the other if she remembered how funnily Fanny Adams had managed in the affair, of laughing at the French Master, how six of them had been sent up to their bedrooms in disgrace, and when that detestable Williams came in and found them still laughing, how she scolded them all, and how Fanny Adams put some Eau-de-Cologne to her eyes, which nearly blinded her, and made her eyes water very much, and so deceived Miss Williams that she pardoned her, though all the rest were left in disgrace. And here, because there was no better disposed person to speak to these poor girls upon their light and improper discourse, I would just say one word:--My dear school boys and school girls, our Saviour says, "Love thy neighbour as thyself." Let me then ask you, do you in any way follow this kind command when you so treat your teachers and governors? Think you, for an instant, of the labour, the anxiety, the perpetual self-denial, the patience required by an instructor of childhood, even when the children do their best; but when deceit, hypocrisy, and hardness of heart is also added to the giddiness and thoughtlessness of youth, what must be the teacher's suffering? Remember that our Lord himself was subject to his parents. Luke ii. 57. Though what could they, poor human creatures, have taught him? Then follow, as a loving child should do, his holy example, and remember his precept, of "love thy neighbour as thyself," and inquire of yourself how would I like to be treated as I treat my governess or tutor? But perhaps you would wish to listen to another couple of girls, who soon drew a larger party round them, and what folly were they about, you would ask? Why, one child, who was very vain about her figure, must needs get a piece of string, or tape, and begin to measure her companion's wrist, thumb, neck, waist, and height, saying--"Twice round the thumb, once round the wrist, twice round the wrist, once round the neck, twice round the neck, once round the waist, and twice round the waist, once the height." As Louisa Manners well knew of old that this measurement suited herself, she was always disposed to try any young girl by her rule, knowing well her own turn would come, and that she would be able to appear with satisfaction to herself; and here again I would say, was our Lord's precept followed, of love thy neighbour as thyself? did Louisa desire a rival? This couple, as I said, soon drew a party round them, and after the measurement, which lasted some time and led to a discussion of dress, most of the frocks and sashes coming in for notice, one of the three school girls, mentioned at first, named some new step in dancing, just introduced at her school the last dancing day, and then such a practising and trying of this step commenced amongst the young ladies as made a pretty sight to look on, the young ladies being all nicely dressed, and for the nonce thinking more of their occupation than of themselves. In the meanwhile Reuben had been supplied with something that served the purpose of a plaything by Mary Roscoe, and being seated in a corner of the room away from harm or interference, the little fellow shortly became so drowsy, that before long, notwithstanding the noise and chattering about him, his head drooped on his bosom, and he was so sound asleep that he was unconscious of his uncomfortable position. He had slept full a quarter of an hour when he was discovered by one of the elder girls, who proposed that they should lift him from his seat and take him to a bed in an adjoining chamber, where he would be more comfortable. And here I must again remark, for want of some one else to do so, that of the twelve or fourteen girls there assembled, there was not one present who would have been unkind to the little fellow intentionally; but yet I am afraid, that with the exception of the good-natured Mary Roscoe, there was hardly one who would have put themselves out of the way on his account, or have given up a pleasure or amusement of even five or ten minutes to comfort the boy, who ought in truth never to have been amongst them, so little had he been accustomed to the ways of other children, even of his own age. Reuben slept on, and that so soundly, that when tea was ready he was not awake, and he would probably have been wholly forgotten if the young ladies on their way down stairs had not made so much noise by the door of his room, that startled and alarmed, he began to cry violently, and his good friend Mary could not easily appease him. However, the child was really refreshed from his sleep, and the kind girl having washed his face and hands herself, and smoothed his pretty curling hair, led him down with her to the room where the tea was served, and provided him with all he wanted, and withal with such a large lump of sugar, the like of which he had never perhaps, not even in his dreams, possessed before. Whoever has read of Mrs. Indulgence in "The Infant's Progress" may have some idea of Mary's management of Reuben, but if the little one could have spoken or reasoned on the point, how heartily would he have said that he pined for his own dear mamma's judicious kindness and controul, under which he used to sport all day happy and joyful as a butterfly on a bright summer's morning. After tea, which did not last very long, the tables were cleared away and the plays began--the elder children, as might be expected, taking the lead, and for awhile all was order and propriety. Fortunately for the young ones they had no lights near them from which they could be in danger, for the lamp hung from the ceiling and the fire was allowed to go out in the grate. The tables, as I said before, were moved away, and the seats were piled one above another so that a good space was left in the room for the games, and only two chairs were kept for Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, who had sent word to say they were coming down to see the sport, and as they were very fond of a dance, they expressed a wish that the evening's amusement should begin in that way. The boys were somewhat annoyed at this, as they wanted more active games, and Frank Farleigh absolutely proposed to change the dance to leap-frog; however, as Mrs. Jameson wished for dancing, no one was bold enough openly to speak against it, and Miss Farleigh and Jane Roscoe, who were intimate friends, played a duet together very nicely, to which the rest danced. And now it was that Mary Roscoe first felt the annoyance she had incurred by her kindness to Reuben, for the child did not wish to leave her, and seeing all were dancing, or jumping to the music as he thought, he believed he could do the same, and clinging to her she found that to appease him she must take him for her partner, and thus this really good-natured girl was unable to dance with any pleasure to herself, as the little one was unable to make his way alone. However, Mary was truly kind-hearted, and not one cloud was on her fair brow when the dance was finished, and she told her little partner to sit down amidst the piled up chairs at one end of the room. But as nurse had said Reuben was a weary little fellow, and Mary little knew the truth, if she thought she was so easily to get rid of him, for the child was half alarmed at the numbers of strange faces thronging around him; he was not well, too, with the many sweet things and fruits he had eaten, and now it was approaching his usual bed-time, and though he had had a sleep, yet he had been roused from it suddenly and improperly, fed with sweet cake since, and any experienced person present might know that shortly the child would get so excited in the scene before him, it would be no easy matter to soothe or calm him. Now it happened that Marten, feeling exceedingly obliged to Mary for her kindness to his brother, and equally disliking her sister, and Miss Farleigh and some of the other young ladies, was very anxious to dance with Mary, to thank her for her kindness to Reuben, but he little thought that by doing so, the child finding both his friends together must insist upon being with them, and the second set of quadrilles was danced by poor Mary as the first had been, the little fellow clinging to her, for both Marten and Mary were afraid of a burst of tears if they opposed the child in this matter. Marten, however, spoke somewhat sharply to him, saying he was teasing Miss Mary, and if they allowed him to dance this time, he must promise to sit still afterwards, and not be troublesome again. Reuben knew that he must obey his brother, so when that dance was finished he went and sat himself down, as directed, though his young heart was very sad, as he longed to be jumping about with the other children. Mary was now able to enjoy herself, and I do not hesitate to say she was very glad to get rid of Reuben and be at liberty to run about where she would, for she was a happy girl, and this evening she was the happiest of the happy, for she was a favourite of all. After the dancing had continued some time, a game was fixed upon, which game being one that kept the children seated, they soon got tired of it, and blindman's buff was proposed and entered into with great spirit, though, as will presently be seen, this spirit, for want of some less indulgent to controul it, became at last almost unbearable. It was whilst Edward Jameson was blindfolded that the first rudeness began, for Miss Jane seized hold of a newspaper and began rustling it so about Edward's head, that being blindfolded he became so annoyed by it, that he began to toss his arms about, making such rushes hither and thither, that the girls had to run away, lest they should be struck. Whilst Jane was teasing Edward, one of the boys seized hold of the handkerchief that blindfolded him, and another boy made a thrust at him in front, and it was only a wonder that Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, who were sitting by, did not speak to the children, to advise a little more quietness in the play. But there were a party of young girls whispering together behind Jane, and when Edward turned in her direction, though she escaped, he fell amongst these girls, and, as might be expected, such a romping scene ensued, as may often be seen at blindman's buff. Just at this moment a servant came in to say a gentleman had called on some business, and both Mr. and Mrs. Jameson left the room together, to see this gentleman. They were scarcely gone before the noise increased to such an extent, that one or two of the servants came to the parlour door; and well was it, as we shall shew presently, that they did so, but Mr. and Mrs. Jameson being gone to another part of the house, were not disturbed by the sounds. So, as I said, Edward found himself amongst the group of young girls, who all struggled to get away from him; and then such a scene of running and screaming, and shouting and romping followed, as the like of which I have no desire to see. Every one ran, and no one knew whither they were going, and it so chanced that some ran in the direction of where Reuben had been seated by Marten, amidst the piled-up chairs. The child, who had been sitting there sometime, and who did not understand the game, for he had never seen it before, was doubtful whether to be frightened or not; but as Edward, whom he knew so well, and who was always kind to him, was the pursuer, and as the children were laughing, he thought he might laugh too, and not liking sitting still when all were running and jumping round him, he slid down from his high seat and joined the group that had fled to that end of the room from Edward. As ill luck would have it, Edward turned in that direction somewhat suddenly, and there was a loud cry of one and all to run, and instantly all did run, Reuben too obeying the call, and setting off as fast as his little legs would let him. As might have been expected, the elder children escaped, and Edward caught the boy, whom he instantly named, and tearing off the handkerchief from his eyes, he was going to tie it round those of Reuben, when Marten interposed, and said "he would not understand the game." Edward was, however, tired of being blinded and of being buffetted about, and not thinking how very young Reuben was, for he knew very little about children, as he had no little brothers nor sisters of his own, he only said he had caught the child, and that it was but fair he should be blinded, as he was caught and had absolutely prevented him from catching one of the others when they were close to him. As Reuben himself thought it was manly to be blinded, and believed all he had to do was to run about with the handkerchief round his head, he was very anxious to do as Edward had done, and Mary, to whom he pleaded for permission so to do, blinded him herself, and as she tied the handkerchief round him she said, "Now, young gentlemen, don't hurt the little fellow, pray be gentle with him, for he's very young." Mary then took his hand, and leading him into the centre of the room she slightly directed him where to go. It must be understood that Reuben knew no one in the room but Marten, Edward, and Mary, and as he did not know the rules of the game, the elder boys and girls, soon wearied of the little fellow running hither and thither, for they did not wish to hurt the child, and so they ceased for awhile their boisterous play; but, as might be expected, this would not last long, and Marten stepping forwards on the little one laying hold of some boy near him, said, "My brother does not know any one here by name, is it not enough that he has caught some one? He does not know, I am sure, who his hand is upon, even if he were unblinded." "Oh! it is a boy," replied Reuben. "Me know it is a boy, and a large boy. Yes, it is a large boy." "That is enough, is it not?" asked Marten, looking round, "surely that's enough;" and he unbound Reuben, telling; the child he had done very well. No one seemed inclined to dispute the point, for all saw the child was too young to play with them; and William Stewart, the boy caught, and who was desirous of being blindfolded, was quite pleased to have the handkerchief tied round his head, and now the play became more boisterous than ever, owing to the cessation before, and probably all would have gone on well if little Reuben, elated by his brother's telling him he had done very well, had not chosen to join in the play, saying over and over again to any one who would listen to him, "Me knew it was a boy--a large boy--me knew it was a boy--me said a large boy--yes, me felt his coat--me knew it was a large boy." This too might have passed, and the child might have repeated his story over and over again without much harm if he could have got a listener, or he even might have been content without one, if he had not fancied he understood the game as well as the oldest present, so he entered into it with all his little spirit, and intruded his small person where others could not go--now here, now there, till excited and heated and confused by those around him flying in all directions, he was thrown down, and as he did not fall alone, the poor little fellow was rather severely hurt. And now in that one moment of downfall was assembled all the troubles of the day,--weary, excited, hurt, and overfed, he began to cry, and that so violently, that those who lifted him up trusted to his being not really injured by the very noise he made in his distress. Marten and Mary ran to him, but they were as strangers to him, for his eyes were dimmed by tears, and his ears closed by his own wailings; and luckily for all three one of the servants, for, as I said before, they had come to see the young people at play, and who was a motherly kind of woman, advanced into the room and offered to take the charge of the child and comfort him before she put him to bed. Marten was most thankful for this offer, and you may be sure Mary was not sorry to part with the sobbing boy, and thus Marten put it out of his own power to keep his voluntary boast to Nurse at home about sleeping with his brother, for when the riotous evening closed, for it was a very riotous evening, Reuben had been asleep some hours, and in a quarter of the house appropriated to the use of the young ladies where beds were as plentiful as requisite on an occasion like the present. Marten then had nothing for it but to beg Mary to see after his brother, which the young lady as thoughtlessly promised to do, and then he accompanied his young companions to that department of the house appropriated to the use of the boys, where, as might be expected after a little more rude sport, he fell into a sleep so profound and long, that every thought of Reuben was banished from his mind. And now, to return to the poor baby, the victim of mismanagement, or of his brother's self-conceit. Sobbing and roaring he was carried or dragged up stairs, undressed, and put to bed, where the extreme violence of his grief proved its own relief, for he fell asleep with the tear in his eye, and long long after the cause of sorrow was forgotten, his sobs might be heard proclaiming that the effect even now had not passed away. By and bye, however, the calm of sleep restored him more to himself again, and before the motherly woman who had taken pity on him left the chamber, he was sleeping the refreshing sleep of childhood. As the young people had gone to bed so late the evening before, for it was quite twelve o'clock, and the next day was also to be a day of indulgence, it was nearly half-past eight before Marten awoke, and what with one thing and another it was quite nine before he had an opportunity of asking any one after Reuben, or indeed of discovering that no one knew anything of the little one farther than that he had awoke at his usual hour, seven o'clock; that the kind woman who had attended him the night before had helped to wash and dress him, and having told him to be quiet, lest he should awake the children asleep in his bed room, she left him as she thought safe in the young ladies' sitting room, to amuse himself as best he might. Two hours nearly had passed since then, and no further information could be obtained of the little boy; but he was gone, that was certain for he was nowhere to be found in any part of Mr. Jameson's large house. It so happened that breakfast had commenced, and Marten and some of the bigger boys had nearly finished the meal before all the young ladies came down, and as Mary Roscoe chanced to be late, for this good natured girl had been helping others as usual, Marten did not discover the absence of his brother till she entered the room and seated herself at the table. Then he stepped round to her and asked if Reuben would soon be down. "Oh! dear little fellow," exclaimed Mary, starting up, "He did not sleep in my room, so I know nothing about him; but now I will run to find him to bring him to breakfast. I dare say he has overslept himself, or I should have heard of him before now." "If you are speaking of the little boy who cried so bitterly at blindman's buff, Mary," said a Miss Lomax, "he was put to sleep in a little bed by himself in our room. Maria and myself noticed how soundly he slept through all the noise we made when we went to our rooms, but when we got up this morning the little fellow was gone, and we wondered who had drest him and taken him away so quietly as not to disturb us." "Oh! then I'll find him in a minute," said Mary, "if he has been drest so long he must be sadly in want of his breakfast, poor little darling," and Mary was half way up stairs before she had finished her speech. And now how shall I describe what a fearful state the whole house was in before ten minutes more had passed away: the child was lost, the fearful question of where and how he might be found was on everybody's lips. Poor Marten, it was dreadful to see his terror and grief, and Mary, oh! how negligent Mary felt herself, for had she not assisted greatly to his loss by taking him from his brother, and had she not promised that brother the evening before to see him in his bed and look after him, which she had forgotten to do. Jenkins, too, the motherly female who had so kindly attended the little one the night before, how did she blame herself for not taking the child with her after she had dressed him, when she was obliged to go to her work, which was much increased that morning by the state in which the young people had left the room, the scene of the last night's revels. And here I would make a remark, which I must beg no one to reject, without well weighing the idea. The most amiable females of the party assembled at Mrs. Jameson's, Mary Roscoe and Jenkins, who had put themselves most out of their way, and had really acted the kindest by the child, were those who felt the most in the affair, and most blamed themselves for their own conduct, whereas if all had tried their best, as they did, the little fellow would have ever had some kind heart beside him to soothe and comfort him, and some one might have anticipated his uneasiness at finding himself alone amongst strangers. Anyhow they would not have been as strangers to him, for he afterwards acknowledged, on being questioned, that had Miss Mary been sleeping in the room, he should not have done as he did. But now to my remark, those who strive to do best have the most tender consciences, and the more one strives after right the more scrupulous and tender does the conscience become, and the more does it aspire after noble feelings and honourable thoughts and actions. This is a work of the Divine Spirit and of no mortal power, and it is a training for glory, purifying our hearts for a divine home, obtained for us through our Saviour's death and righteousness, and in familiar language we will liken it after this manner. Supposing two children stand side by side in the open street, one is the child of a king, nicely drest and delicately clean, as would be expected from his noble birth and expectation, the other is the little hedge-side vagrant, to whose young face water or cleansing has probably been unknown. Imagine, then, ought passing these two children, which could pollute their persons, what would be their feelings? the one might even laugh at the filth or mud that bespattered him, the other would shrink with loathing or disgust, and would not be easy or comfortable till every effort was taken to remove the stain. And we are children of the King of kings, we are washed and clothed by Him, and the more our garments are fitted for our future station, the fairer are our inward persons; the more do we feel annoyed and grieved by any foul spot, which could sully their purity and disfigure their beauty. My young readers remember this, and smile no more at sin; aye, and shun carefully its stains that would pollute you, and when they do alight upon you, remember whose blood alone it is can purge away their slightest trace. Poor Mary had no breakfast that morning, nor no comfort nor rest either, for after searching for the child all over the house, she must needs look for him in the gardens, the pleasure grounds, the lawn, behind each tree and shrub, and even in the stables and offices, but no Reuben was to be met with, and the dear little girl, when wearied out with searching sat down to weep and lament herself, starting up occasionally when some fresh place came to her mind, and running to it, but to meet with disappointment and increased alarm. But Mary was not alone in the search, for both Mr. and Mrs. Jameson were full of anxiety respecting the child, and trusty men were sent in all directions to look after the lost one; and when Mr. Jameson spoke to his lady on the imprudence of having invited so young a child, she replied, that having given permission to their son to ask a certain number of young people, she had not attended to him when he named the bidden guests, taking it for granted that a boy of thirteen would prefer companions of his own size to a child of Reuben's tender age. And now it came out from Edward how Marten had refused to come without his brother, and that Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer were from home, and this, as might be expected, added not a little to the distress of Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, for hitherto they had thought the child had visited them with the permission of his parents, and now that they heard that those parents were at Portsmouth, they were more and more uneasy, and they blamed themselves not a little for having been so indulgent in their direction to Edward. "But, indeed," said Mrs. Jameson, "one could not have foreseen these circumstances, and when I saw little Reuben seated by Mary at the dinner table, though I wondered at his presence, yet he seemed so happy I believed all was right with him." But the lesson was not lost upon Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, nor on Edward, and I am happy to say, in future the latter was more ready to ask advice of his parents than before this affair, for he too was very uneasy about Reuben. As to Marten, without thinking of his hat, on learning that the child could not be found in the house nor in the pleasure grounds, he told one of the men who was sent with him by Mr. Jameson, that he should go home as fast as he could to see if his brother might not have made his way there, or at least be met with upon the road. The distance from one house to the other was, as I said before, four miles, and though poor Marten had little expectation that the tender child could find his way so far, even if he knew the right road, yet he understood the little one so well, that he felt convinced he would at least attempt to get to his home, so that he considered it useless to look for him in any other direction. And now we must leave the unhappy and alarmed brother to speak of little Reuben, who was left, as we mentioned, by Jenkins in the sitting-room with a few toys near him. Never had Reuben been so left to himself before, but still for a short time, though it was for a very short time he was content, then came a wish for his breakfast, and with it the remembrance that if his mamma had been with him he would even then be in her dressing-room. She would be listening to his prattle, or he would be occupied in doing something for her which he considered was useful, but which in reality she could herself have done with half the time that she was obliged to give to her baby boy. The thoughts of his mamma made the forlorn one cry, and call upon her name, but no one heard his sobs or saw his tears, and with it came a recollection of the sorrows of yesterday, and he suddenly thought "Where is Marten? Where can Marten be? Is he gone? Has he left Reuben?" The idea was not to be borne by the poor child in a state of quietness, he rose from his seat, dropped his toys from his lap, and without looking back he went to the door, which being ajar he opened wider and passed through into the gallery. His friends, he believed, had left him; they were at home. His mamma, too, he thought, might be there with his papa and Marten, and, anyhow, he was sure Nurse was there, Nurse who loved him so, and whom he loved so dearly. So down the stairs stepped the sorrowing baby, holding the banisters with both small hands, for it was necessary for him in descending the steps to have both feet at one time on each, and noiselessly almost did he proceed, for his fairy tread made no sound, and his sobs were tried to be suppressed, in the earnest determination to attempt to find his way to his home. And now he reached the last step, and lightly did he run across the hall to the great door, which was open, and with some difficulty, for there were more steps; he arrived at the carriage drive between the house and lawn, whereon he had seen the lamb the day before. And now would I could picture the little one, as he stood in his short red frock, blown by the breeze which showed his dimpled knee, for his white sock did not extend much above his shoe. His arms, neck, and head were without covering, and his pretty curls played around his face in graceful confusion. Calling on his mamma and upon Marten, he took the carriage drive towards the gates, so far not having a doubt he was in the direction of his home, and unseen by any one, he passed through a small gate into the high road. Here he might have been puzzled which way to take, if it had not been for a clump of eight elm trees on the left hand road, and he had often heard John and Marten talk of those elm trees, for they were called the "Nine Elms," and yet Marten had said there were only eight now, and whenever he had gone to Mr. Jameson's with his papa and mamma, and John who drove them, John had kept the carriage waiting under the elms, and he used to put Reuben out of the carriage amidst the trees, to run in and out amongst them, touching one after the other, whilst John taught him to count them, saying one, two, three, four, and so on. So Reuben knew he must pass the elm trees, and as he was just awake, and the morning fresh and pleasant, his small feet carried him along some way nicely, and even swiftly, and for a few minutes, they were not many, all seemed promising, and the inexperienced one believed he should soon be at his home. After the clump of trees, the baby so confidently considered he was in the right way, that when he came to a place where two roads joined the one up which he had ran, he never looked about him, fancying they must both go to his home, and not yet being weary, he took, as might be feared, the wrong turn, and soon he heard distinctly the roaring of a cascade, much famed in those parts, as it dashed over the rocks in the direction in which he was going Now Reuben knew the sound of the cascade, for he had lived near it all his young life, and he knew it was not far from his home; but he did not consider that he never passed it on his way from his father's house to Mr. Jameson's, but still, not mistrusting the road he was going, he ran along till he suddenly found by a turn of the lane, that he was in full front of the stream. The child however was not disconcerted by this, and the fresh air meeting him, and for the moment raising his spirits, he stepped on over the loose stones brought down at different times by the waters, boldly, and even gaily, though his course was impeded by the unevenness of the way. He must have stepped on some distance, when all of a sudden he was unable to proceed farther along the path, by the jutting out of a rock into the stream, for the water was pouring down rapidly and more profusely than was general, for there had been heavy rains in the mountains, and thus the bed of the torrent was fully covered, its width being very inconsiderable beneath the rock. The spot was one wholly unknown to the child, and surely it was a terrible sight to meet the eye of a babe, who hitherto had not known what it was to be left without a mother's or nurse's care. The place was in the heart of a mountain gorge, famed for its rare beauty, and the cascade came dashing from the rocks, which were very bold and picturesque in the little creek or gully where the child stood. The water, as I said, was pouring down white with foam, and majestically pursuing its course, shaking the earth around with its terrible roarings. Fancy our little forlorn one then standing under the shelter of the rock, which, hanging over him in rough masses, threatened to fall an crush his baby form, the stream rushing impetuously at his feet, and one little place beneath the rock, in fact part of the rock itself being somewhat elevated from the bed of the stream below, forming his only secure and dry resting place. I have said before, he had no covering on fit for walking attire, his arms, neck, and head being fully exposed to the breezes which now blew cruelly on his young figure, so that he could scarcely keep his feet, and glad was he to creep under the shelter of the threatening rock. There he stood looking around him in wild despair, for he had raised his voice to cry for pity, and its infant tones were not heard amidst the roaring waters; again and again he looked round him, but no help was there, and he trembled more from fear than cold. He was frightened at the roaring waters, for they seemed to him to be approaching, and wholly overcome with fear and wretchedness, and quite incapable of contending against his unhappy situation, he crouched beneath the threatening rock, too miserable to shed a tear. "Mamma, mamma," he said,--"Mamma, mamma," and that weak cry was repeated again and again, though no human ear could hear his sorrows or soothe his cries. Poor baby, what availed it then? your earthly father was the tenderest of parents--he could not have foreseen this trouble, and therefore he could not have been armed against it, but your heavenly Father's eye was on you, little one, and his eyes are ever on infants, the loveliest beings of his creation, and he who spared Nineveh, because there were in that wicked city more than six score thousand souls, who knew not their right hands from their left, still watches over his babies now, for has he not said of "Such is the kingdom of heaven." But observe the little one, what makes his cry of 'Mamma, Mamma,' cease? the babe has heard a sound, a pleasant sound, and he forgets his trouble. It is the sweet song of a bird upon a branch of a tree on the rock above him, and the bird likes the morning air and the sound of the waters, and he is singing his song of joy, and Reuben listened to him and was pleased, and then the little bird hopped down from his high perch and came lower and lower till he was quite close to the child, so close that the little one held out his hand, which frightened away the pretty bird, and Reuben was once more alone again, and commenced his cry of "Mamma, Mamma, come to Reuben, Mamma." But the bird had come to the rock because it had seen some bright berries on the bushes there, and before it had began its song it had pecked off one or two with its bill, or perhaps it might have been that other birds had pecked them off, and then rejected them, or the wind might have blown them from the parent bush; be that as it may, there were about as many as a dozen red berries scattered on the ground, where the little bird had hopped, and Reuben had seen them in looking at the bird, and now he began to collect them, looking here and there to find some more, and he thought if he put them into a nice heap together, their bright red colour would draw thither another singing bird to visit him. So he collected his berries, and tried to pile them together, and thus more time passed, for whilst doing so, every little thing seemed to divert his attention--a skeleton leaf, a small flower, a smooth pebble, a drop of water sparkling in the sunshine, all attracted his infant eye, and thus, as we might say, his heavenly Father watched over the boy and soothed him from the real sorrows of his situation, till the time of his deliverance was at hand. And are we not children of a large growth? are not our sorrows soothed and relieved by our Creator's mercies? and are not innocent pleasures and consolations put in the way of every child of God? and it is our own fault, yes, our own fault, and very much are we to blame when we reject the blessings of consolations offered us. "When our Saviour left us, he promised to send us a comforter to abide with us for ever." John xiv. 16; and as the Divine Spirit never fails in his fulfilment of his promises, be assured, you mourners, if you are not comforted, it is because you will not accept the consolation offered to you; for he has said, "I will not leave you comfortless, for he shall dwell with you, and shall be in you." John xiv. 17 and 18. But why does little Reuben suddenly move his curls from off his cheek? why does he listen, as he never listened before? and why does a merry little laugh escape his lips? and then he listens again, and now he does not laugh, but springing to his feet, with arms extended, he calls out "Nero, Nero." It is not that Nero hears that baby voice, it is not that the noble dog responds to the call, for the soft sound is lost amidst the roar of the waters; but he who fed Elijah by the means of ravens, and taught the dove to bear the olive leaf to Noah, has guided hither to the child a sure and safe conductor to his home. Look, look there! across the stream stands Nero. Nero let out by Thomas for a wild run for exercise as directed first by Mr. Mortimer, and then by Marten; there he stood, his eyes red with eagerness, his tongue protruding, and panting and impatient as not knowing where next to turn his agile bounds. But not for another moment did this hesitation continue, for Reuben ran to the edge of the rock, both arms extended, and scarcely able for the breeze to keep his little feet firm upon the ground. "Nero, Nero," he cried, and almost ere his lips had closed, after the appeal, the noble dog, with a glorious bound sprang from stepping-stone to stepping-stone across the stream, and had overwhelmed the boy with his caresses. What mattered it to Reuben, that his kind friend in his joy at their meeting had absolutely overturned the child upon the ground? What cared he for that? It was Nero, his own Nero, his Nero from home, and Reuben did so love him, and Nero returned his love so warmly, and they were always so happy together, and there was no danger to be feared for Reuben, whilst the faithful animal was by him, which he had power to ward off. Reuben had recognised the dog's bark even amidst the waters roar, and that had made him laugh, for he never doubted that Nero would come to him shortly. And now I don't know how to tell how the rest happened, for in truth Reuben never could explain how things went on, particularly after the arrival of Nero, and there was no other living thing in that solitude but the child and dog. All that Reuben could recollect afterwards was, that he was cold and hungry, and that he wished to get home, and that Nero, too, seemed even more anxious than himself to get home, but Reuben dared not cross the stream, and Nero seemed almost as unwilling as himself to take the child across, and yet the faithful creature would not leave the boy for more able assistance. Reuben was frightened at the threatening rock above his head, and yet he knew not how to leave it, for he had run on far enough to lose the way to the lane which led to Mr. Jameson's, and he was frightened at all around, and shivering and hungry, for he had tasted no food that morning. [Illustration] At last, finding all his efforts useless to tempt the little one across the stream, a new idea seemed to strike the sensible dog, for Nero was very sensible. He seemed all of a sudden to bethink himself that there might be another road home; and taking hold of Reuben's dress in his mouth, he attempted to draw him along the road the child had come. Now to this the little one was rather inclined, for he believed it would take him home, but on attempting to walk he found that he had hurt his foot before he had reached the rock, and that the cold air had made it stiff and painful. Poor Reuben was going to cry, and then I do not know what would have happened if Nero, finding out that something was wrong, had not seated himself beside the child on the ground to comfort him; and in so doing, reminded Reuben that Marten always told Nero to sit on the ground before he told his brother to get on the dog's back for a ride, for Reuben often took a ride on Nero's back. And now, then, fancy the child seated upon Nero, who rose at once gently from the ground, and with great care and stateliness commenced his progress homewards. It is said that a white elephant will not allow any one to ride upon him who is not of royal descent, and then the king of beasts steps on with full consciousness of the honour of his kingly burthen; but what could his pride be, compared with that of Nero's, as the faithful creature stepped on and on with his infant rider? It was not, after all, so slow a progress as might have been imagined, and as it is believed the dog followed the scent of the child's footsteps, he naturally went up the lane the little one had trod that morning. On arriving where the road divided, Nero was, however, no longer at a loss, for he knew which direction his own home lay, and Nero was not likely to be tempted elsewhere than home, for if he could have reasoned he would have said, in as strong terms as nurse herself could have used, that Reuben had better be at home than anywhere else whilst he was so young. Nero, as I said, now knew the road, for he had often accompanied the different members of Mr. Mortimer's family when they went to visit Mr. Jameson's, and how carefully, on account of his young rider, did he step on his way towards home. And now I could say a great deal upon the fidelity of Nero, the trustfulness of Reuben, and the useful lesson the little one was learning; but I am anxious to speak of Marten and nurse, and all those who loved the child and trembled for his loss. And yet I cannot talk of their distress, the deep deep remorse of Marten, his full and complete acknowledgment of his own carelessness and ignorance of himself, so that nurse could not even say one word to him, though her tears and sobs were a deep reproach. No, I cannot speak of this, I would rather tell of how in the midst of all this trouble, tears were changed to smiles, and even laughter took the place of sobs, when Reuben came riding into the court yard tired, cold, and hungry, it is true, but no little important at his wonderful adventure. And then came such kisses and caresses, such warming by the kitchen fire, such a comfortable breakfast for the child, such luxuries for the dog, which Reuben was allowed to bestow; and then such runnings hither and thither to inform all the kind searchers all was right with the child, and such congratulations, that I should never have done, if I attempt but to repeat one half of them; so let me conclude in these words of the apostle, "Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God: for God cannot be tempted with evil, neither tempteth he any man. But every man is tempted when he is drawn away of his own lust and enticed. Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin when it is finished, bringeth forth death." James i. 13, 14, 15. But our Saviour has declared, "I will ransom them from the power of the grave. I will redeem them from death. Oh! death, I will be thy plague: Oh! grave, I will be thy destruction." Hosea xiii. 14. By this little narrative we are taught that whoever fills himself up with the belief that he is wise and clever, will be apt, like Marten, to fall into some sort of trouble, which he did not look forward to. All the wisdom of man lies in knowing that unless he is guided in all his actions by his heavenly Father, he is sure to go wrong, let his age or condition be what it may. If little Reuben had been really lost or hurt, very severe indeed would have been the punishment of Marten for his conceit, but God in his tender love let him off for his fright only; which, however, we doubt not, was sharp enough to make him remember the lesson all his life. It is well for poor sinful men, women, and children, however, that they have a brother, even the Lord the Saviour in his human person, who cannot forget them as Marten forgot Reuben, no, not for one moment. POPULAR JUVENILE BOOKS, Of established reputation, which may be safely placed into the hands of Children, blending Amusement with Instruction. DARTON'S HOLIDAY LIBRARY. _A Series of Shilling Volumes for the Young_, BY APPROVED AUTHORS. No. 1.--MARY LEESON, by Mary Howitt. Illustrated by J. Absolon. No. 2.--TAKE CARE OF NO. 1, or Good to Me includes Good to Thee, by S.E. Goodrich, Esq. (the Original Peter Parley). Illustrated by Gilbert. No. 3.--HOW TO SPEND A WEEK HAPPILY, by Mrs. Burbury. With Illustrations. No. 4.--POEMS FOR YOUNG CHILDREN, by "Adelaide," one of the amiable Authoresses of "Original Poems." With Illustrations. No. 5.--THE YOUNG LORD, by Camilla Toulmin; and VICTORINE DUROCHER, by Mrs. Sherwood. With Illustrations. No. 6.--PAULINE. A Tale from the German. 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It presents an immense quantity of interesting facts to the young mind, and affords information of the most useful kind rendered clear and simple."--_Journal of Education_. SPECIMEN OF THE QUESTIONS. "What is meant by the terms art and science?" "What are the principal of the arts?" "How are they distinguished?" Neatly and strongly bound in cloth, LESSONS ON NATURAL PHILOSOPHY, FOR CHILDREN, BY THE REV. T. WILSON. "These Lessons consist of initiatory information upon the Phenomena of Nature, the Mechanical Powers, Astronomy, Geography, Light and Heat, Electricity, Attraction, Chemistry, Magnetism, and include a great variety of valuable matter, condensed and simplified in a very clever manner by the author."--_Monthly Magazine_. SPECIMEN OF THE ABOVE. "When you open a door, what is the weight that you move?" "When you throw a ball, what becomes of it?" "What makes the weight go down to the bottom of a clock?" GUTTA PERCHA, & ITS USES TO MAN. WITH COLOURED PLATES. 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THE EARLY EDUCATOR, OR, FIRST LESSONS IN USEFUL KNOWLEDGE: BY WM. MARTIN. "Mr. Martin has been long and deservedly celebrated as being one of the first improvers of the systems of modern education, and his numerous publications prove him to be not merely a theorist, but a thorough practical teacher; a great advantage to those who prepare books for the young."--_Morning Herald._ 
1195	----	Transcribed from the 1916 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk GLASSES CHAPTER I Yes indeed, I say to myself, pen in hand, I can keep hold of the thread and let it lead me back to the first impression. The little story is all there, I can touch it from point to point; for the thread, as I call it, is a row of coloured beads on a string. None of the beads are missing--at least I think they're not: that's exactly what I shall amuse myself with finding out. I had been all summer working hard in town and then had gone down to Folkestone for a blow. Art was long, I felt, and my holiday short; my mother was settled at Folkestone, and I paid her a visit when I could. I remember how on this occasion, after weeks in my stuffy studio with my nose on my palette, I sniffed up the clean salt air and cooled my eyes with the purple sea. The place was full of lodgings, and the lodgings were at that season full of people, people who had nothing to do but to stare at one another on the great flat down. There were thousands of little chairs and almost as many little Jews; and there was music in an open rotunda, over which the little Jews wagged their big noses. We all strolled to and fro and took pennyworths of rest; the long, level cliff- top, edged in places with its iron rail, might have been the deck of a huge crowded ship. There were old folks in Bath chairs, and there was one dear chair, creeping to its last full stop, by the side of which I always walked. There was in fine weather the coast of France to look at, and there were the usual things to say about it; there was also in every state of the atmosphere our friend Mrs. Meldrum, a subject of remark not less inveterate. The widow of an officer in the Engineers, she had settled, like many members of the martial miscellany, well within sight of the hereditary enemy, who however had left her leisure to form in spite of the difference of their years a close alliance with my mother. She was the heartiest, the keenest, the ugliest of women, the least apologetic, the least morbid in her misfortune. She carried it high aloft with loud sounds and free gestures, made it flutter in the breeze as if it had been the flag of her country. It consisted mainly of a big red face, indescribably out of drawing, from which she glared at you through gold-rimmed aids to vision, optic circles of such diameter and so frequently displaced that some one had vividly spoken of her as flattering her nose against the glass of her spectacles. She was extraordinarily near-sighted, and whatever they did to other objects they magnified immensely the kind eyes behind them. Blest conveniences they were, in their hideous, honest strength--they showed the good lady everything in the world but her own queerness. This element was enhanced by wild braveries of dress, reckless charges of colour and stubborn resistances of cut, wondrous encounters in which the art of the toilet seemed to lay down its life. She had the tread of a grenadier and the voice of an angel. In the course of a walk with her the day after my arrival I found myself grabbing her arm with sudden and undue familiarity. I had been struck by the beauty of a face that approached us and I was still more affected when I saw the face, at the sight of my companion, open like a window thrown wide. A smile fluttered out of it an brightly as a drapery dropped from a sill--a drapery shaken there in the sun by a young lady flanked by two young men, a wonderful young lady who, as we drew nearer, rushed up to Mrs. Meldrum with arms flourished for an embrace. My immediate impression of her had been that she was dressed in mourning, but during the few moments she stood talking with our friend I made more discoveries. The figure from the neck down was meagre, the stature insignificant, but the desire to please towered high, as well as the air of infallibly knowing how and of never, never missing it. This was a little person whom I would have made a high bid for a good chance to paint. The head, the features, the colour, the whole facial oval and radiance had a wonderful purity; the deep grey eyes--the most agreeable, I thought, that I had ever seen--brushed with a kind of winglike grace every object they encountered. Their possessor was just back from Boulogne, where she had spent a week with dear Mrs. Floyd-Taylor: this accounted for the effusiveness of her reunion with dear Mrs. Meldrum. Her black garments were of the freshest and daintiest; she suggested a pink- and-white wreath at a showy funeral. She confounded us for three minutes with her presence; she was a beauty of the great conscious public responsible order. The young men, her companions, gazed at her and grinned: I could see there were very few moments of the day at which young men, these or others, would not be so occupied. The people who approached took leave of their manners; every one seemed to linger and gape. When she brought her face close to Mrs. Meldrum's--and she appeared to be always bringing it close to somebody's--it was a marvel that objects so dissimilar should express the same general identity, the unmistakable character of the English gentlewoman. Mrs. Meldrum sustained the comparison with her usual courage, but I wondered why she didn't introduce me: I should have had no objection to the bringing of such a face close to mine. However, by the time the young lady moved on with her escort she herself bequeathed me a sense that some such _rapprochement_ might still occur. Was this by reason of the general frequency of encounters at Folkestone, or by reason of a subtle acknowledgment that she contrived to make of the rights, on the part of others, that such beauty as hers created? I was in a position to answer that question after Mrs. Meldrum had answered a few of mine. CHAPTER II Flora Saunt, the only daughter of an old soldier, had lost both her parents, her mother within a few months. Mrs. Meldrum had known them, disapproved of them, considerably avoided them: she had watched the girl, off and on, from her early childhood. Flora, just twenty, was extraordinarily alone in the world--so alone that she had no natural chaperon, no one to stay with but a mercenary stranger, Mrs. Hammond Synge, the sister-in-law of one of the young men I had just seen. She had lots of friends, but none of them nice: she kept picking up impossible people. The Floyd-Taylors, with whom she had been at Boulogne, were simply horrid. The Hammond Synges were perhaps not so vulgar, but they had no conscience in their dealings with her. "She knows what I think of them," said Mrs. Meldrum, "and indeed she knows what I think of most things." "She shares that privilege with most of your friends!" I replied laughing. "No doubt; but possibly to some of my friends it makes a little difference. That girl doesn't care a button. She knows best of all what I think of Flora Saunt." "And what may your opinion be?" "Why, that she's not worth troubling about--an idiot too abysmal." "Doesn't she care for that?" "Just enough, as you saw, to hug me till I cry out. She's too pleased with herself for anything else to matter." "Surely, my dear friend," I rejoined, "she has a good deal to be pleased with!" "So every one tells her, and so you would have told her if I had given you the chance. However, that doesn't signify either, for her vanity is beyond all making or mending. She believes in herself, and she's welcome, after all, poor dear, having only herself to look to. I've seldom met a young woman more completely free to be silly. She has a clear course--she'll make a showy finish." "Well," I replied, "as she probably will reduce many persons to the same degraded state, her partaking of it won't stand out so much." "If you mean that the world's full of twaddlers I quite agree with you!" cried Mrs. Meldrum, trumpeting her laugh half across the Channel. I had after this to consider a little what she would call my mother's son, but I didn't let it prevent me from insisting on her making me acquainted with Flora Saunt; indeed I took the bull by the horns, urging that she had drawn the portrait of a nature which common charity now demanded of her to put into relation with a character really fine. Such a frail creature was just an object of pity. This contention on my part had at first of course been jocular; but strange to say it was quite the ground I found myself taking with regard to our young lady after I had begun to know her. I couldn't have said what I felt about her except that she was undefended; from the first of my sitting with her there after dinner, under the stars--that was a week at Folkestone of balmy nights and muffled tides and crowded chairs--I became aware both that protection was wholly absent from her life and that she was wholly indifferent to its absence. The odd thing was that she was not appealing: she was abjectly, divinely conceited, absurdly fantastically pleased. Her beauty was as yet all the world to her, a world she had plenty to do to live in. Mrs. Meldrum told me more about her, and there was nothing that, as the centre of a group of giggling, nudging spectators, Flora wasn't ready to tell about herself. She held her little court in the crowd, upon the grass, playing her light over Jews and Gentiles, completely at ease in all promiscuities. It was an effect of these things that from the very first, with every one listening, I could mention that my main business with her would be just to have a go at her head and to arrange in that view for an early sitting. It would have been as impossible, I think, to be impertinent to her as it would have been to throw a stone at a plate-glass window; so any talk that went forward on the basis of her loveliness was the most natural thing in the world and immediately became the most general and sociable. It was when I saw all this that I judged how, though it was the last thing she asked for, what one would ever most have at her service was a curious compassion. That sentiment was coloured by the vision of the dire exposure of a being whom vanity had put so off her guard. Hers was the only vanity I have ever known that made its possessor superlatively soft. Mrs. Meldrum's further information contributed moreover to these indulgences--her account of the girl's neglected childhood and queer continental relegations, with straying squabbling Monte-Carlo-haunting parents; the more invidious picture, above all, of her pecuniary arrangement, still in force, with the Hammond Synges, who really, though they never took her out--practically she went out alone--had their hands half the time in her pocket. She had to pay for everything, down to her share of the wine-bills and the horses' fodder, down to Bertie Hammond Synge's fare in the "underground" when he went to the City for her. She had been left with just money enough to turn her head; and it hadn't even been put in trust, nothing prudent or proper had been done with it. She could spend her capital, and at the rate she was going, expensive, extravagant and with a swarm of parasites to help, it certainly wouldn't last very long. "Couldn't _you_ perhaps take her, independent, unencumbered as you are?" I asked of Mrs. Meldrum. "You're probably, with one exception, the sanest person she knows, and you at least wouldn't scandalously fleece her." "How do you know what I wouldn't do?" my humorous friend demanded. "Of course I've thought how I can help her--it has kept me awake at night. But doing it's impossible; she'll take nothing from me. You know what she does--she hugs me and runs away. She has an instinct about me and feels that I've one about her. And then she dislikes me for another reason that I'm not quite clear about, but that I'm well aware of and that I shall find out some day. So far as her settling with me goes it would be impossible moreover here; she wants naturally enough a much wider field. She must live in London--her game is there. So she takes the line of adoring me, of saying she can never forget that I was devoted to her mother--which I wouldn't for the world have been--and of giving me a wide berth. I think she positively dislikes to look at me. It's all right; there's no obligation; though people in general can't take their eyes off me." "I see that at this moment," I replied. "But what does it matter where or how, for the present, she lives? She'll marry infallibly, marry early, and everything then will change." "Whom will she marry?" my companion gloomily asked. "Any one she likes. She's so abnormally pretty that she can do anything. She'll fascinate some nabob or some prince." "She'll fascinate him first and bore him afterwards. Moreover she's not so pretty as you make her out; she hasn't a scrap of a figure." "No doubt, but one doesn't in the least miss it." "Not now," said Mrs. Meldrum, "but one will when she's older and when everything will have to count." "When she's older she'll count as a princess, so it won't matter." "She has other drawbacks," my companion went on. "Those wonderful eyes are good for nothing but to roll about like sugar-balls--which they greatly resemble--in a child's mouth. She can't use them." "Use them? Why, she does nothing else." "To make fools of young men, but not to read or write, not to do any sort of work. She never opens a book, and her maid writes her notes. You'll say that those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Of course I know that if I didn't wear my goggles I shouldn't be good for much." "Do you mean that Miss Saunt ought to sport such things?" I exclaimed with more horror than I meant to show. "I don't prescribe for her; I don't know that they're what she requires." "What's the matter with her eyes?" I asked after a moment. "I don't exactly know; but I heard from her mother years ago that even as a child they had had for a while to put her into spectacles and that though she hated them and had been in a fury of disgust, she would always have to be extremely careful. I'm sure I hope she is!" I echoed the hope, but I remember well the impression this made upon me--my immediate pang of resentment, a disgust almost equal to Flora's own. I felt as if a great rare sapphire had split in my hand. CHAPTER III This conversation occurred the night before I went back to town. I settled on the morrow to take a late train, so that I had still my morning to spend at Folkestone, where during the greater part of it I was out with my mother. Every one in the place was as usual out with some one else, and even had I been free to go and take leave of her I should have been sure that Flora Saunt would not be at home. Just where she was I presently discovered: she was at the far end of the cliff, the point at which it overhangs the pretty view of Sandgate and Hythe. Her back, however, was turned to this attraction; it rested with the aid of her elbows, thrust slightly behind her so that her scanty little shoulders were raised toward her ears, on the high rail that inclosed the down. Two gentlemen stood before her whose faces we couldn't see but who even as observed from the rear were visibly absorbed in the charming figure-piece submitted to them. I was freshly struck with the fact that this meagre and defective little person, with the cock of her hat and the flutter of her crape, with her eternal idleness, her eternal happiness, her absence of moods and mysteries and the pretty presentation of her feet, which especially now in the supported slope of her posture occupied with their imperceptibility so much of the foreground--I was reminded anew, I say, how our young lady dazzled by some art that the enumeration of her merits didn't explain and that the mention of her lapses didn't affect. Where she was amiss nothing counted, and where she was right everything did. I say she was wanting in mystery, but that after all was her secret. This happened to be my first chance of introducing her to my mother, who had not much left in life but the quiet look from under the hood of her chair at the things which, when she should have quitted those she loved, she could still trust to make the world good for them. I wondered an instant how much she might be moved to trust Flora Saunt, and then while the chair stood still and she waited I went over and asked the girl to come and speak to her. In this way I saw that if one of Flora's attendants was the inevitable young Hammond Synge, master of ceremonies of her regular court, always offering the use of a telescope and accepting that of a cigar, the other was a personage I had not yet encountered, a small pale youth in showy knickerbockers, whose eyebrows and nose and the glued points of whose little moustache were extraordinarily uplifted and sustained. I remember taking him at first for a foreigner and for something of a pretender: I scarce know why unless because of the motive I felt in the stare he fixed on me when I asked Miss Saunt to come away. He struck me a little as a young man practising the social art of impertinence; but it didn't matter, for Flora came away with alacrity, bringing all her prettiness and pleasure and gliding over the grass in that rustle of delicate mourning which made the endless variety of her garments, as a painter could take heed, strike one always as the same obscure elegance. She seated herself on the floor of my mother's chair, a little too much on her right instep as I afterwards gathered, caressing her still hand, smiling up into her cold face, commending and approving her without a reserve and without a doubt. She told her immediately, as if it were something for her to hold on by, that she was soon to sit to me for a "likeness," and these words gave me a chance to enquire if it would be the fate of the picture, should I finish it, to be presented to the young man in the knickerbockers. Her lips, at this, parted in a stare; her eyes darkened to the purple of one of the shadow-patches on the sea. She showed for the passing instant the face of some splendid tragic mask, and I remembered for the inconsequence of it what Mrs. Meldrum had said about her sight. I had derived from this lady a worrying impulse to catechise her, but that didn't seem exactly kind; so I substituted another question, inquiring who the pretty young man in knickerbockers might happen to be. "Oh a gentleman I met at Boulogne. He has come over to see me." After a moment she added: "Lord Iffield." I had never heard of Lord Iffield, but her mention of his having been at Boulogne helped me to give him a niche. Mrs. Meldrum had incidentally thrown a certain light on the manners of Mrs. Floyd-Taylor, Flora's recent hostess in that charming town, a lady who, it appeared, had a special vocation for helping rich young men to find a use for their leisure. She had always one or other in hand and had apparently on this occasion pointed her lesson at the rare creature on the opposite coast. I had a vague idea that Boulogne was not a resort of the world's envied; at the same time there might very well have been a strong attraction there even for one of the darlings of fortune. I could perfectly understand in any case that such a darling should be drawn to Folkestone by Flora Saunt. But it was not in truth of these things I was thinking; what was uppermost in my mind was a matter which, though it had no sort of keeping, insisted just then on coming out. "Is it true, Miss Saunt," I suddenly demanded, "that you're so unfortunate as to have had some warning about your beautiful eyes?" I was startled by the effect of my words; the girl threw back her head, changing colour from brow to chin. "True? Who in the world says so?" I repented of my question in a flash; the way she met it made it seem cruel, and I felt my mother look at me in some surprise. I took care, in answer to Flora's challenge, not to incriminate Mrs. Meldrum. I answered that the rumour had reached me only in the vaguest form and that if I had been moved to put it to the test my very real interest in her must be held responsible. Her blush died away, but a pair of still prettier tears glistened in its track. "If you ever hear such a thing said again you can say it's a horrid lie!" I had brought on a commotion deeper than any I was prepared for; but it was explained in some degree by the next words she uttered: "I'm happy to say there's nothing the matter with any part of me whatever, not the least little thing!" She spoke with her habitual complacency, with triumphant assurance; she smiled again, and I could see how she wished that she hadn't so taken me up. She turned it off with a laugh. "I've good eyes, good teeth, a good digestion and a good temper. I'm sound of wind and limb!" Nothing could have been more characteristic than her blush and her tears, nothing less acceptable to her than to be thought not perfect in every particular. She couldn't submit to the imputation of a flaw. I expressed my delight in what she told me, assuring her I should always do battle for her; and as if to rejoin her companions she got up from her place on my mother's toes. The young men presented their backs to us; they were leaning on the rail of the cliff. Our incident had produced a certain awkwardness, and while I was thinking of what next to say she exclaimed irrelevantly: "Don't you know? He'll be Lord Considine." At that moment the youth marked for this high destiny turned round, and she spoke to my mother. "I'll introduce him to you--he's awfully nice." She beckoned and invited him with her parasol; the movement struck me as taking everything for granted. I had heard of Lord Considine and if I had not been able to place Lord Iffield it was because I didn't know the name of his eldest son. The young man took no notice of Miss Saunt's appeal; he only stared a moment and then on her repeating it quietly turned his back. She was an odd creature: she didn't blush at this; she only said to my mother apologetically, but with the frankest sweetest amusement, "You don't mind, do you? He's a monster of shyness!" It was as if she were sorry for every one--for Lord Iffield, the victim of a complaint so painful, and for my mother, the subject of a certain slight. "I'm sure I don't want him!" said my mother, but Flora added some promise of how she would handle him for his rudeness. She would clearly never explain anything by any failure of her own appeal. There rolled over me while she took leave of us and floated back to her friends a wave of superstitious dread. I seemed somehow to see her go forth to her fate, and yet what should fill out this orb of a high destiny if not such beauty and such joy? I had a dim idea that Lord Considine was a great proprietor, and though there mingled with it a faint impression that I shouldn't like his son the result of the two images was a whimsical prayer that the girl mightn't miss her possible fortune. CHAPTER IV One day in the course of the following June there was ushered into my studio a gentleman whom I had not yet seen but with whom I had been very briefly in correspondence. A letter from him had expressed to me some days before his regret on learning that my "splendid portrait" of Miss Flora Louisa Saunt, whose full name figured by her own wish in the catalogue of the exhibition of the Academy, had found a purchaser before the close of the private view. He took the liberty of inquiring whether I might have at his service some other memorial of the same lovely head, some preliminary sketch, some study for the picture. I had replied that I had indeed painted Miss Saunt more than once and that if he were interested in my work I should be happy to show him what I had done. Mr. Geoffrey Dawling, the person thus introduced to me, stumbled into my room with awkward movements and equivocal sounds--a long, lean, confused, confusing young man, with a bad complexion and large protrusive teeth. He bore in its most indelible pressure the postmark, as it were, of Oxford, and as soon as he opened his mouth I perceived, in addition to a remarkable revelation of gums, that the text of the queer communication matched the registered envelope. He was full of refinements and angles, of dreary and distinguished knowledge. Of his unconscious drollery his dress freely partook; it seemed, from the gold ring into which his red necktie was passed to the square toe-caps of his boots, to conform with a high sense of modernness to the fashion before the last. There were moments when his overdone urbanity, all suggestive stammers and interrogative quavers, made him scarcely intelligible; but I felt him to be a gentleman and I liked the honesty of his errand and the expression of his good green eyes. As a worshipper at the shrine of beauty, however, he needed explaining, especially when I found he had no acquaintance with my brilliant model; had on the mere evidence of my picture taken, as he said, a tremendous fancy to her looks. I ought doubtless to have been humiliated by the simplicity of his judgment of them, a judgment for which the rendering was lost in the subject, quite leaving out the element of art. He was like the innocent reader for whom the story is "really true" and the author a negligible quantity. He had come to me only because he wanted to purchase, and I remember being so amused at his attitude, which I had never seen equally marked in a person of education, that I asked him why, for the sort of enjoyment he desired, it wouldn't be more to the point to deal directly with the lady. He stared and blushed at this; the idea clearly alarmed him. He was an extraordinary case--personally so modest that I could see it had never occurred to him. He had fallen in love with a painted sign and seemed content just to dream of what it stood for. He was the young prince in the legend or the comedy who loses his heart to the miniature of the princess beyond seas. Until I knew him better this puzzled me much--the link was so missing between his sensibility and his type. He was of course bewildered by my sketches, which implied in the beholder some sense of intention and quality; but for one of them, a comparative failure, he ended by conceiving a preference so arbitrary and so lively that, taking no second look at the others, he expressed his wish to possess it and fell into the extremity of confusion over the question of price. I helped him over that stile, and he went off without having asked me a direct question about Miss Saunt, yet with his acquisition under his arm. His delicacy was such that he evidently considered his rights to be limited; he had acquired none at all in regard to the original of the picture. There were others--for I was curious about him--that I wanted him to feel I conceded: I should have been glad of his carrying away a sense of ground acquired for coming back. To ensure this I had probably only to invite him, and I perfectly recall the impulse that made me forbear. It operated suddenly from within while he hung about the door and in spite of the diffident appeal that blinked in his gentle grin. If he was smitten with Flora's ghost what mightn't be the direct force of the luminary that could cast such a shadow? This source of radiance, flooding my poor place, might very well happen to be present the next time he should turn up. The idea was sharp within me that there were relations and complications it was no mission of mine to bring about. If they were to develop they should develop in their very own sense. Let me say at once that they did develop and that I perhaps after all had something to do with it. If Mr. Dawling had departed without a fresh appointment he was to reappear six months later under protection no less powerful than that of our young lady herself. I had seen her repeatedly for months: she had grown to regard my studio as the temple of her beauty. This miracle was recorded and celebrated there as nowhere else; in other places there was occasional reference to other subjects of remark. The degree of her presumption continued to be stupefying; there was nothing so extraordinary save the degree in which she never paid for it. She was kept innocent, that is she was kept safe, by her egotism, but she was helped also, though she had now put off her mourning, by the attitude of the lone orphan who had to be a law unto herself. It was as a lone orphan that she came and went, as a lone orphan that she was the centre of a crush. The neglect of the Hammond Synges gave relief to this character, and she made it worth their while to be, as every one said, too shocking. Lord Iffield had gone to India to shoot tigers, but he returned in time for the punctual private view: it was he who had snapped up, as Flora called it, the gem of the exhibition. My hope for the girl's future had slipped ignominiously off his back, but after his purchase of the portrait I tried to cultivate a new faith. The girl's own faith was wonderful. It couldn't however be contagious: too great was the limit of her sense of what painters call values. Her colours were laid on like blankets on a cold night. How indeed could a person speak the truth who was always posturing and bragging? She was after all vulgar enough, and by the time I had mastered her profile and could almost with my eyes shut do it in a single line I was decidedly tired of its "purity," which affected me at last as inane. One moved with her, moreover, among phenomena mismated and unrelated; nothing in her talk ever matched anything out of it. Lord Iffield was dying of love for her, but his family was leading him a life. His mother, horrid woman, had told some one that she would rather he should be swallowed by a tiger than marry a girl not absolutely one of themselves. He had given his young friend unmistakable signs, but was lying low, gaining time: it was in his father's power to be, both in personal and in pecuniary ways, excessively nasty to him. His father wouldn't last for ever--quite the contrary; and he knew how thoroughly, in spite of her youth, her beauty and the swarm of her admirers, some of them positively threatening in their passion, he could trust her to hold out. There were richer, cleverer men, there were greater personages too, but she liked her "little viscount" just as he was, and liked to think that, bullied and persecuted, he had her there so gratefully to rest upon. She came back to me with tale upon tale, and it all might be or mightn't. I never met my pretty model in the world--she moved, it appeared, in exalted circles--and could only admire, in her wealth of illustration, the grandeur of her life and the freedom of her hand. I had on the first opportunity spoken to her of Geoffrey Dawling, and she had listened to my story so far as she had the art of such patience, asking me indeed more questions about him than I could answer; then she had capped my anecdote with others much more striking, the disclosure of effects produced in the most extraordinary quarters: on people who had followed her into railway carriages; guards and porters even who had literally stuck there; others who had spoken to her in shops and hung about her house door; cabmen, upon her honour, in London, who, to gaze their fill at her, had found excuses to thrust their petrifaction through the very glasses of four-wheelers. She lost herself in these reminiscences, the moral of which was that poor Mr. Dawling was only one of a million. When therefore the next autumn she flourished into my studio with her odd companion at her heels her first care was to make clear to me that if he was now in servitude it wasn't because she had run after him. Dawling explained with a hundred grins that when one wished very much to get anything one usually ended by doing so--a proposition which led me wholly to dissent and our young lady to asseverate that she hadn't in the least wished to get Mr. Dawling. She mightn't have wished to get him, but she wished to show him, and I seemed to read that if she could treat him as a trophy her affairs were rather at the ebb. True there always hung from her belt a promiscuous fringe of scalps. Much at any rate would have come and gone since our separation in July. She had spent four months abroad, where, on Swiss and Italian lakes, in German cities, in the French capital, many accidents might have happened. CHAPTER V I had been again with my mother, but except Mrs. Meldrum and the gleam of France had not found at Folkestone my old resources and pastimes. Mrs. Meldrum, much edified by my report of the performances, as she called them, in my studio, had told me that to her knowledge Flora would soon be on the straw: she had cut from her capital such fine fat slices that there was almost nothing more left to swallow. Perched on her breezy cliff the good lady dazzled me as usual by her universal light: she knew so much more about everything and everybody than I could ever squeeze out of my colour-tubes. She knew that Flora was acting on system and absolutely declined to be interfered with: her precious reasoning was that her money would last as long as she should need it, that a magnificent marriage would crown her charms before she should be really pinched. She had a sum put by for a liberal outfit; meanwhile the proper use of the rest was to decorate her for the approaches to the altar, keep her afloat in the society in which she would most naturally meet her match. Lord Iffield had been seen with her at Lucerne, at Cadenabbia; but it was Mrs. Meldrum's conviction that nothing was to be expected of him but the most futile flirtation. The girl had a certain hold of him, but with a great deal of swagger he hadn't the spirit of a sheep: he was in fear of his father and would never commit himself in Lord Considine's lifetime. The most Flora might achieve was that he wouldn't marry some one else. Geoffrey Dawling, to Mrs. Meldrum's knowledge (I had told her of the young man's visit) had attached himself on the way back from Italy to the Hammond Synge group. My informant was in a position to be definite about this dangler; she knew about his people; she had heard of him before. Hadn't he been a friend of one of her nephews at Oxford? Hadn't he spent the Christmas holidays precisely three years before at her brother-in-law's in Yorkshire, taking that occasion to get himself refused with derision by wilful Betty, the second daughter of the house? Her sister, who liked the floundering youth, had written to her to complain of Betty, and that the young man should now turn up as an appendage of Flora's was one of those oft-cited proofs that the world is small and that there are not enough people to go round. His father had been something or other in the Treasury; his grandfather on the mother's side had been something or other in the Church. He had come into the paternal estate, two or three thousand a year in Hampshire; but he had let the place advantageously and was generous to four plain sisters who lived at Bournemouth and adored him. The family was hideous all round, but the very salt of the earth. He was supposed to be unspeakably clever; he was fond of London, fond of books, of intellectual society and of the idea of a political career. That such a man should be at the same time fond of Flora Saunt attested, as the phrase in the first volume of Gibbon has it, the variety of his inclinations. I was soon to learn that he was fonder of her than of all the other things together. Betty, one of five and with views above her station, was at any rate felt at home to have dished herself by her perversity. Of course no one had looked at her since and no one would ever look at her again. It would be eminently desirable that Flora should learn the lesson of Betty's fate. I was not struck, I confess, with all this in my mind, by any symptom on our young lady's part of that sort of meditation. The one moral she saw in anything was that of her incomparable aspect, which Mr. Dawling, smitten even like the railway porters and the cabmen by the doom-dealing gods, had followed from London to Venice and from Venice back to London again. I afterwards learned that her version of this episode was profusely inexact: his personal acquaintance with her had been determined by an accident remarkable enough, I admit, in connexion with what had gone before--a coincidence at all events superficially striking. At Munich, returning from a tour in the Tyrol with two of his sisters, he had found himself at the table d'hote of his inn opposite to the full presentment of that face of which the mere clumsy copy had made him dream and desire. He had been tossed by it to a height so vertiginous as to involve a retreat from the board; but the next day he had dropped with a resounding thud at the very feet of his apparition. On the following, with an equal incoherence, a sacrifice even of his bewildered sisters, whom he left behind, he made an heroic effort to escape by flight from a fate of which he had already felt the cold breath. That fate, in London, very little later, drove him straight before it--drove him one Sunday afternoon, in the rain, to the door of the Hammond Synges. He marched in other words close up to the cannon that was to blow him to pieces. But three weeks, when he reappeared to me, had elapsed since then, yet (to vary my metaphor) the burden he was to carry for the rest of his days was firmly lashed to his back. I don't mean by this that Flora had been persuaded to contract her scope; I mean that he had been treated to the unconditional snub which, as the event was to show, couldn't have been bettered as a means of securing him. She hadn't calculated, but she had said "Never!" and that word had made a bed big enough for his long-legged patience. He became from this moment to my mind the interesting figure in the piece. Now that he had acted without my aid I was free to show him this, and having on his own side something to show me he repeatedly knocked at my door. What he brought with him on these occasions was a simplicity so huge that, as I turn my ear to the past, I seem even now to hear it bumping up and down my stairs. That was really what I saw of him in the light of his behaviour. He had fallen in love as he might have broken his leg, and the fracture was of a sort that would make him permanently lame. It was the whole man who limped and lurched, with nothing of him left in the same position as before. The tremendous cleverness, the literary society, the political ambition, the Bournemouth sisters all seemed to flop with his every movement a little nearer to the floor. I hadn't had an Oxford training and I had never encountered the great man at whose feet poor Dawling had most submissively sat and who had addressed him his most destructive sniffs; but I remember asking myself how effectively this privilege had supposed itself to prepare him for the career on which my friend appeared now to have embarked. I remember too making up my mind about the cleverness, which had its uses and I suppose in impenetrable shades even its critics, but from which the friction of mere personal intercourse was not the sort of process to extract a revealing spark. He accepted without a question both his fever and his chill, and the only thing he touched with judgment was this convenience of my friendship. He doubtless told me his simple story, but the matter comes back in a kind of sense of my being rather the mouthpiece, of my having had to put it together for him. He took it from me in this form without a groan, and I gave it him quite as it came; he took it again and again, spending his odd half-hours with me as if for the very purpose of learning how idiotically he was in love. He told me I made him see things: to begin with, hadn't I first made him see Flora Saunt? I wanted him to give her up and lucidly informed him why; on which he never protested nor contradicted, never was even so alembicated as to declare just for the sake of the point that he wouldn't. He simply and pointlessly didn't, and when at the end of three months I asked him what was the use of talking with such a fellow his nearest approach to a justification was to say that what made him want to help her was just the deficiencies I dwelt on. I could only reply without gross developments: "Oh if you're as sorry for her as that!" I too was nearly as sorry for her as that, but it only led me to be sorrier still for other victims of this compassion. With Dawling as with me the compassion was at first in excess of any visible motive; so that when eventually the motive was supplied each could to a certain extent compliment the other on the fineness of his foresight. After he had begun to haunt my studio Miss Saunt quite gave it up, and I finally learned that she accused me of conspiring with him to put pressure on her to marry him. She didn't know I would take it that way, else she would never have brought him to see me. It was in her view a part of the conspiracy that to show him a kindness I asked him at last to sit to me. I dare say moreover she was disgusted to hear that I had ended by attempting almost as many sketches of his beauty as I had attempted of hers. What was the value of tributes to beauty by a hand that could so abase itself? My relation to poor Dawling's want of modelling was simple enough. I was really digging in that sandy desert for the buried treasure of his soul. CHAPTER VI It befell at this period, just before Christmas, that on my having gone under pressure of the season into a great shop to buy a toy or two, my eyes fleeing from superfluity, lighted at a distance on the bright concretion of Flora Saunt, an exhibitability that held its own even against the most plausible pinkness of the most developed dolls. A huge quarter of the place, the biggest bazaar "on earth," was peopled with these and other effigies and fantasies, as well as with purchasers and vendors haggard alike, in the blaze of the gas, with hesitations. I was just about to appeal to Flora to avert that stage of my errand when I saw that she was accompanied by a gentleman whose identity, though more than a year had elapsed, came back to me from the Folkestone cliff. It had been associated on that scene with showy knickerbockers; at present it overflowed more splendidly into a fur-trimmed overcoat. Lord Iffield's presence made me waver an instant before crossing over, and during that instant Flora, blank and undistinguishing, as if she too were after all weary of alternatives, looked straight across at me. I was on the point of raising my hat to her when I observed that her face gave no sign. I was exactly in the line of her vision, but she either didn't see me or didn't recognise me, or else had a reason to pretend she didn't. Was her reason that I had displeased her and that she wished to punish me? I had always thought it one of her merits that she wasn't vindictive. She at any rate simply looked away; and at this moment one of the shop-girls, who had apparently gone off in search of it, bustled up to her with a small mechanical toy. It so happened that I followed closely what then took place, afterwards recognising that I had been led to do so, led even through the crowd to press nearer for the purpose, by an impression of which in the act I was not fully conscious. Flora with the toy in her hand looked round at her companion; then seeing his attention had been solicited in another quarter she moved away with the shop-girl, who had evidently offered to conduct her into the presence of more objects of the same sort. When she reached the indicated spot I was in a position still to observe her. She had asked some question about the working of the toy, and the girl, taking it herself, began to explain the little secret. Flora bent her head over it, but she clearly didn't understand. I saw her, in a manner that quickened my curiosity, give a glance back at the place from which she had come. Lord Iffield was talking with another young person; she satisfied herself of this by the aid of a question addressed to her own attendant. She then drew closer to the table near which she stood and, turning her back to me, bent her head lower over the collection of toys and more particularly over the small object the girl had attempted to explain. She took it again and, after a moment, with her face well averted, made an odd motion of her arms and a significant little duck of her head. These slight signs, singular as it may appear, produced in my bosom an agitation so great that I failed to notice Lord Iffield's whereabouts. He had rejoined her; he was close upon her before I knew it or before she knew it herself. I felt at that instant the strangest of all promptings: if it could have operated more rapidly it would have caused me to dash between them in some such manner as to give Flora a caution. In fact as it was I think I could have done this in time had I not been checked by a curiosity stronger still than my impulse. There were three seconds during which I saw the young man and yet let him come on. Didn't I make the quick calculation that if he didn't catch what Flora was doing I too might perhaps not catch it? She at any rate herself took the alarm. On perceiving her companion's nearness she made, still averted, another duck of her head and a shuffle of her hands so precipitate that a little tin steamboat she had been holding escaped from them and rattled down to the floor with a sharpness that I hear at this hour. Lord Iffield had already seized her arm; with a violent jerk he brought her round toward him. Then it was that there met my eyes a quite distressing sight: this exquisite creature, blushing, glaring, exposed, with a pair of big black- rimmed eye-glasses, defacing her by their position, crookedly astride of her beautiful nose. She made a grab at them with her free hand while I turned confusedly away. CHAPTER VII I don't remember how soon it was I spoke to Geoffrey Dawling; his sittings were irregular, but it was certainly the very next time he gave me one. "Has any rumour ever reached you of Miss Saunt's having anything the matter with her eyes?" He stared with a candour that was a sufficient answer to my question, backing it up with a shocked and mystified "Never!" Then I asked him if he had observed in her any symptom, however disguised, of embarrassed sight; on which, after a moment's thought, he exclaimed "Disguised?" as if my use of that word had vaguely awakened a train. "She's not a bit myopic," he said; "she doesn't blink or contract her lids." I fully recognised this and I mentioned that she altogether denied the impeachment; owing it to him moreover to explain the ground of my inquiry, I gave him a sketch of the incident that had taken place before me at the shop. He knew all about Lord Iffield; that nobleman had figured freely in our conversation as his preferred, his injurious rival. Poor Dawling's contention was that if there had been a definite engagement between his lordship and the young lady, the sort of thing that was announced in the Morning Post, renunciation and retirement would be comparatively easy to him; but that having waited in vain for any such assurance he was entitled to act as if the door were not really closed or were at any rate not cruelly locked. He was naturally much struck with my anecdote and still more with my interpretation of it. "There _is_ something, there _is_ something--possibly something very grave, certainly something that requires she should make use of artificial aids. She won't admit it publicly, because with her idolatry of her beauty, the feeling she is all made up of, she sees in such aids nothing but the humiliation and the disfigurement. She has used them in secret, but that is evidently not enough, for the affection she suffers from, apparently some definite menace, has lately grown much worse. She looked straight at me in the shop, which was violently lighted, without seeing it was I. At the same distance, at Folkestone, where as you know I first met her, where I heard this mystery hinted at and where she indignantly denied the thing, she appeared easily enough to recognise people. At present she couldn't really make out anything the shop-girl showed her. She has successfully concealed from the man I saw her with that she resorts in private to a pince-nez and that she does so not only under the strictest orders from her oculist, but because literally the poor thing can't accomplish without such help half the business of life. Iffield however has suspected something, and his suspicions, whether expressed or kept to himself, have put him on the watch. I happened to have a glimpse of the movement at which he pounced on her and caught her in the act." I had thought it all out; my idea explained many things, and Dawling turned pale as he listened to me. "Was he rough with her?" he anxiously asked. "How can I tell what passed between them? I fled from the place." My companion stared. "Do you mean to say her eyesight's going?" "Heaven forbid! In that case how could she take life as she does?" "How _does_ she take life? That's the question!" He sat there bewilderedly brooding; the tears rose to his lids; they reminded me of those I had seen in Flora's the day I risked my enquiry. The question he had asked was one that to my own satisfaction I was ready to answer, but I hesitated to let him hear as yet all that my reflections had suggested. I was indeed privately astonished at their ingenuity. For the present I only rejoined that it struck me she was playing a particular game; at which he went on as if he hadn't heard me, suddenly haunted with a fear, lost in the dark possibility. "Do you mean there's a danger of anything very bad?" "My dear fellow, you must ask her special adviser." "Who in the world is her special adviser?" "I haven't a conception. But we mustn't get too excited. My impression would be that she has only to observe a few ordinary rules, to exercise a little common sense." Dawling jumped at this. "I see--to stick to the pince-nez." "To follow to the letter her oculist's prescription, whatever it is and at whatever cost to her prettiness. It's not a thing to be trifled with." "Upon my honour it _shan't_ be!" he roundly declared; and he adjusted himself to his position again as if we had quite settled the business. After a considerable interval, while I botched away, he suddenly said: "Did they make a great difference?" "A great difference?" "Those things she had put on." "Oh the glasses--in her beauty? She looked queer of course, but it was partly because one was unaccustomed. There are women who look charming in nippers. What, at any rate, if she does look queer? She must be mad not to accept that alternative." "She _is_ mad," said Geoffrey Dawling. "Mad to refuse you, I grant. Besides," I went on, "the pince-nez, which was a large and peculiar one, was all awry: she had half pulled it off, but it continued to stick, and she was crimson, she was angry." "It must have been horrible!" my companion groaned. "It _was_ horrible. But it's still more horrible to defy all warnings; it's still more horrible to be landed in--" Without saying in what I disgustedly shrugged my shoulders. After a glance at me Dawling jerked round. "Then you do believe that she may be?" I hesitated. "The thing would be to make _her_ believe it. She only needs a good scare." "But if that fellow is shocked at the precautions she does take?" "Oh who knows?" I rejoined with small sincerity. "I don't suppose Iffield is absolutely a brute." "I would take her with leather blinders, like a shying mare!" cried Geoffrey Dawling. I had an impression that Iffield wouldn't, but I didn't communicate it, for I wanted to pacify my friend, whom I had discomposed too much for the purposes of my sitting. I recollect that I did some good work that morning, but it also comes back to me that before we separated he had practically revealed to me that my anecdote, connecting itself in his mind with a series of observations at the time unconscious and unregistered, had covered with light the subject of our colloquy. He had had a formless perception of some secret that drove Miss Saunt to subterfuges, and the more he thought of it the more he guessed this secret to be the practice of making believe she saw when she didn't and of cleverly keeping people from finding out how little she saw. When one pieced things together it was astonishing what ground they covered. Just as he was going away he asked me from what source at Folkestone the horrid tale had proceeded. When I had given him, as I saw no reason not to do, the name of Mrs. Meldrum he exclaimed: "Oh I know all about her; she's a friend of some friends of mine!" At this I remembered wilful Betty and said to myself that I knew some one who would probably prove more wilful still. CHAPTER VIII A few days later I again heard Dawling on my stairs, and even before he passed my threshold I knew he had something to tell. "I've been down to Folkestone--it was necessary I should see her!" I forget whether he had come straight from the station; he was at any rate out of breath with his news, which it took me however a minute to apply. "You mean that you've been with Mrs. Meldrum?" "Yes, to ask her what she knows and how she comes to know it. It worked upon me awfully--I mean what you told me." He made a visible effort to seem quieter than he was, and it showed me sufficiently that he had not been reassured. I laid, to comfort him and smiling at a venture, a friendly hand on his arm, and he dropped into my eyes, fixing them an instant, a strange distended look which might have expressed the cold clearness of all that was to come. "I _know--_now!" he said with an emphasis he rarely used. "What then did Mrs. Meldrum tell you?" "Only one thing that signified, for she has no real knowledge. But that one thing was everything." "What is it then?" "Why, that she can't bear the sight of her." His pronouns required some arranging, but after I had successfully dealt with them I replied that I was quite aware of Miss Saunt's trick of turning her back on the good lady of Folkestone. Only what did that prove? "Have you never guessed? I guessed as soon as she spoke!" Dawling towered over me in dismal triumph. It was the first time in our acquaintance that, on any ground of understanding this had occurred; but even so remarkable an incident still left me sufficiently at sea to cause him to continue: "Why, the effect of those spectacles!" I seemed to catch the tail of his idea. "Mrs. Meldrum's?" "They're so awfully ugly and they add so to the dear woman's ugliness." This remark began to flash a light, and when he quickly added "She sees herself, she sees her own fate!" my response was so immediate that I had almost taken the words out of his mouth. While I tried to fix this sudden image of Flora's face glazed in and cross-barred even as Mrs. Meldrum's was glazed and barred, he went on to assert that only the horror of that image, looming out at herself, could be the reason of her avoiding the person who so forced it home. The fact he had encountered made everything hideously vivid, and more vivid than anything else that just such another pair of goggles was what would have been prescribed to Flora. "I see--I see," I presently returned. "What would become of Lord Iffield if she were suddenly to come out in them? What indeed would become of every one, what would become of everything?" This was an enquiry that Dawling was evidently unprepared to meet, and I completed it by saying at last: "My dear fellow, for that matter, what would become of _you_?" Once more he turned on me his good green eyes. "Oh I shouldn't mind!" The tone of his words somehow made his ugly face beautiful, and I discovered at this moment how much I really liked him. None the less, at the same time, perversely and rudely, I felt the droll side of our discussion of such alternatives. It made me laugh out and say to him while I laughed: "You'd take her even with those things of Mrs. Meldrum's?" He remained mournfully grave; I could see that he was surprised at my rude mirth. But he summoned back a vision of the lady at Folkestone and conscientiously replied: "Even with those things of Mrs. Meldrum's." I begged him not to resent my laughter, which but exposed the fact that we had built a monstrous castle in the air. Didn't he see on what flimsy ground the structure rested? The evidence was preposterously small. He believed the worst, but we were really uninformed. "I shall find out the truth," he promptly replied. "How can you? If you question her you'll simply drive her to perjure herself. Wherein after all does it concern you to know the truth? It's the girl's own affair." "Then why did you tell me your story?" I was a trifle embarrassed. "To warn you off," I smiled. He took no more notice of these words than presently to remark that Lord Iffield had no serious intentions. "Very possibly," I said. "But you mustn't speak as if Lord Iffield and you were her only alternatives." Dawling thought a moment. "Couldn't something be got out of the people she has consulted? She must have been to people. How else can she have been condemned?" "Condemned to what? Condemned to perpetual nippers? Of course she has consulted some of the big specialists, but she has done it, you may be sure, in the most clandestine manner; and even if it were supposable that they would tell you anything--which I altogether doubt--you would have great difficulty in finding out which men they are. Therefore leave it alone; never show her what you suspect." I even before he quitted me asked him to promise me this. "All right, I promise"--but he was gloomy enough. He was a lover facing the fact that there was no limit to the deceit his loved one was ready to practise: it made so remarkably little difference. I could see by what a stretch his passionate pity would from this moment overlook the girl's fatuity and folly. She was always accessible to him--that I knew; for if she had told him he was an idiot to dream she could dream of him, she would have rebuked the imputation of having failed to make it clear that she would always be glad to regard him as a friend. What were most of her friends--what were all of them--but repudiated idiots? I was perfectly aware that in her conversations and confidences I myself for instance had a niche in the gallery. As regards poor Dawling I knew how often he still called on the Hammond Synges. It was not there but under the wing of the Floyd-Taylors that her intimacy with Lord Iffield most flourished. At all events, when a week after the visit I have just summarised Flora's name was one morning brought up to me, I jumped at the conclusion that Dawling had been with her, and even I fear briefly entertained the thought that he had broken his word. CHAPTER IX She left me, after she had been introduced, in no suspense about her present motive; she was on the contrary in a visible fever to enlighten me; but I promptly learned that for the alarm with which she pitiably panted our young man was not accountable. She had but one thought in the world, and that thought was for Lord Iffield. I had the strangest saddest scene with her, and if it did me no other good it at least made me at last completely understand why insidiously, from the first, she had struck me as a creature of tragedy. In showing me the whole of her folly it lifted the curtain of her misery. I don't know how much she meant to tell me when she came--I think she had had plans of elaborate misrepresentation; at any rate she found it at the end of ten minutes the simplest way to break down and sob, to be wretched and true. When she had once begun to let herself go the movement took her off her feet; the relief of it was like the cessation of a cramp. She shared in a word her long secret, she shifted her sharp pain. She brought, I confess, tears to my own eyes, tears of helpless tenderness for her helpless poverty. Her visit however was not quite so memorable in itself as in some of its consequences, the most immediate of which was that I went that afternoon to see Geoffrey Dawling, who had in those days rooms in Welbeck Street, where I presented myself at an hour late enough to warrant the supposition that he might have come in. He had not come in, but he was expected, and I was invited to enter and wait for him: a lady, I was informed, was already in his sitting-room. I hesitated, a little at a loss: it had wildly coursed through my brain that the lady was perhaps Flora Saunt. But when I asked if she were young and remarkably pretty I received so significant a "No sir!" that I risked an advance and after a minute in this manner found myself, to my astonishment, face to face with Mrs. Meldrum. "Oh you dear thing," she exclaimed, "I'm delighted to see you: you spare me another compromising demarche! But for this I should have called on you also. Know the worst at once: if you see me here it's at least deliberate--it's planned, plotted, shameless. I came up on purpose to see him, upon my word I'm in love with him. Why, if you valued my peace of mind, did you let him the other day at Folkestone dawn upon my delighted eyes? I found myself there in half an hour simply infatuated with him. With a perfect sense of everything that can be urged against him I hold him none the less the very pearl of men. However, I haven't come up to declare my passion--I've come to bring him news that will interest him much more. Above all I've come to urge upon him to be careful." "About Flora Saunt?" "About what he says and does: he must be as still as a mouse! She's at last really engaged." "But it's a tremendous secret?" I was moved to mirth. "Precisely: she wired me this noon, and spent another shilling to tell me that not a creature in the world is yet to know it." "She had better have spent it to tell you that she had just passed an hour with the creature you see before you." "She has just passed an hour with every one in the place!" Mrs. Meldrum cried. "They've vital reasons, she says, for it's not coming out for a month. Then it will be formally announced, but meanwhile her rejoicing is wild. I daresay Mr. Dawling already knows and, as it's nearly seven o'clock, may have jumped off London Bridge. But an effect of the talk I had with him the other day was to make me, on receipt of my telegram, feel it to be my duty to warn him in person against taking action, so to call it, on the horrid certitude which I could see he carried away with him. I had added somehow to that certitude. He told me what you had told him you had seen in your shop." Mrs. Meldrum, I perceived, had come to Welbeck Street on an errand identical with my own--a circumstance indicating her rare sagacity, inasmuch as her ground for undertaking it was a very different thing from what Flora's wonderful visit had made of mine. I remarked to her that what I had seen in the shop was sufficiently striking, but that I had seen a great deal more that morning in my studio. "In short," I said, "I've seen everything." She was mystified. "Everything?" "The poor creature is under the darkest of clouds. Oh she came to triumph, but she remained to talk something in the nature of sense! She put herself completely in my hands--she does me the honour to intimate that of all her friends I'm the most disinterested. After she had announced to me that Lord Iffield was utterly committed to her and that for the present I was absolutely the only person in the secret, she arrived at her real business. She had had a suspicion of me ever since that day at Folkestone when I asked her for the truth about her eyes. The truth is what you and I both guessed. She's in very bad danger." "But from what cause? I, who by God's mercy have kept mine, know everything that can be known about eyes," said Mrs. Meldrum. "She might have kept hers if she had profited by God's mercy, if she had done in time, done years ago, what was imperatively ordered her; if she hadn't in fine been cursed with the loveliness that was to make her behaviour a thing of fable. She may still keep her sight, or what remains of it, if she'll sacrifice--and after all so little--that purely superficial charm. She must do as you've done; she must wear, dear lady, what you wear!" What my companion wore glittered for the moment like a melon-frame in August. "Heaven forgive her--now I understand!" She flushed for dismay. But I wasn't afraid of the effect on her good nature of her thus seeing, through her great goggles, why it had always been that Flora held her at such a distance. "I can't tell you," I said, "from what special affection, what state of the eye, her danger proceeds: that's the one thing she succeeded this morning in keeping from me. She knows it herself perfectly; she has had the best advice in Europe. 'It's a thing that's awful, simply awful'--that was the only account she would give me. Year before last, while she was at Boulogne, she went for three days with Mrs. Floyd-Taylor to Paris. She there surreptitiously consulted the greatest man--even Mrs. Floyd-Taylor doesn't know. Last autumn in Germany she did the same. 'First put on certain special spectacles with a straight bar in the middle: then we'll talk'--that's practically what they say. What _she_ says is that she'll put on anything in nature when she's married, but that she must get married first. She has always meant to do everything as soon as she's married. Then and then only she'll be safe. How will any one ever look at her if she makes herself a fright? How could she ever have got engaged if she had made herself a fright from the first? It's no use to insist that with her beauty she can never _be_ a fright. She said to me this morning, poor girl, the most characteristic, the most harrowing things. 'My face is all I have--and _such_ a face! I knew from the first I could do anything with it. But I needed it all--I need it still, every exquisite inch of it. It isn't as if I had a figure or anything else. Oh if God had only given me a figure too, I don't say! Yes, with a figure, a really good one, like Fanny Floyd-Taylor's, who's hideous, I'd have risked plain glasses. Que voulez- vous? No one is perfect.' She says she still has money left, but I don't believe a word of it. She has been speculating on her impunity, on the idea that her danger would hold off: she has literally been running a race with it. Her theory has been, as you from the first so clearly saw, that she'd get in ahead. She swears to me that though the 'bar' is too cruel she wears when she's alone what she has been ordered to wear. But when the deuce is she alone? It's herself of course that she has swindled worst: she has put herself off, so insanely that even her conceit but half accounts for it, with little inadequate concessions, little false measures and preposterous evasions and childish hopes. Her great terror is now that Iffield, who already has suspicions, who has found out her pince-nez but whom she has beguiled with some unblushing hocus-pocus, may discover the dreadful facts; and the essence of what she wanted this morning was in that interest to square me, to get me to deny indignantly and authoritatively (for isn't she my 'favourite sitter?') that she has anything in life the matter with any part of her. She sobbed, she 'went on,' she entreated; after we got talking her extraordinary nerve left her and she showed me what she has been through--showed me also all her terror of the harm I could do her. 'Wait till I'm married! wait till I'm married!' She took hold of me, she almost sank on her knees. It seems to me highly immoral, one's participation in her fraud; but there's no doubt that she must be married: I don't know what I don't see behind it! Therefore," I wound up, "Dawling must keep his hands off." Mrs. Meldrum had held her breath; she gave out a long moan. "Well, that's exactly what I came here to tell him." "Then here he is." Our host, all unprepared, his latchkey still in his hand, had just pushed open the door and, startled at finding us, turned a frightened look from one to the other, wondering what disaster we were there to announce or avert. Mrs. Meldrum was on the spot all gaiety. "I've come to return your sweet visit. Ah," she laughed, "I mean to keep up the acquaintance!" "Do--do," he murmured mechanically and absently, continuing to look at us. Then he broke out: "He's going to marry her." I was surprised. "You already know?" He produced an evening paper, which he tossed down on the table. "It's in that." "Published--already?" I was still more surprised. "Oh Flora can't keep a secret!"--Mrs. Meldrum made it light. She went up to poor Dawling and laid a motherly hand upon him. "It's all right--it's just as it ought to be: don't think about her ever any more." Then as he met this adjuration with a stare from which thought, and of the most defiant and dismal, fairly protruded, the excellent woman put up her funny face and tenderly kissed him on the cheek. CHAPTER X I have spoken of these reminiscences as of a row of coloured beads, and I confess that as I continue to straighten out my chaplet I am rather proud of the comparison. The beads are all there, as I said--they slip along the string in their small smooth roundness. Geoffrey Dawling accepted as a gentleman the event his evening paper had proclaimed; in view of which I snatched a moment to nudge him a hint that he might offer Mrs. Meldrum his hand. He returned me a heavy head-shake, and I judged that marriage would henceforth strike him very much as the traffic of the street may strike some poor incurable at the window of an hospital. Circumstances arising at this time led to my making an absence from England, and circumstances already existing offered him a firm basis for similar action. He had after all the usual resource of a Briton--he could take to his boats, always drawn up in our background. He started on a journey round the globe, and I was left with nothing but my inference as to what might have happened. Later observation however only confirmed my belief that if at any time during the couple of months after Flora Saunt's brilliant engagement he had made up, as they say, to the good lady of Folkestone, that good lady would not have pushed him over the cliff. Strange as she was to behold I knew of cases in which she had been obliged to administer that shove. I went to New York to paint a couple of portraits; but I found, once on the spot, that I had counted without Chicago, where I was invited to blot out this harsh discrimination by the production of some dozen. I spent a year in America and should probably have spent a second had I not been summoned back to England by alarming news from my mother. Her strength had failed, and as soon as I reached London I hurried down to Folkestone, arriving just at the moment to offer a welcome to some slight symptom of a rally. She had been much worse but was now a little better; and though I found nothing but satisfaction in having come to her I saw after a few hours that my London studio, where arrears of work had already met me, would be my place to await whatever might next occur. Yet before returning to town I called on Mrs. Meldrum, from whom I had not had a line, and my view of whom, with the adjacent objects, as I had left them, had been intercepted by a luxuriant foreground. Before I had gained her house I met her, as I supposed, coming toward me across the down, greeting me from afar with the familiar twinkle of her great vitreous badge; and as it was late in the autumn and the esplanade a blank I was free to acknowledge this signal by cutting a caper on the grass. My enthusiasm dropped indeed the next moment, for I had seen in a few more seconds that the person thus assaulted had by no means the figure of my military friend. I felt a shock much greater than any I should have thought possible when on this person's drawing near I knew her for poor little Flora Saunt. At what moment she had recognised me belonged to an order of mysteries over which, it quickly came home to me, one would never linger again: once we were face to face it so chiefly mattered that I should succeed in looking entirely unastonished. All I at first saw was the big gold bar crossing each of her lenses, over which something convex and grotesque, like the eyes of a large insect, something that now represented her whole personality, seemed, as out of the orifice of a prison, to strain forward and press. The face had shrunk away: it looked smaller, appeared even to look plain; it was at all events, so far as the effect on a spectator was concerned, wholly sacrificed to this huge apparatus of sight. There was no smile in it, and she made no motion to take my offered hand. "I had no idea you were down here!" I said and I wondered whether she didn't know me at all or knew me only by my voice. "You thought I was Mrs. Meldrum," she ever so quietly answered. It was just this low pitch that made me protest with laughter. "Oh yes, you have a tremendous deal in common with Mrs. Meldrum! I've just returned to England after a long absence and I'm on my way to see her. Won't you come with me?" It struck me that her old reason for keeping clear of our friend was well disposed of now. "I've just left her. I'm staying with her." She stood solemnly fixing me with her goggles. "Would you like to paint me now?" she asked. She seemed to speak, with intense gravity, from behind a mask or a cage. There was nothing to do but treat the question still with high spirits. "It would be a fascinating little artistic problem!" That something was wrong it wasn't difficult to see, but a good deal more than met the eye might be presumed to be wrong if Flora was under Mrs. Meldrum's roof. I hadn't for a year had much time to think of her, but my imagination had had ground for lodging her in more gilded halls. One of the last things I had heard before leaving England was that in commemoration of the new relationship she had gone to stay with Lady Considine. This had made me take everything else for granted, and the noisy American world had deafened my care to possible contradictions. Her spectacles were at present a direct contradiction; they seemed a negation not only of new relationships but of every old one as well. I remember nevertheless that when after a moment she walked beside me on the grass I found myself nervously hoping she wouldn't as yet at any rate tell me anything very dreadful; so that to stave off this danger I harried her with questions about Mrs. Meldrum and, without waiting for replies, became profuse on the subject of my own doings. My companion was finely silent, and I felt both as if she were watching my nervousness with a sort of sinister irony and as if I were talking to some different and strange person. Flora plain and obscure and dumb was no Flora at all. At Mrs. Meldrum's door she turned off with the observation that as there was certainly a great deal I should have to say to our friend she had better not go in with me. I looked at her again--I had been keeping my eyes away from her--but only to meet her magnified stare. I greatly desired in truth to see Mrs. Meldrum alone, but there was something so grim in the girl's trouble that I hesitated to fall in with this idea of dropping her. Yet one couldn't express a compassion without seeming to take for granted more trouble than there actually might have been. I reflected that I must really figure to her as a fool, which was an entertainment I had never expected to give her. It rolled over me there for the first time--it has come back to me since--that there is, wondrously, in very deep and even in very foolish misfortune a dignity still finer than in the most inveterate habit of being all right. I couldn't have to her the manner of treating it as a mere detail that I was face to face with a part of what, at our last meeting, we had had such a scene about; but while I was trying to think of some manner that I _could_ have she said quite colourlessly, though somehow as if she might never see me again: "Good-bye. I'm going to take my walk." "All alone?" She looked round the great bleak cliff-top. "With whom should I go? Besides I like to be alone--for the present." This gave me the glimmer of a vision that she regarded her disfigurement as temporary, and the confidence came to me that she would never, for her happiness, cease to be a creature of illusions. It enabled me to exclaim, smiling brightly and feeling indeed idiotic: "Oh I shall see you again! But I hope you'll have a very pleasant walk." "All my walks are pleasant, thank you--they do me such a lot of good." She was as quiet as a mouse, and her words seemed to me stupendous in their wisdom. "I take several a day," she continued. She might have been an ancient woman responding with humility at the church door to the patronage of the parson. "The more I take the better I feel. I'm ordered by the doctors to keep all the while in the air and go in for plenty of exercise. It keeps up my general health, you know, and if that goes on improving as it has lately done everything will soon be all right. All that was the matter with me before--and always; it was too reckless!--was that I neglected my general health. It acts directly on the state of the particular organ. So I'm going three miles." I grinned at her from the doorstep while Mrs. Meldrum's maid stood there to admit me. "Oh I'm so glad," I said, looking at her as she paced away with the pretty flutter she had kept and remembering the day when, while she rejoined Lord Iffield, I had indulged in the same observation. Her air of assurance was on this occasion not less than it had been on that; but I recalled that she had then struck me as marching off to her doom. Was she really now marching away from it? CHAPTER XI As soon as I saw Mrs. Meldrum I of course broke out. "Is there anything in it? _Is_ her general health--?" Mrs. Meldrum checked me with her great amused blare. "You've already seen her and she has told you her wondrous tale? What's 'in it' is what has been in everything she has ever done--the most comical, tragical belief in herself. She thinks she's doing a 'cure.'" "And what does her husband think?" "Her husband? What husband?" "Hasn't she then married Lord Iffield?" "Vous-en-etes la?" cried my hostess. "Why he behaved like a regular beast." "How should I know? You never wrote me." Mrs. Meldrum hesitated, covering me with what poor Flora called the particular organ. "No, I didn't write you--I abstained on purpose. If I kept quiet I thought you mightn't hear over there what had happened. If you should hear I was afraid you would stir up Mr. Dawling." "Stir him up?" "Urge him to fly to the rescue; write out to him that there was another chance for him." "I wouldn't have done it," I said. "Well," Mrs. Meldrum replied, "it was not my business to give you an opportunity." "In short you were afraid of it." Again she hesitated and though it may have been only my fancy I thought she considerably reddened. At all events she laughed out. Then "I was afraid of it!" she very honestly answered. "But doesn't he know? Has he given no sign?" "Every sign in life--he came straight back to her. He did everything to get her to listen to him, but she hasn't the smallest idea of it." "Has he seen her as she is now?" I presently and just a trifle awkwardly enquired. "Indeed he has, and borne it like a hero. He told me all about it." "How much you've all been through!" I found occasion to remark. "Then what has become of him?" "He's at home in Hampshire. He has got back his old place and I believe by this time his old sisters. It's not half a bad little place." "Yet its attractions say nothing to Flora?" "Oh Flora's by no means on her back!" my fried declared. "She's not on her back because she's on yours. Have you got her for the rest of your life?" Once more Mrs. Meldrum genially glared. "Did she tell you how much the Hammond Synges have kindly left her to live on? Not quite eighty pounds a year." "That's a good deal, but it won't pay the oculist. What was it that at last induced her to submit to him?" "Her general collapse after that brute of an Iffield's rupture. She cried her eyes out--she passed through a horror of black darkness. Then came a gleam of light, and the light appears to have broadened. She went into goggles as repentant Magdalens go into the Catholic church." "In spite of which you don't think she'll be saved?" "_She_ thinks she will--that's all I can tell you. There's no doubt that when once she brought herself to accept her real remedy, as she calls it, she began to enjoy a relief that she had never known. That feeling, very new and in spite of what she pays for it most refreshing, has given her something to hold on by, begotten in her foolish little mind a belief that, as she says, she's on the mend and that in the course of time, if she leads a tremendously healthy life, she'll be able to take off her muzzle and become as dangerous again as ever. It keeps her going." "And what keeps you? You're good until the parties begin again." "Oh she doesn't object to me now!" smiled Mrs. Meldrum. "I'm going to take her abroad; we shall be a pretty pair." I was struck with this energy and after a moment I enquired the reason of it. "It's to divert her mind," my friend replied, reddening again a little, I thought. "We shall go next week: I've only waited to see how your mother would be before starting." I expressed to her hereupon my sense of her extraordinary merit and also that of the inconceivability of Flora's fancying herself still in a situation not to jump at the chance of marrying a man like Dawling. "She says he's too ugly; she says he's too dreary; she says in fact he's 'nobody,'" Mrs. Meldrum pursued. "She says above all that he's not 'her own sort.' She doesn't deny that he's good, but she finds him impossibly ridiculous. He's quite the last person she would ever dream of." I was almost disposed on hearing this to protest that if the girl had so little proper feeling her noble suitor had perhaps served her right; but after a while my curiosity as to just how her noble suitor _had_ served her got the better of that emotion, and I asked a question or two which led my companion again to apply to him the invidious term I have already quoted. What had happened was simply that Flora had at the eleventh hour broken down in the attempt to put him off with an uncandid account of her infirmity and that his lordship's interest in her had not been proof against the discovery of the way she had practised on him. Her dissimulation, he was obliged to perceive, had been infernally deep. The future in short assumed a new complexion for him when looked at through the grim glasses of a bride who, as he had said to some one, couldn't really, when you came to find out, see her hand before her face. He had conducted himself like any other jockeyed customer--he had returned the animal as unsound. He had backed out in his own way, giving the business, by some sharp shuffle, such a turn as to make the rupture ostensibly Flora's, but he had none the less remorselessly and basely backed out. He had cared for her lovely face, cared for it in the amused and haunted way it had been her poor little delusive gift to make men care; and her lovely face, damn it, with the monstrous gear she had begun to rig upon it, was just what had let him in. He had in the judgment of his family done everything that could be expected of him; he had made--Mrs. Meldrum had herself seen the letter--a "handsome" offer of pecuniary compensation. Oh if Flora, with her incredible buoyancy, was in a manner on her feet again now it was not that she had not for weeks and weeks been prone in the dust. Strange were the humiliations, the forms of anguish, it was given some natures to survive. That Flora had survived was perhaps after all a proof she was reserved for some final mercy. "But she has been in the abysses at any rate," said Mrs. Meldrum, "and I really don't think I can tell you what pulled her through." "I think I can tell _you_," I returned. "What in the world but Mrs. Meldrum?" At the end of an hour Flora had not come in, and I was obliged to announce that I should have but time to reach the station, where I was to find my luggage in charge of my mother's servant. Mrs. Meldrum put before me the question of waiting till a later train, so as not to lose our young lady, but I confess I gave this alternative a consideration less acute than I pretended. Somehow I didn't care if I did lose our young lady. Now that I knew the worst that had befallen her it struck me still less as possible to meet her on the ground of condolence; and with the sad appearance she wore to me what other ground was left? I lost her, but I caught my train. In truth she was so changed that one hated to see it; and now that she was in charitable hands one didn't feel compelled to make great efforts. I had studied her face for a particular beauty; I had lived with that beauty and reproduced it; but I knew what belonged to my trade well enough to be sure it was gone for ever. CHAPTER XII I was soon called back to Folkestone; but Mrs. Meldrum and her young friend had already left England, finding to that end every convenience on the spot and not having had to come up to town. My thoughts however were so painfully engaged there that I should in any case have had little attention for them: the event occurred that was to bring my series of visits to a close. When this high tide had ebbed I returned to America and to my interrupted work, which had opened out on such a scale that, with a deep plunge into a great chance, I was three good years in rising again to the surface. There are nymphs and naiads moreover in the American depths: they may have had something to do with the duration of my dive. I mention them to account for a grave misdemeanor--the fact that after the first year I rudely neglected Mrs. Meldrum. She had written to me from Florence after my mother's death and had mentioned in a postscript that in our young lady's calculations the lowest figures were now Italian counts. This was a good omen, and if in subsequent letters there was no news of a sequel I was content to accept small things and to believe that grave tidings, should there be any, would come to me in due course. The gravity of what might happen to a featherweight became indeed with time and distance less appreciable, and I was not without an impression that Mrs. Meldrum, whose sense of proportion was not the least of her merits, had no idea of boring the world with the ups and downs of her pensioner. The poor girl grew dusky and dim, a small fitful memory, a regret tempered by the comfortable consciousness of how kind Mrs. Meldrum would always be to her. I was professionally more preoccupied than I had ever been, and I had swarms of pretty faces in my eyes and a chorus of loud tones in my ears. Geoffrey Dawling had on his return to England written me two or three letters: his last information had been that he was going into the figures of rural illiteracy. I was delighted to receive it and had no doubt that if he should go into figures they would, as they are said to be able to prove anything, prove at least that my advice was sound and that he had wasted time enough. This quickened on my part another hope, a hope suggested by some roundabout rumour--I forget how it reached me--that he was engaged to a girl down in Hampshire. He turned out not to be, but I felt sure that if only he went into figures deep enough he would become, among the girls down in Hampshire or elsewhere, one of those numerous prizes of battle whose defences are practically not on the scale of their provocations. I nursed in short the thought that it was probably open to him to develop as one of the types about whom, as the years go on, superficial critics wonder without relief how they ever succeeded in dragging a bride to the altar. He never alluded to Flora Saunt; and there was in his silence about her, quite as in Mrs. Meldrum's, an element of instinctive tact, a brief implication that if you didn't happen to have been in love with her there was nothing to be said. Within a week after my return to London I went to the opera, of which I had always been much of a devotee. I arrived too late for the first act of "Lohengrin," but the second was just beginning, and I gave myself up to it with no more than a glance at the house. When it was over I treated myself, with my glass, from my place in the stalls, to a general survey of the boxes, making doubtless on their contents the reflections, pointed by comparison, that are most familiar to the wanderer restored to London. There was the common sprinkling of pretty women, but I suddenly noted that one of these was far prettier than the others. This lady, alone in one of the smaller receptacles of the grand tier and already the aim of fifty tentative glasses, which she sustained with admirable serenity, this single exquisite figure, placed in the quarter furthest removed from my stall, was a person, I immediately felt, to cause one's curiosity to linger. Dressed in white, with diamonds in her hair and pearls on her neck, she had a pale radiance of beauty which even at that distance made her a distinguished presence and, with the air that easily attaches to lonely loveliness in public places, an agreeable mystery. A mystery however she remained to me only for a minute after I had levelled my glass at her: I feel to this moment the startled thrill, the shock almost of joy, with which I translated her vague brightness into a resurrection of Flora. I say a resurrection, because, to put it crudely, I had on that last occasion left our young woman for dead. At present perfectly alive again, she was altered only, as it were, by this fact of life. A little older, a little quieter, a little finer and a good deal fairer, she was simply transfigured by having recovered. Sustained by the reflection that even her recovery wouldn't enable her to distinguish me in the crowd, I was free to look at her well. Then it was it came home to me that my vision of her in her great goggles had been cruelly final. As her beauty was all there was of her, that machinery had extinguished her, and so far as I had thought of her in the interval I had thought of her as buried in the tomb her stern specialist had built. With the sense that she had escaped from it came a lively wish to return to her; and if I didn't straightway leave my place and rush round the theatre and up to her box it was because I was fixed to the spot some moments longer by the simple inability to cease looking at her. She had been from the first of my seeing her practically motionless, leaning back in her chair with a kind of thoughtful grace and with her eyes vaguely directed, as it seemed on me, to one of the boxes on my side of the house and consequently over my head and out of my sight. The only movement she made for some time was to finger with an ungloved hand and as if with the habit of fondness the row of pearls on her neck, which my glass showed me to be large and splendid. Her diamonds and pearls, in her solitude, mystified me, making me, as she had had no such brave jewels in the days of the Hammond Synges, wonder what undreamt-of improvement had taken place in her fortunes. The ghost of a question hovered there a moment: could anything so prodigious have happened as that on her tested and proved amendment Lord Iffield had taken her back? This could scarce have without my hearing of it; and moreover if she had become a person of such fashion where was the little court one would naturally see at her elbow? Her isolation was puzzling, though it could easily suggest that she was but momentarily alone. If she had come with Mrs. Meldrum that lady would have taken advantage of the interval to pay a visit to some other box--doubtless the box at which Flora had just been looking. Mrs. Meldrum didn't account for the jewels, but the revival of Flora's beauty accounted for anything. She presently moved her eyes over the house, and I felt them brush me again like the wings of a dove. I don't know what quick pleasure flickered into the hope that she would at last see me. She did see me: she suddenly bent forward to take up the little double-barrelled ivory glass that rested on the edge of the box and to all appearance fix me with it. I smiled from my place straight up at the searching lenses, and after an instant she dropped them and smiled as straight back at me. Oh her smile--it was her old smile, her young smile, her very own smile made perfect! I instantly left my stall and hurried off for a nearer view of it; quite flushed, I remember, as I went with the annoyance of having happened to think of the idiotic way I had tried to paint her. Poor Iffield with his sample of that error, and still poorer Dawling in particular with _his_! I hadn't touched her, I was professionally humiliated, and as the attendant in the lobby opened her box for me I felt that the very first thing I should have to say to her would be that she must absolutely sit to me again. CHAPTER XIII She gave me the smile once more as over her shoulder, from her chair, she turned her face to me. "Here you are again!" she exclaimed with her disgloved hand put up a little backward for me to take. I dropped into a chair just behind her and, having taken it and noted that one of the curtains of the box would make the demonstration sufficiently private, bent my lips over it and impressed them on its finger-tips. It was given me however, to my astonishment, to feel next that all the privacy in the world couldn't have sufficed to mitigate the start with which she greeted this free application of my moustache: the blood had jumped to her face, she quickly recovered her hand and jerked at me, twisting herself round, a vacant challenging stare. During the next few instants several extraordinary things happened, the first of which was that now I was close to them the eyes of loveliness I had come up to look into didn't show at all the conscious light I had just been pleased to see them flash across the house: they showed on the contrary, to my confusion, a strange sweet blankness, an expression I failed to give a meaning to until, without delay, I felt on my arm, directed to it as if instantly to efface the effect of her start, the grasp of the hand she had impulsively snatched from me. It was the irrepressible question in this grasp that stopped on my lips all sound of salutation. She had mistaken my entrance for that of another person, a pair of lips without a moustache. She was feeling me to see who I was! With the perception of this and of her not seeing me I sat gaping at her and at the wild word that didn't come, the right word to express or to disguise my dismay. What was the right word to commemorate one's sudden discovery, at the very moment too at which one had been most encouraged to count on better things, that one's dear old friend had gone blind? Before the answer to this question dropped upon me--and the moving moments, though few, seemed many--I heard, with the sound of voices, the click of the attendant's key on the other side of the door. Poor Flora heard also and on hearing, still with her hand on my arm, brightened again as I had a minute since seen her brighten across the house: she had the sense of the return of the person she had taken me for--the person with the right pair of lips, as to whom I was for that matter much more in the dark than she. I gasped, but my word had come: if she had lost her sight it was in this very loss that she had found again her beauty. I managed to speak while we were still alone, before her companion had appeared. "You're lovelier at this day than you have ever been in your life!" At the sound of my voice and that of the opening of the door her impatience broke into audible joy. She sprang up, recognising me, always holding me, and gleefully cried to a gentleman who was arrested in the doorway by the sight of me: "He has come back, he has come back, and you should have heard what he says of me!" The gentleman was Geoffrey Dawling, and I thought it best to let him hear on the spot. "How beautiful she is, my dear man--but how extraordinarily beautiful! More beautiful at this hour than ever, ever before!" It gave them almost equal pleasure and made Dawling blush to his eyes; while this in turn produced, in spite of deepened astonishment, a blest snap of the strain I had been struggling with. I wanted to embrace them both, and while the opening bars of another scene rose from the orchestra I almost did embrace Dawling, whose first emotion on beholding me had visibly and ever so oddly been a consciousness of guilt. I had caught him somehow in the act, though that was as yet all I knew; but by the time we sank noiselessly into our chairs again--for the music was supreme, Wagner passed first--my demonstration ought pretty well to have given him the limit of the criticism he had to fear. I myself indeed, while the opera blazed, was only too afraid he might divine in our silent closeness the very moral of my optimism, which was simply the comfort I had gathered from seeing that if our companion's beauty lived again her vanity partook of its life. I had hit on the right note--that was what eased me off: it drew all pain for the next half-hour from the sense of the deep darkness in which the stricken woman sat. If the music, in that darkness, happily soared and swelled for her, it beat its wings in unison with those of a gratified passion. A great deal came and went between us without profaning the occasion, so that I could feel at the end of twenty minutes as if I knew almost everything he might in kindness have to tell me; knew even why Flora, while I stared at her from the stalls, had misled me by the use of ivory and crystal and by appearing to recognise me and smile. She leaned back in her chair in luxurious ease: I had from the first become aware that the way she fingered her pearls was a sharp image of the wedded state. Nothing of old had seemed wanting to her assurance, but I hadn't then dreamed of the art with which she would wear that assurance as a married woman. She had taken him when everything had failed; he had taken her when she herself had done so. His embarrassed eyes confessed it all, confessed the deep peace he found in it. They only didn't tell me why he had not written to me, nor clear up as yet a minor obscurity. Flora after a while again lifted the glass from the ledge of the box and elegantly swept the house with it. Then, by the mere instinct of her grace, a motion but half conscious, she inclined her head into the void with the sketch of a salute, producing, I could see, a perfect imitation of response to some homage. Dawling and I looked at each other again; the tears came into his eyes. She was playing at perfection still, and her misfortune only simplified the process. I recognised that this was as near as I should ever come, certainly as I should come that night, to pressing on her misfortune. Neither of us would name it more than we were doing then, and Flora would never name it at all. Little by little I saw that what had occurred was, strange as it might appear, the best thing for her happiness. The question was now only of her beauty and her being seen and marvelled at; with Dawling to do for her everything in life her activity was limited to that. Such an activity was all within her scope; it asked nothing of her that she couldn't splendidly give. As from time to time in our delicate communion she turned her face to me with the parody of a look I lost none of the signs of its strange new glory. The expression of the eyes was a rub of pastel from a master's thumb; the whole head, stamped with a sort of showy suffering, had gained a fineness from what she had passed through. Yes, Flora was settled for life--nothing could hurt her further. I foresaw the particular praise she would mostly incur--she would be invariably "interesting." She would charm with her pathos more even than she had charmed with her pleasure. For herself above all she was fixed for ever, rescued from all change and ransomed from all doubt. Her old certainties, her old vanities were justified and sanctified, and in the darkness that had closed upon her one object remained clear. That object, as unfading as a mosaic mask, was fortunately the loveliest she could possibly look upon. The greatest blessing of all was of course that Dawling thought so. Her future was ruled with the straightest line, and so for that matter was his. There were two facts to which before I left my friends I gave time to sink into my spirit. One was that he had changed by some process as effective as Flora's change, had been simplified somehow into service as she had been simplified into success. He was such a picture of inspired intervention as I had never yet conceived: he would exist henceforth for the sole purpose of rendering unnecessary, or rather impossible, any reference even on her own part to his wife's infirmity. Oh yes, how little desire he would ever give _me_ to refer to it! He principally after a while made me feel--and this was my second lesson--that, good-natured as he was, my being there to see it all oppressed him; so that by the time the act ended I recognised that I too had filled out my hour. Dawling remembered things; I think he caught in my very face the irony of old judgments: they made him thresh about in his chair. I said to Flora as I took leave of her that I would come to see her, but I may mention that I never went. I'd go to-morrow if I hear she wants me; but what in the world can she ever want? As I quitted them I laid my hand on Dawling's arm, and drew him for a moment into the lobby. "Why did you never write to me of your marriage?" He smiled uncomfortably, showing his long yellow teeth and something more. "I don't know--the whole thing gave me such a tremendous lot to do." This was the first dishonest speech I had heard him make: he really hadn't written because an idea that I would think him a still bigger fool than before. I didn't insist, but I tried there in the lobby, so far as a pressure of his hand could serve me, to give him a notion of what I thought him. "I can't at any rate make out," I said, "why I didn't hear from Mrs. Meldrum." "She didn't write to you?" "Never a word. What has become of her?" "I think she's at Folkestone," Dawling returned; "but I'm sorry to say that practically she has ceased to see us." "You haven't quarrelled with her?" "How _could_ we? Think of all we owe her. At the time of our marriage, and for months before, she did everything for us: I don't know how we should have managed without her. But since then she has never been near us and has given us rather markedly little encouragement to keep up relations with her." I was struck with this, though of course I admit I am struck with all sorts of things. "Well," I said after a moment, "even if I could imagine a reason for that attitude it wouldn't explain why she shouldn't have taken account of my natural interest." "Just so." Dawling's face was a windowless wall. He could contribute nothing to the mystery and, quitting him, I carried it away. It was not till I went down to ace Mrs. Meldrum that was really dispelled. She didn't want to hear of them or to talk of them, not a bit, and it was just in the same spirit that she hadn't wanted to write of them. She had done everything in the world for them, but now, thank heaven, the hard business was over. After I had taken this in, which I was quick to do, we quite avoided the subject. She simply couldn't bear it. 
11121	----	[Illustration: The Bracelets. Edgeworth.] [Illustration] THE BRACELETS; OR, AMIABILITY AND INDUSTRY REWARDED. BY MARIA EDGEWORTH, AUTHOR OF "POPULAR TALES," "MORAL TALES," ETC. ETC. With Illustrations from Original Designs. 1850. THE BRACELETS. * * * * * In a beautiful and retired part of England lived Mrs. Villars, a lady whose accurate understanding, benevolent heart, and steady temper, peculiarly fitted her for the most difficult, as well as most important of all occupations--the education of youth. This task she had undertaken; and twenty young persons were put under her care, with the perfect confidence of their parents. No young people could be happier; they were good and gay, emulous, but not envious of each other; for Mrs. Villars was impartially just. Her praise they felt to be the reward of merit, and her blame they knew to be the necessary consequence of ill conduct; to the one, therefore, they patiently submitted, and in the other consciously rejoiced. They rose with fresh cheerfulness in the morning, eager to pursue their various occupations; they returned in the evening with renewed ardour to their amusements, and retired to rest satisfied with themselves and pleased with each other. Nothing so much contributed to preserve a spirit of emulation in this little society as a small honorary distinction given annually, as the prize of successful application. The prize this year was peculiarly dear to each individual, as it was the picture of a friend whom they all dearly loved--it was the picture of Mrs. Villars in a small bracelet. It wanted neither gold, pearls, nor precious stones, to give it value. The two foremost candidates for the prize were Cecilia and Leonora. Cecilia was the most intimate friend of Leonora, but Leonora was only the favourite companion of Cecilia. Cecilia was of an active, ambitious, enterprising disposition; more eager in the pursuit than happy in the enjoyment of her wishes. Leonora was of a contented, unaspiring, temperate character, not easily roused to action, but indefatigable when once excited. Leonora was proud, Cecilia was vain. Her vanity made her more dependent upon the approbation of others, and therefore more anxious to please, than Leonora; but that very vanity made her, at the same time, more apt to offend. In short, Leonora was the most anxious to avoid what was wrong, Cecilia the most ambitious to do what was right. Few of their companions loved, but many were led by Cecilia, for she was often successful; many loved Leonora, but none were ever governed by her, for she was too indolent to govern. On the first day of May, about six o'clock in the evening, a great bell rang, to summon this little society into a hall, where the prize was to be decided. A number of small tables were placed in a circle in the middle of the hall; seats for the young competitors were raised one above another, in a semicircle, some yards distant from the table; and the judges' chairs, under canopies of lilacs and luburnums, forming another semicircle, closed the amphitheatre. Every one put their writings, their drawings, their works of various kinds, upon the tables appropriated for each. How unsteady were the last steps to these tables! How each little hand trembled as it laid down its claims! Till this moment every one thought herself secure of success, but now each felt an equal certainty of being excelled; and the heart which a few minutes before exulted with hope, now palpitated with fear. The works were examined, the preference adjudged; and the prize was declared to be the happy Cecilia's. Mrs. Villars came forward smiling, with the bracelet in her hand. Cecilia was behind her companions, on the highest row; all the others gave way, and she was on the floor in an instant. Mrs. Villars clasped the bracelet on her arm; the clasp was heard through the whole hall, and a universal smile of congratulation followed. Mrs. Villars kissed Cecilia's little hand; and "now," said she, "go and rejoice with your companions; the remainder of the day is yours." Oh! you whose hearts are elated with success, whose bosoms beat high with joy, in the moment of triumph, command yourselves; let that triumph be moderate, that it may be lasting. Consider that, though you are good, you may be better, and though wise, you may be weak. As soon as Mrs. Villars had given her the bracelet, all Cecilia's little companions crowded round her, and they all left the hall in an instant. She was full of spirits and vanity--she ran on, running down the flight of steps which led to the garden. In her violent haste, Cecilia threw down the little Louisa. Louisa had a china mandarin in her hand, which her mother had sent her that very morning; it was all broke to pieces by the fall. "Oh! my mandarin!" cried Louisa, bursting into tears. The crowd behind Cecilia suddenly stopped. Louisa sat on the lowest step, fixing her eyes upon the broken pieces; then turning round, she hid her face in her hands upon the step above her. In turning, Louisa threw down the remains of the mandarin; the head, which she had placed in the socket, fell from the shoulders, and rolled bounding along the gravel-walk. Cecilia pointed to the head and to the socket, and burst out laughing; the crowd behind laughed too. At any other time they would have been more inclined to cry with Louisa; but Cecilia had just been successful, and sympathy with the victorious often makes us forget justice. Leonora, however, preserved her usual consistency. "Poor Louisa!" said she, looking first at her, and then reproachfully at Cecilia. Cecilia turned sharply round, colouring, half with shame and half with vexation. "I could not help it, Leonora," said she. "But you could have helped laughing, Cecilia." "I didn't laugh at Louisa; and I surely may laugh, for it does nobody any harm." "I am sure, however," replied Leonora, "I should not have laughed if I had----" "No, to be sure you wouldn't, because Louisa is your favourite. I can buy her another mandarin the next time that old pedlar comes to the door, if that's all. I _can_ do no more. _Can_ I?" said she, turning round to her companions. "No, to be sure," said they, "that's all fair." Cecilia looked triumphantly at Leonora. Leonora let go her hand; she ran on, and the crowd followed. When she got to the end of the garden, she turned round to see if Leonora had followed her too; but was vexed to see her still sitting on the steps with Louisa. "I'm sure I can do no more than buy her another! _Can_ I?" said she, again appealing to her companions. "No, to be sure," said they, eager to begin their plays. How many did they begin and leave off before Cecilia could be satisfied with any. Her thoughts were discomposed, and her mind was running upon something else; no wonder then that she did not play with her usual address. She grew still more impatient; she threw down the nine-pins: "Come, let us play at something else--at threading the needle," said she, holding out her hand. They all yielded to the hand which wore the bracelet. But Cecilia, dissatisfied with herself, was discontented with everybody else; her tone grew more and more peremptory,--one was too rude, another too stiff; one was too slow, another too quick; in short, everything went wrong, and everybody was tired of her humours. The triumph of _success_ is absolute, but short. Cecilia's companions at length recollected that, though she had embroidered a tulip and painted a peach better than they, yet that they could play as well, and keep their tempers better: she was thrown out. Walking towards the house in a peevish mood, she met Leonora; she passed on. "Cecilia!" cried Leonora. "Well, what do you want with me?" "Are we friends?" "You know best." "We are; if you will let me tell Louisa that you are sorry--" Cecilia, interrupting her, "O! pray let me hear no more about Louisa!" "What! not confess that you were in the wrong! Oh, Cecilia! I had a better opinion of you." "Your opinion is of no consequence to me now; for you don't love me." "No, not when you are unjust, Cecilia." "Unjust! I am not unjust; and if I were, you are not my governess." "No, but am I not your friend?" "I don't desire to have such a friend, who would quarrel with me for happening to throw down little Louisa--how could I tell that she had a mandarin in her hand? and when it was broken, could I do more than promise her another? Was that unjust?" "But you know, Cecilia----" "_I know_," ironically, "I know, Leonora, that you love Louisa better than you do me; that's the injustice!" "If I did," replied Leonora gravely, "it would be no injustice, if she deserved it better." "How can you compare Louisa to me!" exclaimed Cecilia, indignantly. Leonora made no answer, for she was really hurt at her friend's conduct; she walked on to join the rest of her companions. They were dancing in a round upon the grass. Leonora declined dancing, but they prevailed upon her to sing for them; her voice was not so sprightly, but it was sweeter than usual. Who sung so sweetly as Leonora? or who danced so nimbly as Louisa? Away she was flying, all spirits and gayety, when Leonora's eyes full of tears, caught hers. Louisa silently let go her companions' hands, and quitting the dance, ran up to Leonora to inquire what was the matter with her. "Nothing," replied she, "that need interrupt you,--Go, my dear, and dance again." Louisa immediately ran away to her garden, and pulling off her little straw hat, she lined it with the freshest strawberry leaves, and was upon her knees before the strawberry bed when Cecilia came by. Cecilia was not disposed to be pleased with Louisa at that instant, for two reasons: because she was jealous of her, and because she had injured her. The injury, however, Louisa had already forgotten; perhaps, to tell things just as they were, she was not quite so much inclined to kiss Cecilia as she would have been before the fall of her mandarin, but this was the utmost extent of her malice, if it can be called malice. "What are you doing there, little one?" said Cecilia in a sharp tone. "Are you eating your early strawberries here all alone?" "No," said Louisa, mysteriously; "I am not eating them." "What are you doing with them--can't you answer then? I'm not playing with you, child!" "Oh! as to that, Cecilia, you know I need not answer you unless I choose it; not but what I would, if you would only ask me civilly--and if you would not call me _child_." "Why should not I call you child?" "Because--because--I don't know;--but I wish you would stand out of my light, Cecilia, for you are trampling upon all my strawberries." "I have not touched one, you covetous little creature!" "Indeed--indeed, Cecilia, I am not covetous. I have not eaten one of them--they are all for your friend Leonora. See how unjust you are." "Unjust! that's a cant word you learned of my friend Leonora, as you call her, but she is not my friend now." "Not your friend now!" exclaimed Louisa. "Then I am sure you must have done something _very_ naughty." "How!" said Cecilia, catching hold of her. "Let me go--Let me go!" cried Louisa, struggling. "I won't give you one of my strawberries, for I don't like you at all." "You don't, don't you?" said Cecilia, provoked; and catching the hat from Louisa, she flung the strawberries over the hedge. "Will nobody help me!" exclaimed Louisa, snatching her hat again, and running away with all her force. "What have I done?" said Cecilia, recollecting herself. "Louisa! Louisa!" She called very loud, but Louisa would not turn back! she was running to her companions. They were still dancing, hand in hand, upon the grass, whilst Leonora, sitting in the middle, sang to them. "Stop! stop! and hear me!" cried Louisa, breaking through them; and rushing up to Leonora, she threw her hat at her feet, and panting for breath---- "It was full--almost full of my own strawberries," said she, "the first I ever got out of my own garden. They should all have been for you, Leonora, but now I have not one left. They are all gone!" said she; and she hid her face in Leonora's lap. "Gone! gone where?" said every one at once, running up to her. "Cecilia! Cecilia!" said she, sobbing. "Cecilia!" repeated Leonora; "what of Cecilia?" "Yes, it was--it was." "Come along with me," said Leonora, unwilling to have her friend exposed; "come, and I will get you some more strawberries." "Oh, I don't mind the strawberries, indeed; but I wanted to have had the pleasure of giving them to you." Leonora took her up in her arms to carry her away, but it was too late. "What, Cecilia! Cecilia, who won the prize! It could not surely be Cecilia," whispered every busy tongue. At this instant the bell summoned them in. "There she is!--There she is!" cried they, pointing to an arbour, where Cecilia was standing, ashamed and alone; and as they passed her, some lifted up their hands and eyes with astonishment, others whispered and huddled mysteriously together, as if to avoid her. Leonora walked on, her head a little higher than usual. "Leonora!" said Cecilia, timorously, as she passed. "Oh, Cecilia! who would have thought that you had a bad heart?" Cecilia turned her head aside and burst into tears. "Oh no, indeed, she has not a bad heart," cried Louisa, running up to her, and throwing her arms round her neck; "she's very sorry!--are not you, Cecilia? But don't cry any more, for I forgive you with all my heart; and I love you now, though I said I did not when I was in a passion." "O, you sweet-tempered girl! how I love you," said Cecilia, kissing her. "Well then, if you do, come along with me, and dry your eyes, for they are so red." "Go, my dear, and I'll come presently." "Then I will keep a place for you next to me; but you must make haste, or you will have to come in when we have all set down to supper, and then you will be so stared at! So don't stay now." Cecilia followed Louisa with her eyes till she was out of sight. "And is Louisa," said she to herself, "the only one who would stop to pity me? Mrs. Villars told me that this day should be mine; she little thought how it would end!" Saying these words, Cecilia threw herself down upon the ground; her arm leaned upon a heap of turf which she had raised in the morning, and which in the pride and gayety of her heart, she had called her throne. At this instant, Mrs. Villars came out to enjoy the serenity of the evening, and passing by the arbour where Cecilia lay, she started; Cecilia rose hastily. "Who is there?" said Mrs. Villars. "It is I, madam." "And who is I?" "Cecilia." "Why, what keeps you here, my dear--where are your companions? this is, perhaps, one of the happiest days of your life." "O no, madam!" said Cecilia, hardly able to repress her tears. "Why, my dear, what is the matter?" Cecilia hesitated. "Speak, my dear. You know that when I ask you to tell me any thing as your friend, I never punish you as your governess; therefore you need not be afraid to tell me what is the matter." "No, madam, I am not afraid, but ashamed. You asked me why I was not with my companions. Why, madam, because they have all left me, and----" "And what, my dear?" "And I see that they all dislike me. And yet I don't know why they should, for I take as much pains to please as any of them. All my masters seem satisfied with me; and you yourself, ma'am, were pleased this very morning to give me this bracelet; and I am sure you would not have given it to any one who did not deserve it." "Certainly not. You did deserve it for your application--for your successful application. The prize was for the most assiduous, not for the most amiable." "Then if it had been for the most amiable it would not have been for me?" Mrs. Villars, smiling--"Why, what do you think yourself, Cecilia? You are better able to judge than I am. I can determine whether or no you apply to what I give you to learn; whether you attend to what I desire you to do, and avoid what I desire you not to do. I know that I like you as a pupil, but I cannot know that I should like you as a companion, unless I were your companion; therefore I must judge of what I should do by seeing what others do in the same circumstances." "O, pray don't, ma'am; for then you would not love me neither. And yet I think you would love me; for I hope that I am as ready to oblige, and as good-natured, as----" "Yes, Cecilia, I don't doubt but that you would be very good-natured to me, but I am afraid that I should not like you unless you were good-tempered too." "But, ma'am, by good-natured I mean good-tempered--it's all the same thing." "No, indeed, I understand by them two very different things. You are good-natured, Cecilia, for you are desirous to oblige and serve your companions, to gain them praise and save them from blame, to give them pleasure, and to relieve them from pain; but Leonora is good-tempered, for she can bear with their foibles, and acknowledge her own. Without disputing about the right, she sometimes yields to those who are in the wrong. In short, her temper is perfectly good, for it can bear and forbear." "I wish that mine could," said Cecilia, sighing. "It may," replied Mrs. Villars; "but it is not wishes alone which can improve us in any thing. Turn the same exertion and perseverance which have won you the prize to-day to this object, and you will meet with the same success; perhaps not on the first, the second, or the third attempt, but depend upon it that you will at last; every new effort will weaken your bad habits and strengthen your good ones. But you must not expect to succeed all at once; I repeat it to you, for habit must be counteracted by habit. It would be as extravagant in us to expect that all our faults could be destroyed by one punishment, were it ever so severe, as it was in the Roman emperor we were reading of a few days ago to wish that all the heads of his enemies were upon one neck, that he might cut them off by one blow." Here Mrs. Villars took Cecilia by the hand, and they began to walk home. Such was the nature of Cecilia's mind, that, when any object was forcibly impressed on her imagination, it caused a temporary suspension of her reasoning faculties. Hope was too strong a stimulus for her spirits; and when fear did take possession of her mind, it was attended with total debility. Her vanity was now as much mortified as in the morning it had been elated. She walked on with Mrs. Villars in silence until they came under the shade of the elm-tree walk, and then, fixing her eyes upon Mrs. Villars, she stopped short. "Do you think, madam," said she, with hesitation, "do you think, madam, that I have a bad heart?" "A bad heart, my dear! why, what put that into your head?" "Leonora said that I had, ma'am, and I felt ashamed when she said so." "But, my dear, how can Leonora tell whether your heart be good or bad? However, in the first place, tell me what you mean by a bad heart." "Indeed, I do not know what is meant by it, ma'am; but it is something which every body hates." "And why do they hate it?" "Because they think that it will hurt them, ma'am, I believe; and that those who have bad hearts take delight in doing mischief; and that they never do any body good but for their own ends." "Then the best definition which you can give me of a bad heart is that it is some constant propensity to hurt others, and to do wrong for the sake of doing wrong." "Yes, ma'am, but that is not all neither; there is still something else meant; something which I cannot express--which, indeed, I never distinctly understood; but of which, therefore, I was the more afraid." "Well, then, to begin with what you do understand, tell me, Cecilia, do you really think it possible to be wicked merely for the love of wickedness? No human being becomes wicked all at once; a man begins by doing wrong because it is, or because he thinks it is for his interest; if he continue to do so, he must conquer his sense of shame, and lose his love of virtue. But how can you, Cecilia, who feel such a strong sense of shame, and such an eager desire to improve, imagine that you have a bad heart?" "Indeed, madam, I never did, until every body told me so, and then I began to be frightened about it. This very evening, ma'am, when I was in a passion, I threw little Louisa's strawberries away; which, I am sure, I was very sorry for afterwards; and Leonora and every body cried out that I had a bad heart; but I am sure that I was only in a passion." "Very likely. And when you are in a passion, as you call it, Cecilia, you see that you are tempted to do harm to others; if they do not feel angry themselves, they do not sympathize with you; they do not perceive the motive which actuates you, and then they say that you have a bad heart. I dare say, however, when your passion is over, and when you recollect yourself, you are very sorry for what you have done and said; are not you?" "Yes, indeed, madam, very sorry." "Then make that sorrow of use to you, Cecilia, and fix it steadily in your thoughts, as you hope to be good and happy, that, if you suffer yourself to yield to your passion upon every trifling occasion, anger and its consequences will become familiar to your mind; and in the same proportion your sense of shame will be weakened, till what you began with doing from sudden impulse you will end with doing from habit and choice; and then you would, indeed, according to our definition, have a bad heart." "Oh, madam! I hope--I am sure I never shall." "No, indeed, Cecilia; I do, indeed, believe that you never will; on the contrary, I think that you have a very good disposition, and, what is of infinitely more consequence to you, an active desire of improvement. Show me that you have as much perseverance as you have candour, and I shall not despair of your becoming every thing that I could wish." Here Cecilia's countenance brightened, and she ran up the steps in almost as high spirits as she ran down them in the morning. "Good night to you, Cecilia," said Mrs. Villars, as she was crossing the hall. "Good night to you, madam," said Cecilia; and she ran up stairs to bed. She could not go to sleep, but she lay awake reflecting upon the events of the preceding day, and forming resolutions for the future; at the same time, considering that she had resolved, and resolved without effect, she wished to give her mind some more powerful motive; ambition she knew to be its most powerful incentive. "Have I not," said she to herself, "already won the prize of application, and cannot the same application procure me a much higher prize? Mrs. Villars said that if the prize had been promised to the most amiable it would not have been given to me; perhaps it would not yesterday--perhaps it might not to-morrow; but that is no reason that I should despair of ever deserving it." In consequence of this reasoning, Cecilia formed a design of proposing to her companions that they should give a prize, the first of the ensuing month (the first of June), to the most amiable. Mrs. Villars applauded the scheme, and her companions adopted it with the greatest alacrity. "Let the prize," said they, "be a bracelet of our own hair;" and instantly their shining scissors were procured, and each contributed a lock of her hair. They formed the most beautiful gradation of colours, from the palest auburn to the brightest black. Who was to have the honour of plaiting them was now the question. Caroline begged that she might, as she could plait very neatly, she said. Cecilia, however, was equally sure that she could do it much better, and a dispute would inevitably have ensued, if Cecilia, recollecting herself just as her colour rose to scarlet, had not yielded--yielded with no very good grace indeed, but as well as could be expected for the first time. For it is habit which confers ease; and without ease, even in moral actions, there can be no grace. The bracelet was plaited in the neatest manner by Caroline, finished round the edge with silver twist, and on it was worked, in the smallest silver letters, this motto, TO THE MOST AMIABLE. The moment it was completed, every body begged to try it on. It fastened with little silver clasps, and as it was made large enough for the eldest girls, it was too large for the youngest; of this they bitterly complained, and unanimously entreated that it might be cut to fit them. "How foolish!" exclaimed Cecilia. "Don't you perceive that, if you win it, you have nothing to do but to put the clasps a little further from the edge? but if we get it, we can't make it larger." "Very true," said they, "but you need not to have called us foolish, Cecilia!" It was by such hasty and unguarded expressions as these that Cecilia offended; a slight difference in the manner makes a very material one in the effect. Cecilia lost more love by general petulance than she could gain by the greatest particular exertions. How far she succeeded in curing herself of this defect, how far she became deserving of the bracelet, and to whom the bracelet was given, shall be told in the history of the first of June. CONTINUATION OF THE BRACELETS. The first of June was now arrived, and all the young competitors were in a state of the most anxious suspense. Leonora and Cecilia continued to be the foremost candidates; their quarrel had never been finally adjusted, and their different pretensions now retarded all thoughts of a reconciliation. Cecilia, though she was capable of acknowledging any of her faults in public before all her companions, could not humble herself in private to Leonora; Leonora was her equal, they were her inferiors; and submission is much easier to a vain mind, where it appears to be voluntary, than when it is the necessary tribute to justice or candour. So strongly did Cecilia feel this truth that she even delayed making any apology, or coming to any explanation with Leonora, until success should once more give her the palm. If I win the bracelet to-day, said she to herself, I will solicit the return of Leonora's friendship; it will be more valuable to me than even the bracelet; and at such a time, and asked in such a manner, she surely cannot refuse it to me. Animated with this hope of a double triumph, Cecilia canvassed with the most zealous activity; by constant attention and exertion she had considerably abated the violence of her temper, and changed the course of her habits. Her powers of pleasing were now excited, instead of her abilities to excel; and, if her talents appeared less brilliant, her character was acknowledged to be more amiable; so great an influence upon our manners and conduct have the objects of our ambition. Cecilia was now, if possible, more than ever desirous of doing what was right, but she had not yet acquired sufficient fear of doing wrong. This was the fundamental error of her mind; it arose in a great measure from her early education. Her mother died when she was very young; and though her father had supplied her place in the best and kindest manner, he had insensibly infused into his daughter's mind a portion of that enterprising, independent spirit, which he justly deemed essential to the character of her brother. This brother was some years older than Cecilia, but he had always been the favourite companion of her youth; what her father's precepts inculcated, his example enforced, and even Cecilia's virtues consequently became such as were more estimable in a man than desirable in a female. All small objects and small errors she had been taught to disregard as trifles; and her impatient disposition was perpetually leading her into more material faults; yet her candour in confessing these, she had been suffered to believe, was sufficient reparation and atonement. Leonora, on the contrary, who had been educated by her mother in a manner more suited to her sex, had a character and virtues more peculiar to a female; her judgment had been early cultivated, and her good sense employed in the regulation of her conduct; she had been habituated to that restraint, which, as a woman, she was to expect in life, and early accustomed to yield; compliance in her seemed natural and graceful. Yet, notwithstanding the gentleness of her temper, she was in reality more independent than Cecilia; she had more reliance upon her own judgment, and more satisfaction in her own approbation. Though far from insensible to praise, she was not liable to be misled by the indiscriminate love of admiration; the uniform kindness of her manner, the consistency and equality of her character, had fixed the esteem and passive love of her companions. By passive love, we mean that species of affection which makes us unwilling to offend, rather than anxious to oblige; which is more a habit than an emotion of the mind. For Cecilia, her companions felt active love, for she was active in showing her love to them. Active love arises spontaneously in the mind, after feeling particular instances of kindness, without reflection on the past conduct or general character; it exceeds the merits of its object, and is connected with a feeling of generosity, rather than with a sense of justice. Without determining which species of love is the more flattering to others, we can easily decide which is the most agreeable feeling to our own minds; we give our hearts more credit for being generous than for being just; and we feel more self-complacency when we give our love voluntarily, than when we yield it as a tribute which we cannot withhold. Though Cecilia's companions might not know all this in theory, they proved it in practice; for they loved her in a much higher proportion to her merits than they loved Leonora. Each of the young judges were to signify their choice by putting a red or a white shell into a vase prepared for the purpose. Cecilia's colour was red, Leonora's white. In the morning nothing was to be seen but these shells, nothing talked of but the long-expected event of the evening. Cecilia, following Leonora's example, had made it a point of honour not to inquire of any individual her vote previous to their final determination. They were both sitting together in Louisa's room; Louisa was recovering from the measles. Every one, during her illness, had been desirous of attending her; but Leonora and Cecilia were the only two that were permitted to see her, as they alone had had the distemper. They were both assiduous in their care of Louisa; but Leonora's want of exertion to overcome any disagreeable feelings of sensibility often deprived her of presence of mind, and prevented her being so constantly useful as Cecilia. Cecilia, on the contrary, often made too much noise and bustle with her officious assistance, and was too anxious to invent amusements and procure comforts for Louisa, without perceiving that illness takes away the power of enjoying them. As she was sitting in the window in the morning, exerting herself to entertain Louisa, she heard the voice of an old pedlar who often used to come to the house. Down stairs she ran immediately to ask Mrs. Villars's permission to bring him into the hall. Mrs. Villars consented, and away Cecilia ran to proclaim the news to her companions; then first returning into the hall, she found the pedlar just unbuckling his box, and taking it off his shoulders. "What would you be pleased to want, Miss?" said he. "I've all kinds of tweezer-cases, rings, and lockets of all sorts," continued he, opening all the glittering drawers successively. "Oh!" said Cecilia, shutting the drawer of lockets which tempted her most, "these are not the things which I want; have you any china figures, any mandarins?" "Alack-a-day, Miss, I had a great stock of that same china ware, but now I'm quite out of them kind of things; but I believe," said he, rummaging in one of the deepest drawers, "I believe I have one left, and here it is." "Oh, that is the very thing! what's its price?" "Only three shillings, ma'am." Cecilia paid the money, and was just going to carry off the mandarin, when the pedlar took out of his great-coat pocket a neat mahogany case; it was about a foot long, and fastened at each end by two little clasps; it had besides a small lock in the middle. "What is that?" said Cecilia, eagerly. "It's only a china figure, Miss, which I am going to carry to an elderly lady, who lives nigh at hand, and who is mighty fond of such things." "Could you let me look at it?" "And welcome, Miss," said he, and opened the case. "O goodness! how beautiful!" exclaimed Cecilia. It was a figure of Flora, crowned with roses, and carrying a basket of flowers in her hand. Cecilia contemplated it with delight. "How I should like to give this to Louisa," said she to herself; and at last breaking silence, "Did you promise it to the old lady?" "O no, Miss; I didn't promise it--she never saw it; and if so be that you'd like to take it, I'd make no more words about it." "And how much does it cost?" "Why, Miss, as to that, I'll let you have it for half-a-guinea." [Illustration] Cecilia immediately produced the box in which she kept her treasure, and emptying it upon the table, she began to count the shillings; alas! there were but six shillings. "How provoking!" said she; "then I can't have it--where's the mandarin? O I have it," said she, taking it up, and looking at it with the utmost disgust. "Is this the same that I had before?" "Yes, Miss, the very same," replied the pedlar, who, during this time, had been examining the little box out of which Cecilia had taken her money; it was of silver. "Why, ma'am," said he, "since you've taken such a fancy to the piece, if you've a mind to make up the remainder of the money, I will take this here little box, if you care to part with it." Now this box was a keepsake from Leonora to Cecilia. "No," said Cecilia hastily, blushing a little, and stretching out her hand to receive it. "Oh, Miss!" said he, returning it carelessly, "I hope there's no offence; I meant but to serve you, that's all. Such a rare piece of china-work has no cause to go a begging," added he, putting the Flora deliberately into the case; then turning the key with a jerk, he let it drop into his pocket, and lifting up his box by the leather straps, he was preparing to depart. "Oh, stay one minute!" said Cecilia, in whose mind there had passed a very warm conflict during the pedlar's harangue. "Louisa would so like this Flora," said she, arguing with herself; "besides, it would be so generous in me to give it to her instead of that ugly mandarin; that would be doing only common justice, for I promised it to her, and she expects it. Though, when I come to look at this mandarin, it is not even so good as hers was; the gilding is all rubbed off, so that I absolutely must buy this for her. O yes, I will, and she will be so delighted! and then every body will say it is the prettiest thing they ever saw, and the broken mandarin will be forgotten forever." Here Cecilia's hand moved, and she was just going to decide: "O! but stop," said she to herself; "consider Leonora gave me this box, and it is a keepsake; however, now we have quarreled, and I dare say that she would not mind my parting with it; I'm sure that I should not care if she was to give away my keepsake the smelling bottle, or the ring which I gave her; so what does it signify; besides, is it not my own, and have I not a right to do what I please with it?" At this dangerous instant for Cecilia, a party of her companions opened the door; she knew that they came as purchasers, and she dreaded her Flora's becoming the prize of some higher bidder. "Here," said she, hastily putting the box into the pedlar's hand, without looking at it; "take it, and give me the Flora." Her hand trembled, though she snatched it impatiently; she ran by, without seeming to mind any of her companions--she almost wished to turn back. Let those who are tempted to do wrong by the hopes of future gratification, or the prospect of certain concealment and impunity, remember that, unless they are totally depraved, they bear in their own hearts a monitor who will prevent their enjoying what they have ill obtained. In vain Cecilia ran to the rest of her companions, to display her present, in hopes that the applause of others would restore her own self-complacency; in vain she saw the Flora pass in due pomp from hand to hand, each viewing with the other in extolling the beauty of the gift and the generosity of the giver. Cecilia was still displeased with herself, with them, and even with their praise; from Louisa's gratitude, however, she yet expected much pleasure, and immediately she ran up stairs to her room. In the mean time Leonora had gone into the hall to buy a bodkin; she had just broken hers. In giving her change, the pedlar took out of his pocket, with some half-pence, the very box which Cecilia had sold him. Leonora did not in the least suspect the truth, for her mind was above suspicion; and besides, she had the utmost confidence in Cecilia. "I should like to have that box," said she, "for it is like one of which I was very fond." The pedlar named the price, and Leonora took the box; she intended to give it to little Louisa. On going to her room she found her asleep, and she sat down softly by her bed-side. Louisa opened her eyes. "I hope I didn't disturb you," said Leonora. "O no; I didn't hear you come in; but what have you got there?" "It is only a little box; would you like to have it? I bought it on purpose for you, as I thought perhaps it would please you; because it's like that which I gave Cecilia." "O yes! that out of which she used to give me Barbary drops. I am very much obliged to you. I always thought _that_ exceedingly pretty; and this, indeed, is as like it as possible. I can't unscrew it; will you try?" Leonora unscrewed it. "Goodness!" exclaimed Louisa, "this must be Cecilia's box; look, don't you see a great L at the bottom of it?" Leonora's colour changed. "Yes," she replied calmly, "I see that, but it is no proof that it is Cecilia's; you know that I bought this box just now of the pedlar." "That may be," said Louisa; "but I remember scratching that L with my own needle, and Cecilia scolded me for it, too. Do go and ask her if she has lost her box--do," repeated Louisa, pulling her by the sleeve, as she did not seem to listen. Leonora indeed did not hear, for she was lost in thought; she was comparing circumstances, which had before escaped her attention. She recollected that Cecilia had passed her as she came into the hall, without seeming to see her, but had blushed as she passed. She remembered that the pedlar appeared unwilling to part with the box, and was going to put it again into his pocket with the half-pence; "and why should he keep it in his pocket and not show it with his other things?" Combining all these circumstances, Leonora had no longer any doubt of the truth; for though she had honourable confidence in her friends, she had too much penetration to be implicitly credulous. "Louisa," she began, but at this instant she heard a step, which, by its quickness, she knew to be Cecilia's, coming along the passage. "If you love me, Louisa," said Leonora, "say nothing about the box." "Nay, but why not? I dare say she has lost it." "No, my dear, I am afraid she has not." Louisa looked surprised. "But I have reasons for desiring you not to say any thing about it." "Well, then, I won't, indeed." Cecilia opened the door, came forward smiling, as if secure of a good reception, and, taking the Flora out of the case, she placed it on the mantel-piece, opposite to Louisa's bed. "Dear, how beautiful," cried Louisa, starting up. "Yes," said Cecilia, "and guess who it's for?" "For me, perhaps!" said the ingenuous Louisa. "Yes, take it, and keep it for my sake; you know that I broke your mandarin." "O! but this is a great deal prettier and larger than that." "Yes, I know it is; and I meant that it should be so. I should only have done what I was bound to do if I had only given you a mandarin." "Well, and that would have been enough, surely; but what a beautiful crown of roses! and then that basket of flowers! they almost look as if I could smell them. Dear Cecilia! I'm very much obliged to you, but I won't take it by way of payment for the mandarin you broke; for I'm sure you could not help that; and, besides, I should have broken it myself by this time. You shall give it to me entirely, and I'll keep it as long as I live as your keepsake." Louisa stopped short and coloured. The word keepsake recalled the box to her mind, and all the train of ideas which the Flora had banished. "But," said she, looking up wishfully in Cecilia's face, and holding the Flora doubtfully, "did you----" Leonora, who was just quitting the room, turned her head back, and gave Louisa a look, which silenced her. Cecilia was so infatuated with her vanity, that she neither perceived Leonora's sign, nor Louisa's confusion, but continued showing off her present, by placing it in various situations, till at length she put it into the case, and laying it down with an affected carelessness upon the bed, "I must go now, Louisa. Good bye," said she, running up and kissing her; "but I'll come again presently;" then clapping the door after her, she went. But as soon as the fermentation of her spirits subsided, the sense of shame, which had been scarcely felt when mixed with so many other sensations, rose uppermost in her mind. "What?" said she to herself, "is it possible that I have sold what I promised to keep for ever? and what Leonora gave me? and I have concealed it too, and have been making a parade of my generosity. O! what would Leonora, what would Louisa, what would every body think of me, if the truth were known?" Humiliated and grieved by these reflections, Cecilia began to search in her own mind for some consoling idea. She began to compare her conduct with the conduct of others of her own age; and at length, fixing her comparison upon her brother George, as the companion of whom, from her infancy, she had been habitually the most emulous, she recollected that an almost similar circumstance had once happened to him, and that he had not only escaped disgrace, but had acquired glory by an intrepid confession of his fault. Her father's words to her brother, on that occasion, she also perfectly recollected. "Come to me, George," he said, holding out his hand; "you are a generous, brave boy. They who dare to confess their faults will make great and good men." These were his words; but Cecilia, in repeating them to herself, forgot to lay that emphasis on the word _men_, which would have placed it in contradistinction to the word women. She willingly believed that the observation extended equally to both sexes, and flattered herself that she should exceed her brother in merit, if she owned a fault which she thought that it would be so much more difficult to confess. "Yes, but," said she, stopping herself, "how can I confess it? This very evening, in a few hours, the prize will be decided; Leonora or I shall win it. I have now as good a chance as Leonora, perhaps a better; and must I give up all my hopes? all that I have been labouring for this month past! O, I never can;--if it were to-morrow, or yesterday, or any day but this, I would not hesitate, but now I am almost certain of the prize, and if I win it--well, why then I will--I think, I will tell all--yes, I will; I am determined," said Cecilia. Here a bell summoned them to dinner. Leonora sat opposite to her, and she was not a little surprised to see Cecilia look so gay and unrestrained. "Surely," said she to herself, "if Cecilia had done this, that I suspect, she would not, she could not look as she does." But Leonora little knew the cause of her gayety; Cecilia was never in higher spirits, or better pleased with herself, than when she had resolved upon a sacrifice or a confession. "Must not this evening be given to the most amiable? Whose, then, will it be?" All eyes glanced first at Cecilia and then at Leonora. Cecilia smiled; Leonora blushed. "I see that it is not yet decided," said Mrs. Villars; and immediately they ran up stairs, amidst confused whisperings. Cecilia's voice could be distinguished far above the rest. "How can she be so happy?" said Leonora to herself. "O, Cecilia, there was a time when you could not have neglected me so!--when we were always together, the best of friends and companions, our wishes, tastes, and pleasures the same. Surely she did once love me," said Leonora; "but now she is quite changed. She has even sold my keepsake, and would rather win a bracelet of hair from girls whom she did not always think so much superior to Leonora, than have my esteem, my confidence, and my friendship, for her whole life; yes, for her whole life, for I am sure she will be an amiable woman. Oh that this bracelet had never been thought of, or that I was certain of her winning it; for I am certain that I do not wish to win it from her. I would rather, a thousand times rather, that we were as we used to be, than have all the glory in the world. And how pleasing Cecilia can be when she wishes to please! how candid she is! how much she can improve herself!--let me be just, though she has offended me--she is wonderfully improved within this last month; for one fault, and _that_ against myself, should I forget all her merits?" As Leonora said these last words, she could but just hear the voices of her companions; they had left her alone in the gallery. She knocked softly at Louisa's door----"Come in," said Louisa. "I in not asleep. Oh," said she, starting up with the Flora in her hand, the instant that the door was opened. "I'm so glad you are come, Leonora, for I did so long to hear what you were all making such a noise about--have you forgot that the bracelet----" "O yes! is this the evening?" "Well, here's my white shell for you. I've kept it in my pocket this fortnight; and though Cecilia did give me this Flora, I still love you a great deal better." "I thank you, Louisa," said Leonora, gratefully. "I will take your shell, and I shall value it as long as I live. But here is a red one, and if you wish to show me that you love me, you will give this to Cecilia. I know that she is particularly anxious for your preference, and I am sure that she deserves it." "Yes, if I could I would choose both of you; but you know I can only choose which I like the best." "If you mean, my dear Louisa," said Leonora, "that you like me the best, I am very much obliged to you; for, indeed I wish you to love me; but it is enough for me to know it in private. I should not feel the least more pleasure at hearing it in public, or in having it made known to all my companions, especially at a time when it would give poor Cecilia a great deal of pain." "But why should it give her pain? I don't like her for being jealous of you." "Nay, Louisa, surely you don't think Cecilia jealous; she only tries to excel and to please. She is more anxious to succeed than I am, it is true, because she has a great deal more activity, and perhaps more ambition; and it would really mortify her to lose this prize. You know that she proposed it herself; it has been her object for this month past, and I am sure she has taken great pains to obtain it." "But, dear Leonora, why should you lose it?" "Indeed, my dear, it would be no loss to me; and, if it were, I would willingly suffer it for Cecilia; for, though we seem not to be such good friends as we used to be, I love her very much, and she will love me again, I'm sure she will; when she no longer fears me as a rival, she will again love me as a friend." Here Leonora heard a number of her companions running along the gallery. They all knocked hastily at the door, calling, "Leonora! Leonora! will you never come? Cecilia has been with us this half hour." Leonora smiled. "Well, Louisa," said she, smiling, "will you promise me?" "O, I'm sure, by the way they speak to you, that they won't give you the prize!" said the little Louisa; and the tears started into her eyes. "They love me though, for all that; and as for the prize, you know whom I wish to have it." "Leonora! Leonora!" called her impatient companions; "don't you hear us? What are you about?" "O, she never will take any trouble about any thing," said one of the party; "let's go away." "O go! go! make haste," cried Louisa; "don't stay, they are so angry--I will, I will, indeed!" "Remember, then, that you have promised me," said Leonora, and she left the room. During all this time Cecilia had been in the garden with her companions. The ambition which she had felt to win the first prize, the prize of superior talents and superior application, was not to be compared to the absolute anxiety which she now expressed to win this simple testimony of the love and approbation of her equals and rivals. To employ her exuberant activity, she had been dragging branches of lilacs, and laburnums, roses, and sweet-briar, to ornament the bower in which her fate was to be decided. It was excessively hot, but her mind was engaged, and she was indefatigable. She stood still, at last, to admire her works; her companions all joined in loud applause. They were not a little prejudiced in her favour by the great eagerness which she expressed to win their prize, and by the great importance which she seemed to affix to the preference of each individual. At last, "Where is Leonora?" cried one of them, and immediately, as we have seen, they ran to call her. Cecilia was left alone. Overcome with heat and too violent exertion, she had hardly strength to support herself; each moment appeared to her intolerably long; she was in a state of the utmost suspense, and all her courage failed her; even hope forsook her, and hope is a cordial which leaves the mind depressed and enfeebled. "The time is now come," said Cecilia; "in a few moments it will be decided. In a few moments! goodness! how much I do hazard! If I should not win the prize, how shall I confess what I have done? How shall I beg Leonora to forgive me? I, who hoped to restore my friendship to her as an honour!--they are gone to seek for her--the moment she appears I shall be forgotten--what shall--what shall I do?" said Cecilia, covering her face with her hands. Such was her situation, when Leonora, accompanied by her companions, opened the hall-door; they most of them ran forward to Cecilia. As Leonora came into the bower, she held out her hand to Cecilia----"We are not rivals, but friends, I hope," said she. Cecilia clasped her hand, but she was in too great agitation to speak. The table was now set in the arbour--the vase was now placed in the middle. "Well!" said Cecilia, eagerly, "who begins?" Caroline, one of her friends, came forward first, and then all the others successively. Cecilia's emotion was hardly conceivable.----"Now they are all in. Count them, Caroline!" "One, two, three, four; the numbers are both equal." There was a dead silence. "No, they are not," exclaimed Cecilia, pressing forward and putting a shell into the vase----"I have not given mine, and I give it to Leonora." Then snatching the bracelet, "It is yours, Leonora," said she; "take it, and give me back your friendship." The whole assembly gave a universal clap and shout of applause. "I cannot be surprised at this from you, Cecilia," said Leonora; "and do you then still love me as you used to do?" "O Leonora! stop! don't praise me; I don't deserve this," said she, turning to her loudly applauding companions; "you will soon despise me--O Leonora, you will never forgive me!--I have deceived you--I have sold----" At this instant Mrs. Villars appeared--the crowd divided--she had heard all that passed from her window. "I applaud your generosity, Cecilia," said she, "but I am to tell you that in this instance it is unsuccessful; you have it not in your power to give the prize to Leonora--it is yours--I have another vote to give you--you have forgotten Louisa." "Louisa! but surely, ma'am, Louisa loves Leonora better than she does me!" "She commissioned me, however," said Mrs. Villars, "to give you a red shell, and you will find it in this box." Cecilia started, and turned as pale as death--it was the fatal box. Mrs. Villars produced another box--she opened it--it contained the Flora--"And Louisa also desired me," said she, "to return you this Flora"--she put it into Cecilia's hand--Cecilia trembled so that she could not hold it; Leonora caught it. "O, madam! O, Leonora!" exclaimed Cecilia; "now I have no hope left. I intended, I was just going to tell----" "Dear Cecilia," said Leonora, "you need not tell it me; I know it already, and I forgive you with all my heart." "Yes, I can prove to you," said Mrs. Villars, "that Leonora has forgiven you: it is she who has given you the prize; it was she who persuaded Louisa to give you her vote. I went to see her a little while ago, and perceiving, by her countenance, that something was the matter, I pressed her to tell me what it was. "'Why, madam,' said she, 'Leonora has made me promise to give my shell to Cecilia. Now I don't love Cecilia half so well as I do Leonora; besides, I would not have Cecilia think I vote for her because she gave me a Flora.' Whilst Louisa was speaking," continued Mrs. Villars, "I saw the silver box lying on the bed; I took it up, and asked if it was not yours, and how she came by it. "'Indeed, madam,' said Louisa, 'I could have been almost certain that it was Cecilia's; but Leonora gave it me, and she said that she bought it of the pedlar this morning. If any body else had told me so, I could not have believed them, because I remembered the box so well; but I can't help believing Leonora.' "'But did you not ask Cecilia about it?' said I. "'No, madam,' replied Louisa, 'for Leonora forbade me.' "I guessed her reason. 'Well,' said I, 'give me the box, and I will carry your shell in it to Cecilia.' "'Then, madam,' said she, 'if I must give it her, pray do take the Flora, and return it to her first, that she may not think it is for that I do it.'" "O, generous Leonora!" exclaimed Cecilia; "but indeed, Louisa, I cannot take your shell." "Then, dear Cecilia, accept of mine instead of it; you cannot refuse it--I only follow your example. As for the bracelet," added Leonora, taking Cecilia's hand, "I assure you I don't wish for it, and you do, and you deserve it." "No," said Cecilia, "indeed I do not deserve it; next to you, surely, Louisa deserves it best." "Louisa! O yes, Louisa," exclaimed every body with one voice. "Yes," said Mrs. Villars, "and let Cecilia carry the bracelet to her; she deserves that reward. For one fault I cannot forget all your merits, Cecilia; nor, I am sure, will your companions." "Then, surely, not your best friend," said Leonora, kissing her. Every body present was moved--they looked up to Leonora with respectful and affectionate admiration. "O, Leonora, how I love you! and how I wish to be like you!" exclaimed Cecilia; "to be as good, as generous!" "Rather wish, Cecilia," interrupted Mrs. Villars, "to be as just; to be as strictly honourable, and as invariably consistent. "Remember that many of our sex are capable of great efforts, of making what they call great sacrifices to virtue or to friendship; but few treat their friends with habitual gentleness, or uniformly conduct themselves with prudence and good sense." THE END. A CATALOGUE OF ILLUSTRATED AND ENTERTAINING JUVENILE WORKS. [Illustration] LITTLE ANNIE'S FIRST BOOK, CHIEFLY IN WORDS OF THREE LETTERS. 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UNCLE JOHN'S STORIES OF ANIMALS. UNCLE JOHN'S BIBLE STORIES. 
44071	----	Transcribers Note: The typesetting in the book was poor, all errors have been retained as printed. [Illustration: G. L. Brown. S. Schoff. LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS AT PLIMOUTH 11th. DEC. 1620.] THE SIN AND DANGER OF SELF-LOVE DESCRIBED, IN A SERMON PREACHED AT PLYMOUTH, IN NEW-ENGLAND, 1621, BY ROBERT CUSHMAN. WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY CHARLES EWER, AND FOR SALE BY CROCKER & BREWSTER, SAMUEL G. DRAKE, LITTLE & BROWN, JAMES MUNROE & COMPANY, BENJAMIN PERKINS, AND JAMES LORING. DEC. 22, 1846. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, BY HON. JOHN DAVIS, LATE JUDGE OF THE U. S. DISTRICT COURT, MASSACHUSETTS DISTRICT. ROBERT CUSHMAN, the author of the preceding discourse, was one of the most distinguished characters among that collection of worthies, who quitted England on account of their religious difficulties, and settled with Mr. _John Robinson_, their pastor in the city of Leyden, in Holland, in the year 1609. Proposing afterwards a removal to America in the year 1617, Mr. Cushman and Mr. John Carver, (afterwards the first Governor of New-Plymouth) were sent over to England, as their agents, to agree with the Virginia Company for a settlement, and to obtain, if possible, a grant of liberty of conscience in their intended plantation, from King James. From this negotiation though conducted on their part with great discretion and ability, they returned unsuccessful to Leyden, in May 1618. They met with no difficulty indeed with the Virginia Company, who were willing to grant them sufficient territory, with as ample privileges as they could bestow: but the pragmatical James, the pretended vicegerent of the Deity, refused to grant them that liberty in religious matters, which was their principal object--when this persevering people finally determined to transport themselves to this country, relying upon James's promise that he would _connive_ at, though not expressly _tolerate_ them; Mr. Cushman was again dispatched to England in February 1619, with Mr. William Bradford, another of the company, to agree with the Virginia Company on the terms of their removal and settlement. After much difficulty and delay, they obtained a patent in the September following, upon which part of the Church at Leyden, with their Elder Mr. Brewster determined to transport themselves as soon as possible. Mr. Cushman was one of the agents in England to procure money, shipping and other necessaries for the voyage, and finally embarked with them at South-Hampton, August 5th, 1620. But the ship, in which he sailed, proving leaky, and after twice putting into port to repair, being finally condemned as unfit to perform the voyage, Mr. Cushman with his family, and a number of others were obliged, though reluctantly, to relinquish the voyage for that time and returned to London. Those in the other ship proceeded and made their final settlement at Plymouth in December 1620, where Mr. Cushman also arrived in the ship Fortune from London, on the 10th of November 1621, but took passage in the same ship back again, pursuant to the directions of the merchant adventurers in London, (who fitted out the ship and by whose assistance the first settlers were transported) to give them an account of the plantation.[A] He sailed from Plymouth December 13th, 1621, and arriving on the coast of England, the ship, with a cargo, valued at 500l. sterling, was taken by the French. Mr. Cushman, with the crew, was carried into France; but arrived in London in the February following. During his short residence at Plymouth, though a mere lay character, he delivered the preceding discourse, which was printed in London in 1622, and afterwards re-printed in Boston in 1724. And though his name is not prefixed to either edition, yet unquestionable tradition renders it certain that he was the author, and even transmits to us a knowledge of the spot where it was delivered. Mr. Cushman, though he constantly corresponded with his friends here, and was very serviceable to their interest in London--never returned to the country again, but while preparing for it was removed to a better, in the year 1626. The news of his death and Mr. Robinson's arrived at the same time at Plymouth, by Captain Standish, and seem to have been equally lamented by their bereaved and suffering friends there. He was zealously engaged in the prosperity of the plantation, a man of activity and enterprise, well versed in business, respectable in point of intellectual abilities, well accomplished in scriptural knowledge, an unaffected professor, and a steady sincere practiser of religion. The design of the following discourse was to keep up the noble flow of public spirit, which perhaps began then to abate, but which was necessary for their preservation and security. [Footnote A: It seems to be a mistaken idea that Mr. Cushman started in the smaller vessel, which put back on account of its proving leaky. This mistake has arisen from the fact that Mr. C. was left in England in 1620, and did not come over in the Mayflower with the first emigrants. The fact is that Mr. Cushman procured 'the larger vessel,' the Mayflower, and its pilot at London and left in that vessel; but in consequence of the unsoundness of the smaller vessel, the Speedwell, it became necessary that part of the pilgrims should be left behind, and consequently Mr. Cushman, whom Gov. Bradford called 'the right hand with the adventurers,' and who 'for divers years had managed all our business with them to our great advantage,' was selected as one who would be best able to keep together that portion of the flock left behind. Although Mr. Cushman did not come over in the Mayflower, yet such was the respect for him among those who did come, that his name is placed at the head of those who came in that ship, in the allotment of land at a time when he was not in New England. N. B. S.] After the death of Mr. Cushman, his family came over to New England. His son, Thomas Cushman, succeeded Mr. Brewster, as ruling elder of the Church of Plymouth, being ordained to that office in 1649. He was a man of good gifts, and frequently assisted in carrying on the public worship, preaching, and catechising. For it was one professed principle of that Church, in its first formation, 'to choose none for governing Elders, but such as were able to teach.' He continued in this office till he died, in 1691, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. LETTER FROM JUDGE DAVIS. BOSTON, DEC. 21, 1846. DEAR SIR: Having communicated to me your intention of publishing a new edition of Robert Cushman's memorable discourse, delivered in Plymouth, 1621, together with the memoir of the author, which I prepared for the edition printed by Nathaniel Coverly in Plymouth, in 1785; I take the liberty to advise you to follow for your purpose that copy of the memoir which was inserted by the Rev. Dr. Belknap in the second volume of his American Biography, with the addition of some particulars respecting the family, especially of elder Thomas Cushman, son of Robert Cushman, and who, like his father, was held in high esteem by all his cotemporaries. The original memoir prepared for the Plymouth edition, was anonymous. My highly esteemed friend the Rev. Dr. Belknap, in giving it a place in his valuable work was pleased to announce the name of the writer. The remarks on the discourse originally accompanying the memoir, were prompted by views supposed to have been adopted by the Plymouth pioneers respecting property and civil polity, in which I was afterwards convinced I had made a mistake. I had adopted an opinion corresponding with that of Dr. Robertson and other writers, that misguided by their religious theories and in imitation of the primitive christians, they voluntarily threw all their property into a common stock. And that their difficulties and embarrassments were greatly enhanced by adopting, and perseveringly adhering to an impracticable system. But further inquiry induced the conviction that this conjecture was erroneous, and that the severe pressure they experienced, was in a great degree produced by the operation of their articles of agreement with the adventurers in England, which established a community of interest for seven years, and prevented the holding in severalty the fruits of their industry and enterprise. These views of the subject, and an acknowledgement of my previous mistake, were expressed in a discourse delivered at Plymouth, in the year 1800, on the anniversary of the landing of the fathers. The Rev. Mr. Abbot of Beverly, afterwards, on a like occasion, without any knowledge of the contents of that discourse, which was not published, was led in his investigation of the subject, into a similar conclusion, and fully vindicated the pilgrims from the censures which had been expressed relative to this branch of their proceedings. The onerous connection with the merchant adventurers remained until 1627, when an amicable and satisfactory settlement was made with them by a purchase of all their interest in the concern. The sum contracted to be given for this purchase, was 1800 pounds sterling, payable by instalments of 200 pounds annually. Thus says Governor Bradford in one of his letters: "All now is become our own, as we say in the proverb, when our debts are paid. And doubtless this was a great mercy of God unto us, and a great means of peace and better subsistence, and wholly dashed all the plots and devices of our enemies, both there and here, who daily expected our ruin, dispersion and utter subversion by the same; but their hopes were thus far prevented though with great care and labor, we were left to struggle with the payment of the money." Under these impressions I think it will be well for you to omit the insertion of the remarks above mentioned on Mr. Cushman's discourse. That discourse is a precious relic of ancient times, the sound sense, good advice, and pious spirit, which it manifests, will, it may be hoped, now, and in all future time, meet with approval and beneficial acceptance in our community. The information contained in the note of your correspondent respecting Mr. Cushman's embarcation, and the assignment of land made to him in the colony, is believed to be correct. _Respectfully Your Ob't. Servant_, J. DAVIS. To CHARLES EWER, Esq. TO HIS LOVING FRIENDS THE ADVENTURERS FOR NEW-ENGLAND. TOGETHER WITH ALL WELL-WILLERS, AND WELL-WISHERS THEREUNTO, GRACE AND PEACE, &C. NEW-ENGLAND, so called, not only (to avoid novelties) because Captain _Smith_ hath so entitled it in his Description, but because of the resemblance that is in it, of _England_ the native soil of Englishmen; it being much what the same for heat and cold in Summer and Winter, it being champaign ground, but no high mountains, somewhat like the soil in _Kent_ and _Essex_; full of dales, and meadow ground, full of rivers and sweet springs, as _England_ is. But principally, so far as we can yet find, it is an island, and near about the quantity of _England_, being cut out from the main land in _America_, as _England_ is from the main of _Europe_, by a great arm of the sea, which entereth in forty degrees, and runneth up North West and by West, and goeth out either into the South-Sea, or else into the Bay of _Canada_. The certainty whereof, and secrets of which, we have not yet so found as that as eye-witnesses we can make narration thereof, but if God give time and means, we shall, ere long, discover both the extent of that river, together with the secrets thereof; and so try what territories, habitations, or commodities, may be found, either in it, or about it. It pertaineth not to my purpose to speak any thing either in praise, or dispraise of the country; so it is by God's Providence, that a few of us are there planted to our content, and have with great charge and difficulty attained quiet and competent dwellings there. And thus much I will say for the satisfaction of such as have any thought of going hither to inhabit? That for men which have a large heart, and look after great riches, ease, pleasures, dainties, and jollity in this world (except they will live by other men's sweat, or have great riches) I would not advise them to come there, for as yet the country will afford no such matters: But if there be any who are content to lay out their estates, spend their time, labors, and endeavors, for the benefit of them that shall come after, and in desire to further the gospel among those poor heathens, quietly contenting themselves with such hardship and difficulties, as by God's Providence shall fall upon them, being yet young, and in their strength, such men I would advise and encourage to go, for their ends cannot fail them. And if it should please God to punish his people in the Christian countries of _Europe_, (for their coldness, carnality, wanton abuse of the Gospel, contention, &c.) either by Turkish slavery, or by popish tyranny which God forbid, yet if the time be come, or shall come (as who knoweth) when Satan shall be let loose to cast out his floods against them, (_Rev._ 12. 14. 15.) here is a way opened for such as have wings to fly into this wilderness; and as by the dispersion of the Jewish church through persecution, the Lord brought in the fulness of the Gentiles, (_Act._ 11. 20, 21.) so who knoweth, whether now by tyranny and affliction, he suffereth to come upon them, he will not by little and little chase them even amongst the heathens, that so a light may rise up in the dark, (_Luke_ 2. 32.) and the kingdom of Heaven be taken from them which now have it, and given to a people that shall bring forth the fruit of it. (_Mat._ 21. 43.) This I leave to the judgment of the godly wise, being neither prophet nor son of a prophet, (_Amos_ 7. 14.) but considering God's dealing of old, (_2 Kings_ 17, 23.) and seeing the name of Christian to be very great, but the true nature thereof almost quite lost in all degrees and sects, I cannot think but that there is some judgment not far off, and that God will shortly, even of stones, raise up children unto _Abraham_. (_Mat._ 3. 5.) And who so rightly considereth what manner of entrance, abiding, and proceedings, we have had among these poor heathens since we came hither, will easily think, that God has some great work to do towards them. They were wont to be the most cruel and treacherous people in all these parts, even like lions, but to us they have been like lambs, so kind, so submissive, and trusty, as a man may truly say, many christians are not so kind, nor sincere. They were very much wasted of late, by reason of a great mortality that fell amongst them three years since, which together with their own civil dissentions and bloody wars, hath so wasted them, as I think the twentieth person is scarce left alive, and those that are left, have their courage much abated, and their countenance is dejected, and they seem as a people affrighted. And though when we came first into the Country, we were few, and many of us were sick, and many died by reason of the cold and wet, it being the depth of winter, and we having no houses, nor shelter, yet when there was not six able persons among us, and that they came daily to us by hundreds, with their _sachems_ or _kings_, and might in one hour have made a dispatch of us, yet such a fear was upon them, as that they never offered us the least injury in word or deed. And by reason of one _Tisquanto_, that lives amongst us, that can speak English, we have daily commerce with their kings, and can know what is done or intended towards us among the savages; also we can acquaint them with our courses and purposes, both human and religious. And the greatest commander of the country, called _Massasoit_, cometh often to visit us, tho' he lives 50 miles from us, often sends us presents, he having with many other of their governors, promised, yea, subscribed obedience to our sovereign Lord King James, and for his cause to spend both strength and life. And we for our parts, through God's grace, have with that equity, justice, and compassion, carried ourselves towards them, as that they have received much favor, help, and aid from us, but never the least injury or wrong by us.[A] We found the place where we live empty, the people being all dead and gone away, and none living near by 8 or 10 miles; and though in the time of some hardship we found (travelling abroad) near 8 bushels of corn hid up in a cave, and knew no owners of it, yet afterwards hearing of the owners of it, we gave them (in their estimation) double the value of it. Our care hath been to maintain peace amongst them, and have always set ourselves against such of them as used any rebellion, or treachery against their governors, and not only threatened such, but in some sort paid them their due deserts; and when any of them are in want, as often they are in the winter, when their corn is done, we supply them to our power, and have them in our houses eating and drinking, and warming themselves, which thing (though it be something a trouble to us) yet because they should see and take knowledge of our labors, order and diligence, both for this life and a better, we are content to bear it, and we find in many of them, especially, of the younger sort, such a tractable disposition, both to religion and humanity, as that if we had means to apparel them, and wholly to retain them with us (as their desire is) they would doubtless in time prove serviceable to God and man, and if ever God send us means we will bring up hundreds of their children, both to labor and learning. [Footnote A: They offer us to dwell where we will.] But leaving to speak of them till a further occasion be offered; if any shall marvel at the publishing of this treatise in _England_, seeing there is no want of good books, but rather want of men to use good books, let them know, that the especial end is, that we may keep those motives in memory for ourselves, and those that shall come after, to be a remedy against self love the bane of all societies. And that we also might testify to our Christian countrymen, who judge diversly of us, that though we be in a heathen country, yet the grace of Christ is not quenched in us, but we still hold and teach the same points of faith, mortification, and sanctification, which we have heard and learned, in a most ample and large manner in our own country. If any shall think it too rude and unlearned for this curious age, let them know, that to paint out the Gospel in plain and flat English, amongst a company of plain Englishmen (as we are) is the best and most profitablest teaching; and we will study plainness, not curiosity, neither in things human, nor heavenly. If any error or unsoundness be in it, (as who knoweth) impute it to that frail man which endited it, which professeth to know nothing as he ought to know it. I have not set down my name, partly because I seek no name, and principally, because I would have nothing esteemed by names, for I see a number of evils to arise through names, when the persons are either famous, or infamous, and God and man is often injured; if any good or profit arise to thee in the receiving of it, give God the praise and esteem me as a son of _Adam_, subject to all such frailties as other men are. And you my loving friends the adventurers to this plantation; as your care has been, first to settle religion here, before either profit or popularity, so I pray you, go on, to do it much more, and be careful to send godly men, though they want some of that worldly policy which this world hath in her own generation, and so though you lose, the Lord shall gain. I rejoice greatly in your free and ready minds to your powers, yea, and beyond your powers to further this work, that you thus honor God with your riches, and I trust you shall be repayed again double and treble in this world, yea, and the memory of this action shall never die, but above all adding unto this (as I trust you do) like freeness in all other God's services both at home and abroad, you shall find reward with God, ten thousand-fold surpassing all that you can do or think; be not therefore discouraged, for no labor is lost, nor money spent which is bestowed for God, your ends were good, your success is good, and your profit is coming, even in this life, and in the life to come much more: and what shall I say now, a word to men of understanding sufficeth, pardon I pray you my boldness, read over the ensuing treatise, and judge wisely of the poor weakling, and the Lord, the God of land and sea, stretch out his arm of protection over you and us, and over all our lawful and good enterprizes, either this, or any other way. _Plymouth in New-England, December 12, 1621._ A SERMON _Preached at_ PLYMOUTH, _in_ New England, 1621. 1 CORINTHIANS, 10. 24. LET NO MAN SEEK HIS OWN: BUT EVERY MAN ANOTHER'S WEALTH. The occasion of these words of the Apostle _Paul_, was because of the abuses which were in the Church of _Corinth_. Which abuses arose chiefly through swelling pride, self-love and conceitedness, for although this church was planted by _Paul_ and watered by _Apollos_, and much increased by the Lord; yet the sower of tares was not wanting to stir up evil workers and fleshly minded hypocrites, under a shew of godliness, and with angel-like holiness in appearance, to creep in amongst them to disturb their peace, try their soundness, and prove their constancy. And this the Apostle complains of very often: as first, in their carnal divisions, chap. 1. then in their extolling their eloquent teachers, and despising _Paul_, chap. 4. Then in their offensive going to Law, before the heathen judges, chap. 6. Then in eating things offered to idols, to the destroying of the tender consciences of their brethren, chap. 8. Then in their insatiable love feasts, in the time and place of their church meetings, the rich which could together feed to fulness, despising and contemning the poor, that had not to lay it on as they had, chap. 11. Finally in both the epistles, he very often nippeth them for their pride, and self-love, straitness and censoriousness, so that in the last chapter he willeth them again and again to prove, try and examine themselves, to see whether Christ were in them or not, for howsoever many of them seemed, as thousands do at this day to soar aloft, and go with full sail to Heaven: yet as men that row in boats, set their faces one way, when yet their whole body goeth apace another way: so there are many which set such a face upon religion, and have their mouth full of great swelling words: as if they would even blow open the doors of heaven, despising all humble minded and broken-hearted people, as weak, simple, sottish, &c. when yet notwithstanding, these blusterers, which seem to go so fast, and leave all others behind them, if like these glosing _Corinthians_, they carry affectedly their own glory with them, and seem thus to stand for the glory of God. What do they else but join flesh to spirit, serving not God for nought, but for wages, and so serving their bellies, whose end will be damnation, except a speedy and sound remedy be thought of, which remedy is even that which our Saviour teacheth the rich young gallant, and which _Paul_ here prescribeth, in willing them not to seek their own, but every man another's wealth, which physic is as terrible to carnal professors, as abstinence from drink is to a man that hath the dropsy; and it is a sure note, that a man is sick of this disease of self-love, if this be grievous to him, as appeareth in the man whom Christ bid sell that he had, and he went away very sorrowful, yet surely this vein must be pricked, and this humor let out, else it will spoil all, it will infect both soul and body, yea, and the contagion of it is such (as we shall see anon) as will even hazard the welfare of that society where self seekers and self lovers are. As God then did direct this Apostle to lay down this brief direction as a remedy for that evil in _Corinth_, so you may think it is by God's special providence, that I am now to speak unto you from this text: and say in your hearts, surely something is amiss this way: let us know it and amend it. The parts of this text are two. 1. A _Dehortation_. 2. An _Exhortation_. The Dehortation, _Let no man seek his own_. The Exhortation, _But every man another's wealth_. In handling of which, I will first, open the words. Secondly, gather the doctrine. Thirdly illustrate the doctrine by scriptures, experience and reasons. Fourthly apply the same, to every one his portion. The proper drift of the Apostle here is not to tax the _Corinthians_, for seeking their own evil ends in evil actions, but for aiming at themselves, and their own benefits in actions lawful, and that appeareth in the former verse, where he saith, _All things are lawful, &c._ viz. all such things as now we speak of, to eat any of God's creatures, offered to idols or not, to feast and be merry together, to shew love and kindness to this or that person, &c. but when by such means we seek ourselves, and have not a charitable loving and reverent regard of others, then they are unexpedient, unprofitable, yea unlawful, and must be forborne, and he that hath not learned to deny himself even the very use of lawful things, when it tendeth to the contempt, reproach, grief, offence and shame of his other brethren and associates, hath learned nothing aright, but is, apparently, a man that seeks himself, and against whom the Apostle here dealeth most properly. The manner of the speech, may seem as counsel left at liberty: as Mat. 27. 49. And in our ordinary speech, we think they be but weak charges, which are thus delivered, let a man do this, or let him do that. But we must learn the apostle's modesty, and know that whatsoever the terms seem to imply, yet even this and other the like in this epistle, are most absolute charges: as, _Let a man esteem of us, as the ministers of Christ_, _chap._ 41. That is, a man ought so to esteem of us. _Let a man examine himself_, _1 Cor._ 11. 28. That is, as if he said, a man must examine himself. _Let your women keep silence in the churches_, _1 Cor._ 14, 34. that is, they ought so to do. The meaning then summarily is, as if he said, the bane of all these mischiefs which arise among you is, that men are too cleaving to themselves and their own matters, and disregard and contemn all others: and therefore I charge you, let this self seeking be left off, and turn the stream another way, namely, seek the good of your brethren, please them, honor them, reverence them, for otherwise it will never go well amongst you. _Obj._ But doth not the Apostle elsewhere say? _That he, which careth not for his own, is worse than an infidel._ 1 _Tim._ 5. 8. _Ans._ True, but by (own) there, he meaneth properly, a man's kindred, and here by (own) he meaneth properly a man's self. Secondly, he there especially taxeth such as were negligent in their labors and callings, and so made themselves unable to give relief and entertainment to such poor widows and orphans as were of their own flesh and blood. Thirdly, be it so, that some man should even neglect his own self, his own wife, children, friends, &c. And give that he had to strangers, that were but some rare vice, in some one unnatural man, and if this vice slay a thousand, self-love slayeth ten thousands. And this the wisdom of God did well foresee, and hath set no caveats in the scriptures either to tax men, or forewarn them from loving others, neither saith God any where, let no man seek out the good of another, but let no man seek his own, and every where in the scriptures he hath set watch words against self good, self-profit, self-seeking, &c. And thus the sense being cleared, I come to the doctrine. Doct. 1. _All men are too apt and ready to seek themselves too much, and to prefer their own matters and causes beyond the due and lawful measure, even to excess and offence against God, yea danger of their own souls._ And this is true not only in wicked men which are given over of God to vile lusts, as _Absalom_ in getting favor in his father's court: _Jereboam_, in settling his kingdom fast in _Samaria_, _Ahab_ in vehement seeking _Naboth's_ vineyard, but men, otherwise godly, have through frailty been foiled herein, and many thousands which have a shew of godliness, are lovers of themselves: _David_ was about to seek himself when he was going to kill _Naball_: _Asa_ in putting _Hanani_ in prison: _Josiah_ when he would go to war with _Necho_, against the counsel of God, and reason; _Peter_ when he dissembled about the ceremonies of the law, yea and _Paul_ complains of all his followers (_Timothy_ excepted) that they sought their own too inordinately. * * * * * And why else are these caveats in the scriptures, but to warn the godly that they be not tainted herewith? as, _Look not every man on his own things, but on the things of another: Love seeketh not her own things. Be not desirous of vain glory, &c._ Philip. 2. 4. 1 Cor. 13. 6. Gal. 5. 26. Yea and doth not experience teach, that even amongst professors of religion, almost all the love and favor that is shewed unto others is with a secret aim at themselves, they will take pains to do a man good, provided that he will take twice so much for them, they will give a penny so as it may advantage them a pound, labor hard so as all the profit may come to themselves, else they are heartless and feeble. The vain and corrupt heart of man cannot better be resembled then by a belly-god, host, or innkeeper which welcometh his guests with smilings, and salutations, and a thousand welcomes, and rejoiceth greatly to have their company to dice, cards, eat, drink, and be merry, but should not the box be paid, the pot be filling, and the money telling, all this while, the epicure's joy would soon be turned into sorrow, and his smiles turned into frowns, and the door set open, and their absence craved: even so men blow the bellows hard, when they have an iron of their own a heating, work hard whilst their own house is in building, dig hard whilst their own garden is in planting, but is it so as the profit must go wholly or partly to others; their hands wax feeble, their hearts wax faint, they grow churlish, and give cross answers, like _Naball_, they are sour, discontent, and nothing will please them. And where is that man to be found, that will disperse abroad, and cast his bread upon the waters, that will lend, looking for nothing again, that will do all duties to other freely and cheerfully in conscience to God, and love unto men, without his close and secret ends or aiming at himself; such a man, out of doubt, is a black swan, a white crow almost, and yet such shall stand before God with boldness at the last day, when others which have sought themselves, though for love of themselves they have sought heaven, yea, and through self-love persuaded themselves they should find it, yet wanting love unto others, they will be found as sounding brass, and as a tinkling cimbal, and whilst they have neglected others, and not cared how others live, so as themselves may fare well, they will be found amongst them, that the Lord will say unto, _I know you not, depart ye cursed into everlasting fire_, Mat. 25. 41. 42. But that I may not walk in generalities, the particular ways by which men seek their own are these: First, such as are covetous, seek their own by seeking riches, wealth, money, as _Felix_ pretending love unto _Paul_, sent for him often, but it was in hope of money. Many there are who say, _who will shew us any good_, Psal. 4. 7. And pretend religion, as some of the Jews did the keeping of the Sabbath, which yet cried out, when will the Sabbath be done, that we may sell corn, and get gain; if a man can tell how to get gold out of a flint, and silver out of the adamant, no pains shall be spared, no time shall be neglected, for gold is their hope, and the wedge of gold is their confidence, their hearts are set upon the pelf of this world, and for love of it, all things are let slip, even all duties to God or men, they care not how basely they serve, how wretchedly they neglect all others, so as they may get wealth: pinch who will, and wring who will; all times are alike with them, and they run for the bribe and _Gehazie_; and this is the first way that men seek their own. Now the contrary is seen in _Nehemiah_, who when the people were hard put to it, and the land raw, he took not the duties which were due to him being a magistrate, he bought no land, nor grew rich, for it was no time: but he maintained at his table many of his brethren the Jews, and so spent even his own proper goods. And _Paul_ sought no man's gold nor silver, but though he had authority, yet he took not bread of the churches, but labored with his hands: and why? It was no time to take, some churches were poor and stood in want, as _Thessalonica_, others were in danger to be preyed upon by covetous belly-gods, as _Corinth_: and therefore he saw it no fit time now to take any thing of them. And indeed here is the difference between a covetous worldling, and an honest thrifty Christian, it is lawful sometimes for men to gather wealth, and grow rich, even as there was a time for _Joseph_ to store up corn, but a godly and sincere Christian will see when this time is, and will not hoard up when he seeth others of his brethren and associates to want, but then is a time, if he have any thing to fetch it out and disperse it, but the covetous gathers goods, he like _Achan_ covets all that he seeth; and neglects no time, but gathers still and holds all fast, and if it were to save the life of his brother, his bags must not be diminished, nor his chests lighted, nor his field set to sale, gather as much as he can, but it's death to diminish the least part of it. 2. The second way by which men seek their own, is when they seek ease, or pleasure, as the _Scribes_ and _Pharisees_, who would not touch the burden with one of their fingers; for there is a generation, which think to have more in this world then _Adam's_ felicity in innocency, being born (as they think) to take their pleasures, and their ease, let the roof of the house drop through, they stir not; let the field be overgrown with weeds, they care not, they must not foul their hand, nor wet their foot, it's enough for them to say, Go you, not let us go, though never so much need; such idle drones, are intollerable in a settled commonwealth, much more in a commonwealth which is but as it were in the bud; of what earth I pray thee art thou made, of any better than the other of the sons of _Adam_? And canst thou see other of thy brethren toil their hearts out, and thou sit idle at home, or takest thy pleasure abroad? Remember the example of _Uriah_, who would not take his ease nor his pleasure, though the King required him, and why? Because his brethren, his associates, better men than himself (as he esteemed them) were under hard labors and conditions, lay in the field in tents, caves, &c. 3. The third way is when men seek their own bellies, as some did in the Apostles' times, which went about with new doctrines and devices, knowing that the people had itching ears, and would easily entertain and willingly feed such novelists, which brought in dissensions, schisms, and contentions, and such were rocks, or pillars in their love-feasts, as _Jude_ speaketh, _ver. 12._ They were shadows in God's service, but when feasting came, then they were substances, then they were in their element. And certainly there are some men which shape even their religion, human state, and all, even as the belly cheer is best, and that they must have, else all heart and life is gone; let all conscience, care of others go, let _Lazarus_ starve at the gate, let _Joseph's_ affliction be increased, they must have their dishes, their dainties, or no content. The contrary was seen in _Nehemiah_, who would not take his large portion allotted to the governor, because he knew it went short with others of his brethren; and _Uriah_ would not receive the King's present, and go banquet with his wife, because he knew the whole host his brethren were fain to snap short in the fields. And the difference between a temperate good man, and a belly-god is this: A good man will not eat his morsels alone, especially, if he have better than others, but if by God's providence, he have gotten some meat which is better than ordinary, and better than his other brethren, he can have no rest in himself, except he make others partake with him. But a belly-god will slop all in his own throat, yea, though his neighbor come in and behold him eat, yet his griple-gut shameth not to swallow all. And this may be done sometimes, as well in mean fare as in greater dainties, for all countries afford not alike. 4. The fourth way by which men seek their own, is by seeking outward honor, fame and respect with men; as King _Saul_ when he had lost all respect and favor with God, then thought to give content to his heart by being honored before the Elders of the people; and it is wonderful to see how some men are _desirous of vain glory_, _Gal._ 5. 26. And how earnestly they seek praise, favor, and respect with men, and can have no quiet longer than their worldly favor lasteth, and that they will have what dishonor soever come to God, or disgrace unto men, yea, they will disgrace, reproach, and disdain others, to gain honor and advancement to themselves, yea, they will make bold with the Scriptures and Word of God, to wrest and wring, and slight it over for their credit's sake. And let a man mark some men's talk, stories, discourses, &c. and he shall see their whole drift is to extol and set out themselves, and get praise and commendation of men. Now the contrary was seen in _Paul_, he saith, _He needed no letters of commendations_, 2 Cor. 3. 2. And again, _He is not affected with men's praise_, 1 Cor. 10. 12. And here is indeed the difference between an humble-minded Christian, and a proud self-lover; an humble man often hath praise, as _David_, _Hezekiah_, and _Josiah_, but he seeks it not, he desires it not, he is content to go without it, he loves not the praise of men, for he knows it but froth and vanity: but a proud self-lover, he seeks it still, get it or not get it, and if he get it he is fully satisfied, if he get it not he hangs his head like a bull-rush, and hath no comfort. 5. The fifth way by which men seek their own, is _by seeking to have their wills_; as the wrong doers in _Corinth_, who thought it not enough to do wrong and harm to their brethren, but to have their wills enough of them, drew them before the Heathen magistrates. And truly some men are so prince-like, or rather Papal, that their very will and word is become a law, and if they have said it, it must be so, else there is no rest or quietness to be had, let never so many reasons be brought to the contrary, it is but fighting with the wind. They are like the obstinate Jews, who when against God's law, and reason, they asked a King, though _Samuel_ shewed them that it would turn in the end to their own smart, yet still held the conclusion, and said, nay, _But we will have a King_, 1 Sam. 8. 19. Thus men are caught by their own words, and insnared by the straitness of their own hearts, and it is death to them not to have their wills, and howsoever sometimes (like _Jezebel_) they are cut short of their purposes, yet self-willed men will strut and swell like _Absalom_, saying neither _good nor bad_, 2 Sam. 13. 22. but hope for the day, and threaten like prophane _Esau_, Gen. 27. 41. Now the contrary is seen in _David_, though a prince, a captain, a warrior, who having said, yea sworn, that he would kill _Nabal_, and all his family that day, yet upon reasonable counsel given, and that by a weak woman, he changed his mind, altered his purpose, and returned, without striking one stroke, an example rare, and worthy imitation; and when men are sick of will, let them think of _David_, it was his grace and honor to go back from his word and practice, when reason came. So was it _Herod's_ disgrace and shame to hold his word and will against reason and conscience, _Math._ 14. 8, 9. _Quest._ But some men happily will say unto me, It is true, that men seek their own by all these ways, _But what should be the reason and cause of this? that men seek so earnestly themselves, in seeking riches, honor, ease, belly-cheer, will, &c. something there is that carrieth them_. _Ans._ True, and the reasons and causes are specially these three: First, pride and high conceitedness, when men overvalue themselves: and this made _Absalom_ to seek his father's kingdom, because he thought himself worthy of it. _2 Sam._ 15. 4. This made _Haman_ so sore vexed, because _Mordecai_ bowed not to him, because he highly valued himself, _Esther_, 3. 5. And surely that which a man valueth much, he giveth much respect to, and so it is a sure sign that a man loves himself most when he giveth most to himself; and some intolerable proud persons even think all the world is for them, and all their purposes and endeavors shew what a large conceit they have of themselves. Secondly, want of due consideration and valuation of other men's endowments, abilities and deserts; when men pass those things by, though they have both seen, heard, and felt them; as _Pharaoh's_ butler forgot _Joseph's_ eminency when he was restored to his place, _Gen._ 40. 23. So men used to write their own good actions in brass, but other men's in ashes, never remembering nor considering the pains, labor, good properties, &c. which others have, and so they have no love to them, but only to themselves; as if God had made all other men unreasonable beasts, and them only reasonable men. Thirdly, want of heavenly conversation, and spiritual eye to behold the glory, greatness, and majesty, and goodness of God; as the Queen of _Sheba_, thought highly of her own glory, wisdom and happiness, till she saw _Solomon's_ wisdom and glory, and then she cried out, not of the happiness of her own servants, but of his servants that stood before him, 1 _Kings_ 10. 7, 8. And verily, if men were conversant courtiers in Heaven, they would cry out with _Paul_, Rom. 11. 33. _Oh the depth of the riches, wisdom, and knowledge of God, &c._ and would be ashamed of their own sinfulness, nakedness and misery; for, as countrymen which never saw the state of cities, nor the glory of courts, admire even their own country Orders: And as the savages here which are clad in skins, and creep in woods and holes, think their own brutish and inhuman life the best, which if they saw and did rightly apprehend the benefit of comely humanity, the sweetness of religion and the service of God, they would even shamefully hide themselves from the eye of all noble Christians. Even so, if men in serious contemplation, by the eye of faith, would behold the glory of God, and what great riches, beauty, fulness, perfection, power, dignity and greatness is in God, they would leave admiring of themselves, and seeking of themselves, and would say with _David, What am I? And what is my father's house? that thou shouldest thus bless me?_ 2 Sam. 7. 18. Yea _What is man? or the son of man that thou so regardest him?_ Psal. 8. 3. But it is time to come to apply these things more particularly to ourselves, and see what Use is to be made of them: _Use 1._ Is it so, that God seeth a proneness in all the sons of _Adam_, to seek themselves too much, and hath given them warnings and watch-words thereof, as we have heard, and doth experience confirm it? Then hence are reproved a number of men, who think they can never shew love enough to themselves, nor seek their own enough, but think all cost, charges, cherishing, praise, honor, &c. too little for them, and no man needeth to say to them, as _Peter_ did to Christ, _favor thy self_; but if they do a little for another man, they account it a great matter, though it be but a morsel of bread, or a single penny; but no varieties of dainties is too good for them, no silk, purple, cloth, or stuff is too good to clothe them, the poor man's idleness and ill husbandry is oft thrown in his dish, but their own carnal delights and fleshy wantonness is never thought upon: and why? Because they think even God and man owes all to them, but they owe nothing to none. Why, thou foolish and besotted man, hath not the Holy Ghost read it in the very face of every son of _Adam_, that he is too apt to seek his own, and art thou wiser than God, to think thou never seekest thine own enough? or dreamest thou that thou art made of other, and better mettle than other men are? Surely, I know no way to escape, having of corruption to thy father, and the worm to thy sister and brother. And if God had any where in all the Scriptures said, love thyself, make much of thyself, provide for one, &c. there were some reason for thee to take up the niggard's proverbs, _Every man for himself, and God for us all; Charity beginneth at home, &c._ But God never taught thee these things; No, they are Satan's positions. Doth God ever commend a man for carnal love of himself? Nay he brands it, and disgraceth it, as _self love, taking thought for the flesh; loving of pleasure, &c._ Rom. 13. 14, 2 Tim. 34. _Obj._ _It is a point of good natural policy, for a man to care and provide for himself._ _Ans._ Then the most fools have most natural policy, for you see not the greatest drones and novices, either in church, or commonwealth, to be the greatest scratchers and scrapers, and gatherers of riches? Are they not also for the most part, best fed and clad? And live they not most easily? What shall I say? Even hogs, dogs, and brute beasts know their own ease, and can seek that which is good for themselves; and what doth this shifting, progging, and fat feeding which some use, more resemble any thing than the fashion of hogs? And so let it be what natural policy it will. _Use 2._ If God see this disease of self-love so dangerous in us, then it standeth us all in hand to suspect ourselves, and so to seek out the root of this disease, that it may be cured. If a learned physician, shall see by our countenance and eye, that we have some dangerous disease growing on us, our hearts will smite us, and we will bethink ourselves where the most grief lieth, and how it should come, whether with cold, heat, surfeit, over-flowing of blood, or through grief, melancholy, or any such way, and every man will bestir himself to get rid of it, and will prevent always that which feeds the disease, and cherish all courses that would destroy it. Now, how much more ought we to bestir ourselves, for this matter of self love, since God himself hath cast all our waters, and felt all our pulses, and pronounceth us all dangerously sick of this disease? Believe it, God cannot lie, nor be deceived; He that made the heart, doth not he know it? Let every man's heart smite him, and let him fall to the examination of himself and see first, whether he love not riches and worldly wealth too much, whether his heart be not too jocund at the coming of it in, and too heavy at the going of it out, for if you find it so there is great danger, if thou canst not buy as if thou possessed not, and use this world as though thou used it not, (_1 Cor._ 7. 30, 31.) thou art sick, and had need to look to it. So, if thou lovest thine ease and pleasure, see whether thou can be content to receive at God's hands evil as well as good, (_Job_ 2. 10.) whether thou have learned as well to abound as to want, (_Phil._ 4. 10.) as well to endure hard labor, as to live at ease; and art as willing to go to the house of mourning as to the house of mirth, (_Eccl._ 7. 6.) for, else, out of doubt, thou lovest thy carnal pleasure and ease too much. Again, see whether thy heart cannot be as merry, and thy mind as joyful, and thy countenance as cheerful, with coarse fare, with pulse, with bread and water (if God offer thee no better, nor the times afford other) as if thou had the greatest dainties: (_Dan._ 1. 15.) So also whether thou can be content as well with scorns of men, when thou hast done well, as with their praises, so if thou can with comfort and good conscience say, I pass little for man's judgment; whether thou can do thy duty that God requireth, and despise the shame, referring thyself unto God, for if thou be disheartened, discouraged, and weakened in any duty because of men's dispraises, its a sign thou lovest thyself too much. So for the will, if thou can be content to give way even from that which thou hast said shall be, yea, vowed shall be, when better reason cometh, and hast that reverence of other men, as that when it standeth but upon a matter of will, thou art as willing their wills should stand as thine, and art not sad, churlish, or discontented, (_1 Kings_ 21. 4.) but cheerful in thine heart, though thy will be crossed, it is a good sign, but if not, thou art sick of a self-will, and must purge it out. I the rather press these things, because I see many men both wise and religious, which yet are so tainted with this pestilent self-love, as that it is in them even as a dead fly to the apothecaries' ointment, spoiling the efficacy of all their graces, making their lives uncomfortable to themselves, and unprofitable to others, being neither fit for church nor commonwealth, but have even their very souls in hazard thereby, and therefore who can say too much against it. It is reported, that there are many men gone to that other plantation in _Virginia_, which, whilst they lived in _England_, seemed very religious, zealous, and conscionable; and have now lost even the sap of grace, and edge to all goodness; and are become mere worldlings. This testimony I believe to be partly true, and amongst many causes of it, this self-love is not the least. It is indeed a matter of some commendation for a man to remove himself out of a thronged place into a wide wilderness; to take in hand so long and dangerous a journey, to be an instrument to carry the Gospel and humanity among the brutish heathen; but there may be many goodly shews and glosses and yet a pad in the straw, men may make a great appearance of respect unto God, and yet but dissemble with him, having their own lusts carrying them: and, out of doubt, men that have taken in hand hither to come, out of discontentment in regard of their estates in _England_; and aiming at great matters here, affecting it to be gentlemen, landed men, or hoping for office, place, dignity, or fleshly liberty; let the shew be what it will, the substance is naught, and that bird of self-love which was hatched at home, if it be not looked to, will eat out the life of all grace and goodness: and though men have escaped the danger of the sea, and that cruel mortality, which swept away so many of our loving friends and brethren; yet except they purge out this self-love, a worse mischief is prepared for them: And who knoweth whether God in mercy have delivered those just men which here departed, from the evils to come; and from unreasonable men, in whom there neither was, nor is, any comfort, but grief, sorrow, affliction, and misery, till they cast out this spawn of self-love. But I have dwelt too long upon this first part; I come now to the second, which concerns an Exhortation, as I shewed you, in the Division. _But every man another's wealth._ In direct opposition, he should say, _Let every man seek another's_, but the first part being compared with the latter, and (_seek_) being taken out of the former and put to the latter, and (_wealth_) taken out or rather implied, in the former, the whole sentence is thus resolved, _Let no man seek his own wealth, but let every man seek another's wealth_. And the word here translated _wealth_, is the same with that in _Rom._ 13. 4, and may not be taken only for riches, as Englishmen commonly understand it, but for all kinds of benefits, favors, comforts either for soul or body; and so here again, as before you must understand an Affirmative Commandment, as the Negative was before: and least any should say, If I may not seek my own good, I may do nothing; Yes saith _Paul_, I'll tell thee, thou shalt seek the good of another, whereas now all thy seeking helps but one, by this means thou shalt help many: and this is further enforced by these two circumstances, (no man) may seek his own, be he rich, learned, wise, &c. _But every man must seek the good of another_. The point of instruction is taken from the very letter and phrase, viz. Doct. 2. _A man_ must _seek the good, the wealth, the profit of others._ I say he _must_ seek it, he must seek the comfort, profit and benefit of his neighbor, brother, associate, &c. His own good he need not seek, it will offer itself to him every hour; but the good of others must be sought, a man must not stay from doing good to others till he is sought unto, pulled and hauled, (as it were) like the unjust judge, for every benefit that is first craved, cometh too late. And thus the ancient patriarchs did practice, when the traveller and wayfaring men came by, they did not tarry till they came and asked relief and refreshment, but sat at the gates to watch for such, (_Judges_ 19. 20, 21) and looked in the streets to find them, yea, set open their doors that they might freely and boldly enter in. And howsoever, some may think this too large a practice, since now the world is so full of people, yet I see not but the more people there is, the larger charity ought to be. But be it so, as a man may neglect, in some sort the general world, yet those to whom he is bound, either in natural, civil, or religious bands, them he must seek how to do them good. A notable example you have in _David_, who, because there was twixt him and _Jonathan_ a band and covenant, therefore he enquired, _Whether there was any left of the house of Saul, to whom he might shew mercy for Jonathan's sake_, 2 Sam. 9.1. So this people of _Corinth_, to whom _Paul_ writeth, they were in a spiritual league and covenant in the _Gospel_, and so were a body. Now for one member in the body to seek himself, and neglect all others were, as if a man should clothe one arm or one leg of his body with gold and purple, and let all the rest of the members go naked. _1 Cor. 12. 27._ Now brethren, I pray you, remember yourselves, and know, that you are not in a retired monastical course, but have given your names and promises one to another and covenanted here to cleave together in the service of God, and the King; What then must you do? May you live as retired hermits? and look after no body? Nay, you must seek still the wealth of one another; and enquire as _David_, how liveth such a man? How is he clad? How is he fed? He is my brother, my associate; we ventured our lives together here, and had a hard brunt of it and we are in league together. Is his labor harder than mine? surely I will ease him; hath he no bed to lie on? why, I have two, I'll lend him one; hath he no apparel? why, I have two suits, I'll give him one of them; eats he coarse fare, bread and water, and I have better, why, surely we will part stakes. He is as good a man as I, and we are bound each to other, so that his wants must be my wants, his sorrows my sorrows, his sickness my sickness, and his welfare my welfare, for I am as he is. And such a sweet sympathy were excellent, comfortable, yea, heavenly, and is the only maker and conserver of churches and commonwealths, and where this is wanting, ruin comes on quickly, as it did here in _Corinth_. But besides these motives, there are other reasons to provoke us not only to do good one to another; but even to seek and search how to do it. 1. As first, to maintain modesty in all our associates, that of hungry wanters, they become not bold beggars and impudent cravers; for as one saith of women, that, when they have lost their shamefacedness, they have lost half their honesty, so may it be truly said of a man that when he hath lost his modesty, and puts on a begging face, he hath lost his majesty, and the image of that noble creature; and man should not beg and crave of man, but only of God. True it is, that as Christ was fain to crave water of the Samaritan woman, (_John_ 4. 5.) so men are forced to ask sometimes rather than starve, but indeed in all societies it should be offered them. Men often complain of men's boldness in asking, but how cometh this to pass, but because the world have been so full of self-lovers as no man would offer their money, meat, garments, though they saw men hungry, harborless, poor, and naked in the streets; and what is it that makes men brazen-faced, bold, brutish, tumultuous, but because they are pinched with want, and see others of their companions (which it may be have less deserved) to live in prosperity and pleasure? 2. It wonderfully encourageth men in their duties, when they see the burthen equally borne; but when some withdraw themselves and retire to their own particular ease, pleasure, or profit; what heart can men have to go on in their business? when men are come together to lift some weighty piece of timber or vessel; if one stand still and do not lift, shall not the rest be weakened and disheartened? Will not a few idle drones spoil the whole stock of laborious bees: so one idle-belly, one murmurer, one complainer, one self-lover will weaken and dishearten a whole colony. Great matters have been brought to pass where men have cheerfully as with one heart, hand, and shoulder, gone about it, both in wars, buildings, and plantations, but where every man seeks himself, all cometh to nothing. 3. The present necessity requireth it, as it did in the days of the _Jews_, returning from captivity, and as it was here in _Corinth_. The country is yet raw, the land untilled, the cities not builded, the cattle not settled, we are compassed about with a helpless and idle people, the natives of the country, which cannot in any comely or comfortable manner help themselves, much less us. We also have been very chargeable to many of our loving friends, which helped us hither, and now again supplied us, so that before we think of gathering riches, we must even in conscience think of requiting their charge, love and labor, and cursed be that profit and gain which aimeth not at this. Besides, how many of our dear friends did here die at our first entrance, many of them no doubt for want of good lodging, shelter, and comfortable things, and many more may go after them quickly, if care be not taken. Is this then a time for men to begin to seek themselves? _Paul_ saith, that men in the last days shall be lovers of themselves, (_2 Tim._ 3. 2.) but it is here yet but the first days, and (as it were) the dawning of this new world, it is now therefore no time for men to look to get riches, brave clothes, dainty fare, but to look to present necessities; it is now no time to pamper the flesh, live at ease, snatch, catch, scrape, and pill, and hoard up, but rather to open the doors, the chests, and vessels, and say, brother, neighbor, friend, what want ye, any thing that I have? make bold with it, it is yours to command, to do you good, to comfort and cherish you, and glad I am that I have it for you. 4. And even the example of God himself, whom we should follow in all things within our power and capacity, may teach us this lesson, for (with reverence to his Majesty be it spoken) he might have kept all grace, goodness, and glory to himself, but he hath communicated it to us, even as far as we are capable of it in this life, and will communicate his glory in all fulness with his elect in that life to come; even so his son Jesus Christ left his glory eclipsed for a time, and abased himself to a poor and distressed life in this world, that he might, by it, bring us to happiness in the world to come. If God then have delighted in thus doing good and relieving frail and miserable man, so far inferior to himself, what delight ought man to have to relieve and comfort man, which is equal to himself? 5. Even as we deal with others, ourselves and others shall be dealt withal. Carest thou not how others fare, how they toil, are grieved, sick, pinched, cold, harborless, so as thou be in health, livest at ease, warm in thy nest, farest well? The days will come when thou shalt labor and none shall pity thee, be poor and none relieve thee, be sick, and lie and die and none visit thee, yea, and thy children shall lie and starve in the streets, and none shall relieve them, for _it is the merciful that shall obtain mercy_; Mat. 5. 7. and _the memory of the just shall be blessed_ even in his seed; _Prov._ 10. and a merciful and loving man when he dies, though he leave his children small and desolate, yet every one is mercifully stirred up for the father's sake to shew compassion, but the unkindness, currishness, and self-love of a father, is through God's just judgment recompensed upon the children with neglect and cruelty. 6. Lastly, That we may draw to an end; A merciless man, and a man without natural affection or love, is reckoned among such as are given over of God to a reprobate mind, (_Rom._ 1. 30.) and (as it were) transformed into a beast-like humor; for, what is man if he be not sociable, kind, affable, free-hearted, liberal; he is a beast in the shape of a man; or rather an infernal spirit, walking amongst men, which makes the world a hell what in him lieth; for, it is even a hell to live where there are such men: such the Scriptures calleth _Nabals_, which signifieth _fools_, (_Psal._ 14. 1.) and decayed men, which have lost both the sap of grace and nature; and such merciless men are called goats, and shall be set at Christ's left hand at the last day, (_Math._ 25. 33.) _Oh therefore seek the wealth one of another_. _Obj._ But some will say, _It is true, and it were well if men would so do, but we see every man is so for himself, as that if I should not do so, I should do full ill, for if I have it not of my own, I may snap short sometimes, for I see no body showeth me any kindness, nor giveth me any thing; if I have gold or silver, that goeth for payment, and if I want it I may lie in the street, therefore I had best keep that I have, and not be so liberal as you would have me, except I saw others would be so towards me_. _Ans._ This Objection seemeth but equal and reasonable, as did the Answer of _Nabal_ to _David's_ men, but it is most foolish and carnal, as his also was; for, if we should measure our courses by most men's practices, a man should never do any godly duty; for, do not the most, yea, almost all, go the broad way that leadeth to death and damnation, (_Luke._ 13. 23, 24.) Who then will follow a multitude? It is the word of God, and the examples of the best men that we must follow. And what if others will do nothing for thee, but are unkind and unmerciful to thee? Knowest thou not that they which will be the children of God must be kind to the unkind, loving to their enemies, and bless those that curse them? (_Mat._ 5. 44, 47.) If all men were kind to thee, it were but _publicans'_ righteousness to be kind to them? If all men be evil, wilt thou be so too? When _David_ cried out, _Help Lord, for not a godly man is left_, Psal. 12. 1. did he himself turn ungodly also? Nay, he was rather the more strict. So, if love and charity be departed out of this world, be thou one of them that shall first bring it in again. And let this be the first rule, which I will with two others conclude for this time. 1. Never measure thy course by the most, but by the best, yea, and principally by God's word; Look not what others do to thee, but consider what thou art to do to them: seek to please God, not thyself. Did they in _Mat._ 25. 44. plead, that others did nothing for them? No such matter, no such plea will stand before God, his word is plain to the contrary, therefore, though all the world should neglect thee, disregard thee, and contemn thee, yet remember thou hast not to do with men, but with the highest God, and so thou must do thy duty to them notwithstanding. 2. And let there be no prodigal person to come forth and say, Give me the portion of lands and goods that appertaineth to me, and let me shift for myself; _Luke_ 15. 12. It is yet too soon to put men to their shifts; _Israel_ was seven years in _Canaan_, before the land was divided unto tribes, much longer before it was divided unto families; and why wouldst thou have thy particular portion, but because thou thinkest to live better than thy neighbor, and scornest to live so meanly as he? but who, I pray thee, brought this particularizing first into the world? Did not Satan, who was not content to keep that equal state with his fellows, but would set his throne above the stars? Did not he also entice man to despise his general felicity and happiness, and go try particular knowledge of good and evil; and nothing in this world doth more resemble heavenly happiness, than for men to live as one, being of one heart, and one soul; neither any thing more resembles hellish horror, then for every man to shift for himself; for if it be a good mind and practise, thus to affect particulars, _mine_ and _thine_, then it should be best also for God to provide one heaven for thee, and another for thy neighbor. _Object._ But some will say, _If all men will do their endeavors as I do I could be content with this generality,--but many are idle and slothful, and eat up others' labors, and therefore it is best to part, and then every man may do his pleasure_. First, this, indeed, is the common plea of such as will endure no inconveniences, and so for the hardness of men's hearts, God and man doth often give way to that which is not best, nor perpetual, but indeed if we take this course to change ordinances and practices because of inconveniences, we shall have every day new laws. Secondly, if others be idle and thou diligent, thy fellowship, provocation, and example, may well help to cure that malady in them, being together, but being asunder, shall they not be more idle, and shall not gentry and beggary be quickly the glorious ensigns of your commonwealth? Thirdly, construe things in the best part, be not too hasty to say, men are idle and slothful, all men have not strength, skill, faculty, spirit, and courage to work alike; it is thy glory and credit, that thou canst do so well, and his shame and reproach, that can do no better; and are not these sufficient rewards to you both. Fourthly, if any be idle apparently, you have a law and governors to execute the same, and to follow that rule of the Apostle, to keep back their bread, and let them not eat, go not therefore whispering, to charge men with idleness; but go to the governor and prove them idle; and thou shall see them have their deserts. _Acts_ 19. 38. 2 _Thes._ 3. 10. _Deut._ 19. 15. And as you are a body together, so hang not together by skins and gymocks, but labor to be jointed together and knit by flesh and sinews; away with envy at the good of others, and rejoice in his good, and sorrow for his evil. Let his joy be thy joy, and his sorrow thy sorrow: Let his sickness be thy sickness: his hunger thy hunger: his poverty thy poverty; and if you profess friendship, be friends in adversity; for then a friend is known and tried, and not before. 3. Lay away all thought of former things and forget them, and think upon the things that are; look not gapingly one upon other, pleading your goodness, your birth, your life you lived, your means you had and might have had; here you are by God's providence under difficulties; be thankful to God, it is no worse, and take it in good part that which is, and lift not up yourself because of former privileges; when _Job_ was brought to the dung-hill, he sat down upon it, _Job_ 2. 8. and when the Almighty had been bitter to _Naomi_, she would be called _Marah_; consider therefore what you are now, and whose you are; say not I could have lived thus, and thus; but say thus and thus I must live: for God and natural necessity requireth, if your difficulties be great, you had need to cleave the faster together, and comfort and cheer up one another, laboring to make each other's burden lighter; there is no grief so tedious as a churlish companion and nothing makes sorrows easy more than cheerful associates: bear ye therefore one another's burthen, and be not a burthen one to another; avoid all factions, frowardness, singularity and withdrawings, and cleave fast to the Lord, and one to another continually; so shall you be a notable precedent to these poor heathens, whose eyes are upon you, and who very brutishly and cruelly do daily eat and consume one another, through their emulations, ways and contentions; be you therefore ashamed of it, and win them to peace both with yourselves, and one another, by your peaceable examples, which will preach louder to them, than if you could cry in their barbarous language; so also shall you be an encouragement to many of your christian friends in your native country, to come to you, when they hear of your peace, love and kindness that is amongst you: but above all, it shall go well with your souls, when that God of peace and unity shall come to visit you with death as he hath done many of your associates, you being found of him, not in murmurings, discontent and jars, but in brotherly love, and peace, may be translated from this wandering wilderness unto that joyful and heavenly Canaan. AMEN. 
17824	----	LITTLE BLACK SAMBO BY HELEN BANNERMAN ILLUSTRATED BY FLORENCE WHITE WILLIAMS THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY CHICAGO . AKRON, OHIO . NEW YORK PRINTED IN U.S.A. [Illustration:] LITTLE BLACK SAMBO [Illustration:] Once upon a time there was a little black boy, and his name was Little Black Sambo. [Illustration:] And his mother was called Black Mumbo. [Illustration:] And his father was called Black Jumbo. [Illustration:] And Black Mumbo made him a beautiful little Red Coat, and a pair of beautiful little Blue Trousers. [Illustration:] And Black Jumbo went to the Bazaar and bought him a beautiful Green Umbrella and a lovely little Pair of Purple Shoes with Crimson Soles and Crimson Linings. And then wasn't Little Black Sambo grand? [Illustration:] So he put on all his Fine Clothes and went out for a walk in the Jungle. [Illustration:] And by and by he met a Tiger. And the Tiger said to him, "Little Black Sambo, I'm going to eat you up!" [Illustration:] And Little Black Sambo said, "Oh! Please, Mr. Tiger, don't eat me up, and I'll give you my beautiful little Red Coat." [Illustration:] So the Tiger said, "Very well, I won't eat you this time, but you must give me your beautiful little Red Coat." So the Tiger got poor Little Black Sambo's beautiful little Red Coat, and went away saying, "Now I'm the grandest Tiger in the Jungle." [Illustration:] And Little Black Sambo went on, and by and by he met another Tiger, and it said to him, "Little Black Sambo, I'm going to eat you up!" [Illustration:] And Little Black Sambo said, "Oh! Please, Mr. Tiger, don't eat me up, and I'll give you my beautiful little Blue Trousers." [Illustration:] So the Tiger said, "Very well, I won't eat you this time, but you must give me your beautiful little Blue Trousers." So the Tiger got poor Little Black Sambo's beautiful little Blue Trousers, and went away saying, "Now I'm the grandest Tiger in the Jungle." [Illustration:] And Little Black Sambo went on and by and by he met another Tiger, and it said to him, "Little Black Sambo, I'm going to eat you up!" And Little Black Sambo said, "Oh! Please, Mr. Tiger, don't eat me up, and I'll give you my beautiful little Purple Shoes with Crimson Soles and Crimson Linings." [Illustration:] [Illustration:] But the Tiger said, "What use would your shoes be to me? I've got four feet and you've got only two." [Illustration:] "You haven't got enough shoes for me." But Little Black Sambo said, "You could wear them on your ears." "So I could," said the Tiger, "that's a very good idea. Give them to me, and I won't eat you this time." So the Tiger got poor Little Black Sambo's beautiful little Purple Shoes with Crimson Soles and Crimson Linings, and went away saying, "Now I'm the grandest Tiger in the Jungle." [Illustration:] And by and by Little Black Sambo met another Tiger, and it said to him, "Little Black Sambo, I'm going to eat you up!" [Illustration:] And Little Black Sambo said, "Oh! Please, Mr. Tiger, don't eat me up and I'll give you my beautiful Green Umbrella." But the Tiger said, "How can I carry an umbrella when I need all my paws for walking with?" [Illustration:] "You could tie a knot on your tail, and carry it that way," said Little Black Sambo. [Illustration:] "So I could," said the Tiger. "Give it to me and I won't eat you this time." [Illustration:] So he got poor Little Black Sambo's beautiful Green Umbrella, and went away saying, "Now _I_'m the grandest Tiger in the Jungle." And poor Little Black Sambo went away crying, because the cruel Tigers had taken all his fine clothes. [Illustration:] Presently he heard a horrible noise that sounded like "Gr-r-r-r-rrrrrrr," and it got louder and louder. "Oh dear!" said Little Black Sambo, "There are all the Tigers coming back to eat me up! What shall I do?" So he ran quickly to a palm-tree, [Illustration:] And peeped round it to see what the matter was. And there he saw all the Tigers fighting and disputing which of them was the grandest. And at last they all got so angry that they jumped up and took off all the fine clothes and began to tear each other with their claws and bite each other with their great big white teeth. [Illustration:] And they came, rolling and tumbling, right to the foot of the very tree where Little Black Sambo was hiding, but he jumped quickly in behind the umbrella. And the Tigers all caught hold of each others' tails. [Illustration:] As they wrangled and scrambled, and so they found themselves in a ring around the tree. Then, when the Tigers were very wee and very far away, Little Black Sambo jumped up and called out, "Oh! Tigers! why have you taken off all your nice clothes? Don't you want them any more?" [Illustration:] But the Tigers only answered "Gr-r-r-rrrrr!" [Illustration:] Then Little Black Sambo said, "If you want them, say so, or I'll take them away." But the Tigers would not let go of each others' tails, and so they could only say "Gr-r-r-rrrrrr!" [Illustration:] And the Tigers were very, very angry, but still they would not let go of each others' tails. And they were so angry that they ran round the tree, trying to eat each other up, and they ran faster and faster till they were whirling round so fast that you couldn't see their legs at all. [Illustration:] And they still ran faster and faster and faster, till they all just melted away, and then there was nothing left but a great big pool of melted butter (or "ghi" as it is called in India) round the foot of the tree. Now Black Jumbo was just coming home from his work, with a great big brass pot in his arms, and when he saw what was left of all the Tigers, he said, "Oh! what lovely melted butter! I'll take that home to Black Mumbo for her to cook with." So he put it all into the great big brass pot, and took it home to Black Mumbo to cook with. When Black Mumbo saw the melted butter, wasn't she pleased! "Now," said she, "we'll all have pancakes for supper!" [Illustration:] So she got flour and eggs and milk and sugar and butter, and she made a huge big plate of most lovely pancakes. And she fried them in the melted butter which the Tigers had made, and they were just as yellow and brown as little Tigers. And then they all sat down to supper. And Black Mumbo ate Twenty-seven pancakes, and Black Jumbo ate Fifty-five, but Little Black Sambo ate a Hundred and Sixty-nine, because he was so hungry. [Illustration:] Uniform With This Volume: The Little Red Hen Willie Mouse Wee Peter Pug The Saalfield Publishing Company Chicago AKRON, OHIO New York 
35773	----	VIOLET: A FAIRY STORY. BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY. 1856. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1855, by PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. STEREOTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT. In the absence of any preface by the author, the publishers desire to call special attention to this most exquisite little story. It breathes such a love of Nature in all her forms, inculcates such excellent principles, and is so full of beauty and simplicity, that it will delight not only children, but all readers of unsophisticated tastes. The author seems to teach the gentle creed which Coleridge has imbodied in those familiar lines,-- "He prayeth well who loveth well Both man, and bird, and beast." VIOLET: A FAIRY STORY. CHAPTER I. VIOLET'S HOME. Once there was a gardener who lived in an old hut of a house, with one table inside, and some rough stools, and a large box that served for a bed, all of which he had made himself. There was one window; but when it stormed the rain beat in so that the old lady, his wife, had to pin her shawl against it, and then the whole house was dark as night. Every body thought these people poor except themselves; but they had one treasure which seemed to them better than a whole mountain of gold and all the splendid houses and gay carriages in the world. This was their little daughter Violet, whose presence in their home made it beautiful and stately, and whose absence, they thought, would have made a palace dull. Violet was not as beautiful as some children. She was pale and slender, and her soft, light hair did not curl in ringlets, but floated over her shoulders like a golden veil. But O, she had such beautiful eyes! They were large, and so bright and clear, and such a deep, deep blue! Sometimes they made you think of a brook in the shady wood when gleams of sunshine have found their way to it; sometimes they were like nothing so much as the violets that grew beside the doorway of her own father's hut. The old man had, besides his daughter, a garden, which was dear to him; and well it might be, for in summer it did one's eyes good to look at the blossoms all tangled together, and sprinkled over with great drops of pearly dew. Roses there were, and lilies, and fox-gloves, and mignonette, and a great many other flowers that had long names, which Violet could not remember. Then there were long, neatly-kept beds of vegetables and sweet herbs, which Reuben--for that was the gardener's name--carried to market. Now, while Reuben was digging his vegetables, his wife and Violet would gather the prettiest flowers and buds, and tie them into bouquets with so much taste that soon the old gardener became famous for his flowers, and many rich people sought him out, promising to buy all he would bring to their houses. Flowers only grow in summer time; and all the year round people must eat, and drink, and wear clothes; and then Reuben had to pay rent for his garden; so, notwithstanding their industry, Violet's friends were poor. But they were happier than a great many rich people, and certainly loved Violet as well as though she had been a queen. They were so kind to her that sometimes the little girl thought, if there were such beings as fairies, they must look into her heart every day, find out her wishes, and tell them to her good parents. Between you and me, there _were_ two fairies--one named Love and the other Contentment--that lived all the time in Reuben's hut; and though Violet had never seen their faces, and did not even know their names, they were always doing something for her. It was because these excellent friends had touched her coarse garments that they looked fine and soft as velvet to her eyes; it was because they never left the old black hut that it looked so clean and sunny--cheerful as a palace. You may wonder, if these fairies were so powerful, why they didn't have a palace of their own; but you must remember directly they enter a place it becomes a palace; and besides, Violet possessed a charm so powerful that even the fairies could not fly away unless she gave them leave; and yet--wasn't it queer?--she did not know this herself. CHAPTER II. STRANGE PLAYFELLOWS. Violet's birthday was very near; but she had forgotten all about it, birthdays came so far apart in her happy life. From morning until evening seemed long enough for a year to her; she found so much work to do, and such beautiful walks to take, and had so many playfellows, to say nothing of the two good fairies that always watched over and followed her. Perhaps you wonder how the little girl found friends, living as she did away out in a lonesome field among the mountains. She could have described her pets to you better than I can, because the fairy Love dressed them up for her in jewels and rainbows, while to others they were only toads, and snakes, and flies, and trees, and brooks, and clouds. Funny playfellows, you will think. There was one good thing about them--they never quarrelled or used bad words; and then it was sport for Violet, after her work was finished, to scamper away with them. But if she ran ever so fast, the fairy Love always kept up with her; and it is well she did; for if she had staid at home, or fallen into a pit on the way, all Violet's dear playfellows would have changed in an instant--have grown ugly and coarse, and, what is worse, she would have trodden on them and crushed their wings--by mistake, I hope, for she never had been so wicked; and Violet herself would have changed into a little peevish girl, with a sickly face and loose yellow hair, and wearing a dress so coarse and rough you would not give it to a beggar child. But Violet kept the charm locked safe in her heart, and therefore, wander wherever she would, the fairies had to follow. They were up with her early in summer mornings, for she loved dearly to watch the sun rise. She would climb a hill, at the foot of which Reuben's hut was built, and all alone up there, close, she thought, to the soft, rosy sky, would wait and watch, and at last clap her little hands for joy when the great golden sun came in sight above the woods. She would stand on tiptoe, and laugh aloud when she saw the shadows fly away, like frightened birds, before the sunshine, which flooded all the valley now, and which lay upon the beautiful wreaths of mist that went curling up to meet it from the ponds and brooks, brightening them to dazzling whiteness--so like the clouds in heaven that Violet half believed the earth about her was beautiful as that far-off blue sky. So it would be if every little girl and boy kept two good fairies, like Love and Contentment, flying about with them. How the grass glittered with dew! how the slender wild flowers were bowed down with its weight!--pearl and diamond beads strung all along the stems, and edging every petal. Children who keep in bed until eight o'clock know very little about the beauty of summer mornings. Perhaps, even if they did arise in time, they would be afraid of wetting their shoes in the grass; but Violet was very poor, you know, and never wore a shoe in her life, and lived out of doors so much that she was not in the least delicate. As soon as the sunshine had crept near their nests among the green boughs of the wood, all the wild birds began to flutter about and sing such loud, clear, sweet songs that Violet could not help joining the chorus; and any one else would have known that fairies Love and Contentment were singing loudest of all. Violet heard their music, but supposed it came from the birds. How she wanted to fly away with them, up among the beautiful rosy clouds! but Love whispered in her ear,-- "Won't your mother want you, little girl, at home? Cannot you help her there?" and just then a bird fluttered away from a dew-wet bough, dashing a whole shower of drops in Violet's face. Instead of being angry, she laughed, and shouted,-- "Do it again, bird. If I can't fly away with you, you may wash my face before you go. Do it again." But the bird was soon out of sight among the clouds, and Violet, with these pearly dewdrops clustering in her golden hair, went dancing down the hill. CHAPTER III. THE MOUNTAIN BROOK. Close beside the pathway ran a little murmuring brook, foaming and sparkling over its rocky bed, gliding just as merrily through the dark shadows as when its course lay open to the sun. It seemed as if fairy Contentment must have bathed in it, or planted some of the flowers along its brink; never was there a merrier little stream. "I know what you're singing about," said Violet; "I know, Mr. Brook; you're trying to make me think you can run down the hill faster than any one else. Let us see;" and away she flew, and away the brook went after her, and by her side flew the fairies, and over her head the birds--all singing, "Success to Violet!" while the leaves "clapped their little hands" in favor of their friend the brook, and the young birds looked over the edge of their nests to find out what in the world this stir could be about. Nobody ever knew which won the race. Up in the clouds the birds sang, "Good, good, good; it was Violet, Violet!" while the leaves whispered, "No, no, no, no; it was the brook!" But Violet and the brook were as good friends as were the birds and trees; so they all laughed together, instead of quarrelling. When Violet reached home her breakfast was ready, and she sat down on the doorstep with her tin porringer of bread and milk. She was so hungry that it tasted better than a great many nicer breakfasts which have been eaten from silver cups; but, hungry as she was, she did not forget her kitten, who came, saying, plainly as she could purr, "Leave a little for me." Violet had found out that it makes one quite as happy to be generous as to eat a good breakfast, and kitty had her share. Then she washed her porringer, hung it up in the sun to dry, and ran out in the garden, where her mother was picking flowers, whole baskets full of them, for the market, and told Violet to look among the thickly-clustering leaves of her namesakes, and gather all the blossoms she could find. She found a whole apron full, white and blue violets, single and double ones; these she tied in bunches, with a few bright green leaves around each bouquet. The whole garden was scented with their fragrance, and Violet thought them the prettiest flowers in the world, as well as the sweetest, and wished in her heart that she could, just once, have one of these whole bunches for her own. While she knelt on the ground admiring her lovely flowers, and wishing they need not all be sent away and sold, the fairy Love flew to her mother's side, and whispered in her ear all that Violet was thinking about. Then her mother remembered that to-morrow would be Violet's birthday, and on that occasion she never forgot to give her a present. But about this I must tell in another chapter. CHAPTER IV. TOADY. Violet passed such long, long, busy days, talking all the time to her mother, her kitten, her toads, or the birds that alighted now and then upon a bush, and sang to her while she worked; for Violet's mother, though she gave her plenty of time to play, had taught her little girl to sew and read. She might have forgotten to do this amid all her own hard work; but fairy Contentment whispered in her ear that, unless Violet became useful and industrious, _she_ must fly away, never to return; and Love, close by, sang, "See--I have brought her these books; and I'll make the learning easy." I told you that some of Violet's playfellows were toads--the same ugly brown toads you have seen hopping about your own garden walks. You must not think they were ugly to her; for, soon as they came in sight, it always happened that the shadow of Love's purple wings would fall upon them, and then their brown backs changed to crimson and violet, and the poisonous-looking spots became jewelled studs; and I will not say they were very graceful pets even then; but Violet loved them, and they loved her. This is the way their acquaintance began: It was a hot day--blazing hot; so light too--not a shadow to be seen. Violet had been in the garden at work, and, as she hastened homeward through the scorching sun, almost fell over a great toad, that had been crossing the path, but was so dusty she had mistaken him for a stone or a ball of earth. She stooped to see if she had injured him, and patting the toad's back, said,-- "You poor little dirty fellow, don't you know enough to keep out of the sun and dust?" Toady looked up at her as if he would answer if he did but know how to talk; he only opened and shut, opened and shut, his great wide mouth; but Violet understood very well what he meant by this; for the fairy Love teaches a language that is not set down in books or studied in colleges. I have known of great scholars, who could talk in twenty or thirty different tongues, and who yet knew less about this language of Love, which is the very best in the whole wide world, than our poor little barefooted Violet. "You're thirsty, are you, toady?" said she; "stand still, and I'll give you a drink." The toad opened his mouth again, and Violet poured over him a few drops she had left in her watering pot. She was half afraid he would not be very well pleased with such a showering; but there he stood, stock still, blinking his round red eyes, and opening his mouth at her as if he would say, "More--more!" "Well, wait," she said, laughing; "I'll go to the brook and bring you more water in welcome, just for the sake of seeing your face clean once." Away she ran, and toady not only waited for her, but, when she came back, there, one on each side of him, were two smaller toads--the three ranged in a row, looking so sober and funny that Violet laughed louder than ever. She sprinkled the poor dusty toads all over with cool, bright water from the mountain brook; and when they had enough, they began to shake their heads and hop away, without even saying, "Thank you," and hid themselves in the grass. CHAPTER V. LOVE'S CHARM. But the next day, (and this is a true story,) when it had grown so warm that Violet could not work any longer in the garden, and was going home with her hoe and watering pot, there stood the three toads again in the walk, just as they were the day before, with Toady, as she called him, between the two smaller ones. All three gave a little hop when Violet came in sight, and then stood still again. This was their way of saying, "Good morning; we hope you haven't forgotten us." And long afterwards, whenever Violet passed through the garden walk, especially if the day was warm, she was pretty sure of meeting her new acquaintances. They even grew so tame that they would follow her about the garden; and often she would walk up and down the same path for half an hour at a time, just for the sake of seeing how soberly her droll little pets would hop along after her, turning whenever she turned, and waiting for her whenever she stopped. Violet thought them the wisest and most loving toads that ever hopped. She did not know that Love, directly their mistress entered the garden, fastened them to her by a delicate silken cord, just the color of Love's own purple wings, and they could not very well help following her; though, if Violet had treated them unkindly, in an instant the purple cord would have lost all its strength, and grown slender as the slenderest thread in a spider web. Now, my dear readers, though I hope with all my heart that you will try to be as good and loving as Violet, I don't want you to _do_ every thing she did. All toads are not as fond of a sprinkling as Toady and his young brothers were; so you mustn't drown the poor things in water every time you meet one. What you need is, to persuade the fairies Love and Contentment to live in your home, and trust to your keeping a charm like the one they had placed in Violet's heart. Then, every morning of your lives, they will tell something which you can do, and no one else can do as well, to make others happy--kind deeds that will lighten misfortune, and loving words that may enter like music, and dwell in some lonely, sorrowing heart. Believe always this one thing--that every kind deed you do for others will make _you_ happier then and always, and every unkind deed will make you feel ashamed and sorry so long as you remember it. No matter to whom the kindness or unkindness may be done--a king or a butterfly, your own dear mother or a little toad in the garden walk. I have known children who could not bear to see even a lily broken down by rain, its beautiful white flowers all lying in the dirt. I have watched them prop it up with sticks, and gently wash the earth away from its delicate petals, and have said to myself, "Ah, little one, the fairy Love is nestling in your heart." And I have seen the fairy Contentment start from her nest among the lilies, and follow the little one as she ran off to play. CHAPTER VI. HOW FAIRIES LOOK. Do you want to know how Contentment looks? Some people think she is the most beautiful among all the fairies; (and there are hosts of them, and some of the bad ones, even, have handsome faces.) Her cheeks are not quite as rosy as Love's, and her mild eyes do not sparkle and glitter as brilliantly; but she has a smile even brighter than Love's own; this sheds a peaceful light about Contentment wherever she goes; and wherever it falls, beautiful flowers will blossom, and the air grow clear and fragrant. She wears a wreath of starbeams, braided into a delicate but brilliant crown; and there is no place so dark but this will light a path through it. Her pure white wings look like two lily petals, and though always clean and fresh themselves, I suppose they have dusted away more heaps of care, and though so delicate, have lifted people safely over wider seas of trouble, than all the strong arms in the world--all the railroads and steamships put together. She always carries in her hand an urn, from which a sweet and delicate odor arises like incense. Perhaps you will be surprised when I tell where she found this urn. It was the largest and most perfect blossom on a branch of lilies of the valley. Did you ever notice what lovely little vases they form when you turn them stem side down? I never saw one half as pretty made of Parian; but, then, of course nothing _could_ be as beautiful as a flower; they are God's vases, and his work is always the most perfect. The lily never faded; nothing _can_ fade in the light of Contentment's smile; and the modest little flower that might only have shed fragrance about its own green leaves, borne by the fairy, has sprinkled its incense odor through every land. Love is more splendid than Contentment, but not any more beautiful; _her_ wings are larger, richer, and more delicate. They are like petals of the fleur-de-lis, or iris, perhaps you call it--the splendid, feathery, purple flower, with leaves like long ribbon streamers. They are transparent too; and wherever Love goes, the light, shining through these wings, casts a rich purple glow about her--dyed, as you may have seen the sunshine in falling through the great stained window of some church. Love's crown is a broad band of golden sunshine, and she scatters roses and violets about every where. CHAPTER VII. THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. But I must tell you what happened to poor Toady one day, and see if you wonder that Violet felt badly. She was sitting on the doorstep sewing, with kitty in her lap, sound asleep, and the three toads watching her from the walk--as happy a little girl as ever breathed. It was her birthday; and when she awoke that morning, the first thing her eyes rested upon was the largest bunch of sweet violets she had ever seen in her life. They were set in a beautiful white cup, with VIOLET printed in gold letters on the front. She hardly stopped to look twice at them, but, in her nightgown, ran to the door to find and thank her good, kind parents. They were not in the field or the garden; and then Violet remembered that this was market day, and they must have gone to the town, and might not be home again until afternoon. It was an hour before Violet could dress herself. She looked at and smelt of the flowers a hundred times--set them in every corner and on every ledge to see where they would look prettiest--talked to them, and danced around them, and even pinched her finger to see if she could be awake. All these beautiful, fragrant blossoms her own for a whole day--for a week--as long as they did not fade! Then she went to the brook for water, and setting her basin on the bank, knelt down among the dewy flowers to wash her face and smooth her long, soft, golden hair, and as she went home, sang her morning hymn; for Violet knew that every morning the birds poured forth their songs, and the flowers their odors, and the brook its vapor wreaths, in gratitude to Heaven; and she had no idea of being the only ungrateful thing on earth. She met kitty, and taking her in her arms, hurried into the house, thinking how surprised and delighted puss would be with the violets. But kitty was thinking of something else; she only sneezed when Violet put her nose among the wet flowers, and struggled to get away. "Well, there--go," said Violet, a little hurt. Puss had no thought of going; she purred louder than ever, and rubbed her white face against Violet's dress, and looked up at her wistfully. "O, you greedy kit!" said Violet, at last; "you're thinking about breakfast, and not my flowers. I'll eat it right away, so as to leave you some." But, for joy, she could hardly eat a spoonful; and however kitty slighted what was in the gilded cup, it was plain enough that she enjoyed the contents of the old tin porringer. While puss was eating, Violet brought her flowers to the door again, and began to look about for the toads. Pretty soon out they hopped from the wet grass, half drowned themselves in dew, and hop, hop, hop they came towards Violet. You may think she was very silly; but you must remember she was all alone out in the fields, and had no other playmates; so she made the most of these. The toads stood still when they came to the cup of violets, and looked up at her, winking their round, lazy eyes, until she felt sure they were trying to congratulate her and praise her flowers. Then kitty came along, gaping, for she had eaten more breakfast than usual; and Love reminded Violet that she had work to do, although it was her birthday; so she took kitty in her lap, left the toads staring at her flowers, and seated herself on the doorstep to sew. CHAPTER VIII. VIOLET'S TROUBLES. Just then she heard a light, rolling sound, which came nearer and nearer, till at last she saw a carriage, drawn by two white horses. This entered the green field, and, to Violet's surprise, stopped before old Reuben's little hut. In the carriage were two children not much older than Violet, and their father, a tall, stately gentleman; besides, there were two footmen and a driver. The carriage was painted in gay colors, and gilded so that it fairly glittered in the sun; and the little girl inside was so gayly dressed, in silks, and ribbons, and artificial flowers, that Violet thought it must be one of the dolls she had seen in a milliner's window. But the doll, if it was one, spoke, tossing back her curls, and beckoning with her gloved hand to Violet, while the gentleman, placing a purse in his daughter's outstretched hand, said,-- "Buy as many flowers as you want, Narcissa. Meantime I will climb the hill yonder, which must overlook a fine prospect, it seems to me. What do _you_ say, Alfred? Will you accompany me?" Now, when the carriage stopped, the boy, Narcissa's brother, had taken a book from his pocket, and was reading it attentively; he appeared so unwilling to leave it, although he arose to follow his father, that the indulgent parent said,-- "Well, never mind; you can read on." "Little girl," exclaimed Narcissa, "run quickly into the house and call your mother or father, or somebody; I want them." "We are the only bodies here," said Violet, looking at her pets. "Well, then, go and pick me all the violets in your garden; I shall pay for them." "They were sent to market this morning," said Violet, stroking kitty's back, and not feeling very sorry at Narcissa's disappointment, for the little girl in the carriage did not seem to her well bred. "But you must, you _shall_, find me some, girl," said Narcissa, in a rage. "Don't you know that I'm going to a fancy ball to-night, and my maid must have fifteen bunches of violets to dress me with, and we have only found twelve so far? I know you're not telling the truth, for there in the grass is a whole bunch of beautiful ones. Bring them to me," turning to the footman, "and kill those dirty toads in the path; I hate the sight of them." Violet rushed to the rescue of her pets. "O, no, no! they are mine--my own--my best friends--_my_ toads and violets!" she screamed. But in vain. The footman stepped on poor Toady, kicked him across and across the path, till, all bruised and bleeding, he lay still, and, Violet thought, dead, while Narcissa clapped her hands and laughed at Violet's sorrow. "_Your_ toads and violets!" she said; "I should think you were crazy. But I don't want to hurt your feelings, girl. Go and bring me two more large handfuls of violets, and I will forgive all your impudence and wrong stories. Why don't you go? What are you staring at?" CHAPTER IX. FAIRIES AGAIN. It had just come into Violet's head that this proud and imperious little mortal in the carriage must be a queen, such as her story books told about, and had a right to every body's service and every body's goods. What strengthened this belief was the fact that, fluttering about Narcissa's head, she saw (and though her face was wet with tears, she stared at it) the queerest little fairy; now, too, she saw another fairy perched on Alfred's arm as he read, and turning over the leaves of his book; while all about the carriage flew a third, the largest and most splendid of all; he trod upon the servant's heads, right over the crown of their hats; he would sit down to rest on the necks of the beautiful white horses, as they pawed the ground; he whirled round and round Narcissa, even daring to pull her own fairy's hair, while he patted Alfred's fairy on the back quite condescendingly. This little imp was named Pride. He looked, as he flew, like a great scarlet cactus blossom, in his long rich cloak, with heavy tassels, that swept the ground, and left wherever they trailed a very fine dust of gold. In this dust the tassels were dipped continually--powdered over with it, finer than the yellow pollen you may have seen on the stamens of a lily. The flower pollen is good for something, but not so pride's gold dust. He only scatters it because it is so expensive, and common people cannot do the same. I have known persons who sold comfortable homes, cheerful hearts, and good consciences, all for a little gold, which they ground into this silly powder, and threw away. I think Pride makes people a little insane; you must take care that none of his gold dust gets into _your_ eyes. The good thing about Pride--and there is something good about every body--was his affection for Alfred's fairy, Ambition. I cannot describe this being, he is so dazzlingly bright. He is the best and the worst fairy I know, for he is at times like each one, and often like all together. It is ambition that makes men good as angels; and every one knows it is Ambition that makes Satan so bad. This fairy is useful; but he cannot be trusted for a moment; he may serve you faithfully through a long life, and at the end plunge you into some pitfall, just for mischief. He will whisper sweet words in your ear, and build you a glittering boat, and promise to row you down the pleasantest river to Paradise itself. Perhaps he will do all he promises; perhaps he will only land you in a madhouse or a jail. Ambition had taken a fancy to Alfred, and never left his side. He would urge him away from his companions and sports, to work over books,--always to work and study,--and promised to make him a great and useful man. There is one strange thing about these fairy people; beautiful and rich as they are, and free and powerful, they will follow and make their home with the poorest little child, and shelter him with their splendid wings, and light up his pathway with their gleaming crowns; but only on one condition--that the child follow wherever they lead, and is true to the fairies as they are true to him; which is but fair, you know. Who wants to give advice that is not followed? We all, though at the time we do not know it, choose our own fairies, and, once chosen, they love us and make us love them so well that it is no easy matter to escape from them, or to avoid obeying their advice. So, when you see any one--and grown-up men and women have fairies as well as children--who is led about by a wicked fairy, you must pity instead of blaming the sufferer; and if he offend you, you must take care that _his_ fairy doesn't fly into your heart and frighten away your own, or make you forget, and give unkind answers back. Be very sure no one _wants_ to be bad; only if a spiteful little spirit perched on your shoulder, and whispered evil thoughts and angry words into _your_ ear, don't you suppose that sometimes you would obey him and believe what he said? Whenever you feel these wicked spirits near, call loud for Violet's fairy, Love. She will be sure to come; and they know very well they cannot live in her presence; for the light of her starry crown puts out their eyes, and the incense from Contentment's urn will take away their breath. If Love come, Content will be sure to follow; so only keep these fairies near, and you are safe. CHAPTER X. THE STRANGERS. But we were talking about Violet and poor Toady, who lay on the ground all bruised and bleeding, one of his legs so broken that it dragged along after him when he tried to hop, and one of his eyes torn out and hanging by the skin; while the poor thing quivered all over with pain, and looked up at Violet with his one eye, as if he would say, "_Do_ help me, Violet. Why didn't you keep them away?" She lifted him into the grass, smoothing it first into something like a nest; then she poured some water from her violet cup to wash away the dust and blood, and stroked his back gently, while Toady looked up at her, and shut and opened his one eye, and tried to hop, which was his way of thanking her, you know. When she found how stiff and sore he was, Violet burst into tears again, and wondered if the little queen in the carriage was any happier for doing all this mischief. Let us see. Having taken care of her pet, the little girl looked to see if the carriage had gone; and though she was almost as blind as Toady, her eyes were so full of tears, she knew plainly enough by the sound that it was waiting still; for Alfred had thrown his book aside, and he and Narcissa were talking angrily. "You're an ugly, envious thing," said Alfred. "That poor little girl had nothing on earth but those few flowers and a miserable toad; and you, who have every thing you want, could not rest till you had stolen these. If I were king, I'd send you to state's prison." "And if you were a queen, what would _you_ do to the girl in the carriage?" asked Narcissa's father of Violet; for the gentleman had returned from his walk, and coming quietly behind, had been watching her as she wept and watched over Toady, who seemed to be fast asleep. "O, I would send her away to the end of the world, so I might never see her again. _Do_ take her away," she pleaded. "But she _has_ done wrong; she had no more right to hurt your toad than you have to hurt my horses in the carriage there. Shall I not punish her?" "It wouldn't do me any good," said Violet, mournfully. "Tell her she may have the flowers in welcome _now_. I don't care about them or any thing else if Toady must die." "And why do you care about Toady?" "About _him_?" asked Violet, shaking away the golden hair as she looked up wonderingly with her beautiful blue eyes,--"care about _him_? Why, did you ever see such a handsome toad? And then I have known him so long, and he hops about after me and lets me feed him; and now, now, when I come here in the morning, how lonesome I shall be, for he can't come hopping out from the grass any more, all wet with dew, and winking his round eyes, as if he'd say, 'Good morning.'" The gentleman laughed, and then looked very sober, as he said,-- "I can't see much beauty in your pet; but I like you, little girl, for loving him so well; and here is money to pay for the harm my daughter has done." "Why," said Violet, who had never seen any coin before, "I thought money was made to buy flour and meal with." "So it is," replied the gentleman, "and to buy cake, and fine clothes, and artificial flowers like those in Narcissa's bonnet." "I shouldn't want to look like _her_. I am not a queen," said Violet, "and I can find a great deal prettier flowers on the mountain than she wears, and prettier-looking stones than these;" and she looked at the silver carelessly; then, brightening up all at once, she asked,-- "Will they cure Toady's leg? O, if they will, I'll give you my flowers and the new cup both for them." The gentleman shook his head. "Then take them away. I don't want any thing." CHAPTER XI. THE DOCTOR DOCTORED. If Narcissa's father had looked then, he would have seen the fairy Love bending over Violet till the sunny crown she wore brightened up her face, and made it look beautiful as an angel's, and Contentment, too, pouring perfume out of her lily urn. But the gentleman had a great deal of Pride's gold dust in his eyes, and therefore he could not see very clearly. He _did_ see the beautiful love Violet had for her ugly little pet, and felt how much better it was to be contented, like Violet, with so little, than to have almost every thing, like Narcissa, and be always wishing for more. And what do you think the fairies did? They looked out of Violet's eyes, right through them, into his; and whenever she spoke they flew into his heart with the words, till the proud man, who had not wept since Narcissa's mother died, long and long ago, felt great tears gathering in his eyes; and as these fell into the grass, Contentment took care to wash away all the pride dust with her own white wings. "The money will not cure your toad," said he; "but _I_ can mend his leg, for I am a physician, and know all about broken bones." So he made the servant bring a case from the carriage, and taking a sharp little knife from it, he cut away the eye, which was too much crushed to be of any use, and then bound up the leg. But Toady kicked, and struggled, and made such a time about it, and seemed in such pain, that Violet begged him to unfasten the bandage. "Well, you are right," he said; "the limb cannot be cured, and if I cut it off it will be out of his way, at least." He had no sooner done _this_ than Toady hopped right out of his grassy nest, and looking at Violet, winked so drolly with his one eye that she laughed and cried at once, and thanked the doctor over and over again. "You needn't thank _me_," he said; "for it seems you knew better what would suit him than I did, little girl. I wonder who taught you." Then Love and Contentment looked at each other and smiled; _they_ knew very well who had taught Violet, and they knew besides that Violet was teaching the proud, rich, learned man a lesson better than he could find in all his books or buy with all his money; for the sweet smile of Contentment and the beautiful words of Love, which had come to him through the lips of the little berry girl, Violet, would be remembered for long years, and prompt him to perform kind deeds, and thus to forget his pride and his cares, and be sometimes light-hearted as a little child. CHAPTER XII. WHO ARE HAPPIEST. Do you know, dear children, that as soon as people have grown up they begin to wish they were young again, and had not troublesome servants to manage, and great houses to take care of, and purses full of money to spend or to save, and, worst of all, whole troops of wicked fairies? _They_ call them habits; but fairies they are, for all that. These spirits lead into so much mischief that there are very few men and women who don't sometimes fold their hands and say, "O, dear! if I could go back and be a little child once more!" Ask your mother if she wouldn't give all her jewels away in exchange for as pure a heart as children have. Ask your father whether he wouldn't give all his bonds and railroad stocks if that would make him as merry and free from care as you are when you climb upon his knee to ask the question. And if they say "No," ask them which fairy they would rather _you_ took for a friend--Pride or Truth. Now, here you are, children still; and if I were you, I'd enjoy being young while it lasts. I'd make friends with as many good fairies, and scare away as many bad ones, as I could find. Scare them away! I wouldn't wait to look at them or hear them talk; for some have pretty faces and sweet words, but they are dreadful cheats. I would find out ever so many things,--and there's no end to the number there _are_,--ever so many things which are right, and good, and beautiful. I wouldn't look for any thing else, but would be so happy among these that other people would notice it, and look after them too; and then I would give them as many as they wanted of my treasures, and teach them where to find more; for fairy Love takes care that the more we give the more we shall have; and even if we didn't, who wants to be a miser? Think how much God has given us!--this whole great world, all the sky over your head, and the air, and sunshine, and woods, and gardens full of flowers, and fathers and mothers to love and take care of us, and a million other things. And what do we give God? Every thing that we give away at all we give to him just as much as if we laid it in his hand. Don't you know that Christ called the poor and ignorant God's little children, and declared he loved them all _better_ than your mother and father love you? And not only this, God cares when even a bird falls to the ground with his wing broken, and is watching to see how much you are willing to do for his creature. CHAPTER XIII. VIOLET BERRYING. I called Violet a little berry girl, and I'll tell you why. On the great hill above their hut, all over one side of it, were blackberry vines; and in autumn, when the berries were ripe, Violet and her mother would spend hours and hours picking them. The sun would be scorching hot sometimes, and the thorny vines would tangle into Violet's dress and tear her arms, and mosquitos would buzz around her, until she was ready to cry or to declare she _could_ not pick any more. Poor Violet! _You_ think, perhaps, that it is hard to walk to school under your parasol these sunny days; and she had, day after day, to stand out there among the vines, picking, and picking, and picking, till the two great water pails were full of berries. But when she grew tired, Love would point to her poor old mother working so patiently, and looking so tired and warm; and when the fairy whispered, "Will you leave her here to finish the work _alone_?" Violet would forget in a minute her own weariness, and sing and laugh so merrily, and tell so often how fast her pail was filling up, that the mother would forget _her_ weariness too, and only think how fortunate and how rich she was to have such a good, bright child. When she found a place where the berries grew thick and large, Violet would call her mother to pick there; and old Mary, Reuben's wife, said that "somehow she never could find such splendid places as Violet did." So, leaving her there, the little girl would move on; and no matter how low she found the bushes, or how thinly covered with fruit, fairy Contentment, hovering over her head, would sing, "Who cares? The fewer, the sweeter." What with Contentment's singing, and that of Violet, and the crickets and locusts, and the bees and bobolinks, there was music enough in the blackberry pasture; and it all chimed together just like the instruments in an orchestra. CHAPTER XIV. THE BIRDS' HARVEST TIME. But I was telling you about Violet's birthday; so let us go back to the doorstep of her father's little hut. Narcissa called impatiently that she was tired of waiting; so her father, bidding good by to his new acquaintance, sprang into the carriage, and it rolled lightly through the green field once more. Violet sat watching until it was out of sight, and she could no longer see Narcissa's feathers and flowers fluttering in the wind. Some how she never thought of her afterwards, except as a whole bunch of lace and finery, with a little girl inside of it. Then she looked around for her violets; they were gone, and in their place lay the stranger's money. But Toady hopped in sight just then, looking so brisk, and getting about so well on his three legs, she thought her flowers were little enough to pay for so much good as he had received. So, happy as ever, Violet took her pail and went towards the blackberry hill. It seemed to her the berries were never so thick and large; she soon had enough, and setting them in a shady place, she went to the brook to wash her hands. There were long, deep scratches on her arms. How they smarted when the water touched them! but Violet only thought how much worse Toady's scratches and bruises were; and then she loved to be clean, for she had watched how the birds wash in the brook a dozen times a day, and how smooth the squirrels keep their fur, and how the flowers and leaves bathe their faces every morning in dew. She didn't want the leaves and birds to be ashamed of her. The little girl strolled on towards the wood, singing and laughing, and talking to every thing she met, but most of all to kitty, who followed after her; while whole troops of grasshoppers and little yellow butterflies flew before, and settled in advance of Violet, and when she came up, flew a little farther, as if they wanted to lead her on. Then there were flocks and flocks of birds; the ground seemed alive with them, for it was harvest time, and they came for the ripe grain which had fallen when the farmers cut their crops, and was scattered all over the fields. The thistle seeds were ripe too; and the birds, and butterflies, and bees seemed to love this best of all. Violet stood watching them eat, and laughed as she told puss that must be where she learned to be so greedy. The bees went buzzing down into the very heart of the purple flowers, and took such long, deep honey draughts, and went back again and again, as if they could never have enough, and hurried away to their hives, for the sake of hurrying back for more. The birds were not much better. They would hover an instant over the whole thistle bed, and then, selecting a good large flower, they would fly at it, fanning away with their fluttering wings till they were lost in a cloud of down, and tear out the rich, ripe seeds, swallowing them so fast it seemed as if they were eating for all winter. Violet was never tired of watching, for she loved to see every creature happy, and knew, besides, that the birds and bees only have so good a chance to eat once in the year; and therefore, though she laughed at it, she couldn't blame them for their greediness. There were such handsome yellow birds, with black spots and stripes over their bright breasts and wings. They buried their black and golden heads away in among the thistle down, while they clung to the stem with claws and wings, and were so busy eating that they did not see how near Violet crept to them. Then a beautiful great butterfly, its rich brown wings spotted with blue and orange, settled upon a flower, and sipped daintily, and fluttered away again to take another sip somewhere else, and then went sailing off into the sunshine. So she skipped along after it, kitty running close behind her, until they came to a bank covered with white everlasting flowers--so many it looked a little way off like snow; and Violet, whose mother had told her that in heaven flowers did not fade, but were _all_ everlasting, wondered if the door of heaven had not been left ajar, some day, long enough for a whole shower of seed to blow down towards this hill, and planting itself, come up in these pearl-white flowers. Ah, Violet! the commonest seeds sprang up into heavenly flowers if they fell in _your_ pathway. CHAPTER XV. WHERE THE SQUIRREL LED VIOLET. While Violet stood wondering thus, she saw a squirrel on the fence, nibbling upon a nut. As soon as she stirred, he darted along a rail or two, and then, waiting till she came up with him, went nibbling again. "You needn't feel so grand with your spry legs. I guess I can run as well as you," said Violet. The squirrel tucked the nut under one arm, and with a whisk of his bushy tail, darted like lightning along the rails, leaving Violet so far behind she thought he had gone into the wood; but when she had reached far enough herself, there he sat, quietly nibbling at his nut again, and soon as he saw her, whisked up into a tree, and from among the high boughs called, "Cheep, cheep, chip! Which beat, little girl?" Violet could not see him, he went so fast and far; and as she looked up among the leafy boughs, he dropped the nut right into her face, and ran round and round the limb, and called "Cheep, cheep, chip!" again, as if he were laughing at her. Violet laughed too, and threw the nut back at him, looking first to see how clean he had eaten out the meat. Away darted squirrel, without waiting to chip this time, and Violet called, as he ran,-- "It's all very fine to whisk along so fast, mister; but I should like to know how much good your travelling does. I know you can't _see_ a thing, any more than they can in the rail cars I've heard about. You're welcome to your legs so long as you leave the brook, and the flowers, and birds for puss and me." But he only answered by dropping another nut from directly over her head, and she followed him into the wood--the beautiful, cool, still wood. Violet left off singing as she entered it; for she loved to hear the rustle of the ripe leaves, and to watch the tiny fibres falling lightly from the pines, and hear the nuts and acorns rattle down, and to see the spider webs and insects glitter wherever a gleam of sunshine had stolen through the boughs. Her hands were full of flowers, which she had gathered on the way; for she did not mean her new cup should be empty when the good parents came home. So she had picked such a splendid bunch!--bright red cardinal flowers from the swamp; and along by the brook side, where it was sunniest, she found beautiful blue fringed gentians; and farther on branches of golden rod, that looked like little elm trees changed to gold; and on farther still, by the edge of the wood, where, as they waved, they seemed beckoning her, she found plenty of asters, white as snow, with little yellow eyes twinkling out among the petals, or else rich purple with deep gold inside; and she had some of the everlasting flowers too, like bunches of pure pearls. Violet crept under the deep shade of the boughs, where the brook was gurgling over its mossy stones, and laid the stems of her flowers there to keep them fresh, making a wall of pebbles around them, so that the water, which tripped along so fast, should not carry them away. For once, when she forgot to do this, she had no sooner placed her flowers in the brook than off they sailed down stream, and scattered so fast and far she couldn't think of finding them all again. Violet laughed when she remembered that day, and how the brook, full of its mischief, had run away with her treasures, and scattered them any and every where along its banks, setting some upright, as if they were growing again, and wedging some under the stones, and tangling some under the fence, and floating some down the hill and through the sunny field, so fast they seemed chasing the little fish that made their home in the brook. Even away down by Reuben's house a few had strayed, and reached home so much before Violet that she began to think the waves had, after all, as spry feet as her own. CHAPTER XVI. ALONE IN THE WOOD. Her flowers safe in the water, the little girl seated herself on a stone that seemed made purposely for her, it was cushioned so softly with moss; and overhead the boughs of the great trees bent towards her, and rustled and waved like so many fans, and shut her in so closely from the rest of the wood that you might have passed close by, and never guessed she was there. The kitten went fast asleep in her lap, and Violet, folding her hands, looked up among the leaves, and across where the boughs parted a little into the wood, and down at her feet, where the grass grew so long and fine, and was sprinkled over with such pretty little leaves--as tiny, some of them, as Violet's finger nails, and yet as beautifully scolloped or pointed, and as perfectly finished, as the stoutest laurel or broadest oak leaf in the wood; and, noticing this, Violet wondered if God, who had taken as much pains in making little leaves as big ones, had not taken as much pains with, and didn't care as much for, little _people_ as big ones. Who knew but he loved her, in her ragged dress, just as well as Narcissa in all her finery, or even the tall, rich doctor, who tried to mend Toady's leg? Then she listened, and felt how still it was there alone with the trees; and the sweet, low sounds that came through this stillness were beautiful as music. Far off she could hear the cool, sparkling brook foaming and hurrying over its stony bed; and then the air came breathing through the trees, as if they sighed for joy; and each leaf trembled, and seemed rising to meet the air and fly away with it, and then, falling back again, nestled closer to its neighbor leaves, and whispered softly, as if it were making love to them. But there came a louder rustling among the boughs, and a flutter of wings, and then burst forth a clear, wild song, so near that Violet held her breath; for a golden oriole had alighted close beside her, and chirped, and twittered, and trilled, as if he meant to say aloud what the leaves and the brook had been whispering. When he paused, the leaves all clapped their hands for more; and oriole understood them, for he gave another and another song, waiting between each to wet his bill in some bunch of bright, juicy berries. Violet did not suspect that the reason the sunshine looked so bright, and the shadows so cool and refreshing, and the leaves and brook so wide awake and so musical, was because the good fairies Love and Contentment were watching over her; and the beautiful purple light from Love's wings, and from Contentment's starry crown, and the fragrance from her lily urn, would make any, the dullest place, bright. But as the bird flew away, Fairy Love whispered inside of Violet's heart, "The bird has gone to her nest. Isn't it time for Violet to be thinking about _her_ nest, and the good mother, who will be there first if she does not make haste and run home?" Love's voice was lower than the whisper of the leaves or the far-off murmur of the brook; but the little girl heard and obeyed it for all that. CHAPTER XVII. THE KITTEN'S BATH. Violet had picked a whole apron full of leaves, reaching up in the trees for the largest and handsomest, and then, kneeling where they grew close to the ground, had collected the lovely, delicate ones that were so small you would not notice unless you were looking for them--broad, shining oak leaves, long, graceful chestnut leaves, and some from the fluttering poplar, and some from the hemlocks and pines, tall ferns, and maiden's-hair, and grass, clover, sorrel, ground pine, and hundreds more. Violet had been counting how many kinds there were; and as I have forgotten, the first time you go into the woods you must try yourself, and lay them side by side, as she did, to see which is prettiest. But away flew all the leaves, as, directly she heard Love's voice, the little girl sprang to her feet, waking puss out of her nap so suddenly that she spit, and put up her back, and her hair stood all on end with fright. Then you might have heard Violet's laughter ringing merrily enough through the silent wood. Such an unusual noise startled a whole flock of crows, where, hid in a tall pine tree, they had, like pussy, been taking a nap, and scolded well because they were awakened. Violet wondered if it would help the matter to make such a noise about it with their hoarse voices, which sounded as if they were made on purpose to scold--so grating and shrill. She went to the brook for her flowers, while the kitten followed, gaping such great gapes that Violet told her she'd better take care, or she wouldn't be able to close her mouth again. And looking back among the trees, as she climbed the stone wall and was going out into the sunshine again, Violet wondered if God _could_ have made that beautiful place for no one but her; no one else entered it, she knew. "I guess God thinks it's no matter how small I am, so long as I'm large enough to love it all," she thought; and I don't believe Violet was wrong. As they went home, a great cricket flew from under the kitten's feet and frightened her again, for she was hardly awake. Away she sprang to catch it, and away sprang the cricket, while Violet had to run fast to keep up with them, laughing to see how puzzled puss would be when the cricket hid under the long grass; and while she was pawing, and purring, and looking up to Violet as if she'd ask, "Where is he?" out he'd spring again, directly past her nose, and in among the grass would hide, and peep at her, while she looked every where but in the right place. At last, in her eagerness, the kitten jumped rather too far, and went into the brook; and in her fright I don't know what would have happened next if Violet had not seized her just as, mewing and trembling, the water was washing her down stream. She lapped Violet's face and purred as the little girl tried to dry her fur and warm her again in her bosom; but she was a wilful puss, and preferred creeping along in the sunshine, shaking each of her four paws at every step in the drollest fashion. But she didn't chase any more crickets _that_ day. This affair of the kitten's, and waiting to look for her berries, which Violet had hid among the bushes so safely she could not find them herself at first, delayed her so long that she almost flew the rest of the way; for when the old people went to market with their goods, they always came home tired and hungry, and were very glad of a cup of warm tea. So she did not stop flying until a fire was made and the table set; and just then she heard voices at the door. CHAPTER XVIII. THE PRICE OF TOADY'S LEG. Reuben and Mary had come; and glad enough Violet was to see them; but this, like all her days, had been so long that she forgot to say a word about her flowers and the gilded cup; she could not remember back to the morning, until her mother asked if she knew whose birthday this was; and then it all came back, and she gave more thanks and kisses than there had been flowers in the cup. "But why is it empty?" asked Reuben. And Violet told about the carriage, and Narcissa, and Toady's misfortune, and the kind doctor, who had waited to mend the mischief his daughter had done, and how he took her violets, leaving money in their stead. You should have seen the old people hold up their hands when Violet showed them the coin she had only looked upon as so many bright stones. Their marketing had not sold as well as usual, and the winter was to be a hard one for poor people, every one said; and they had been telling each other, as they came home, that if Providence had not taken care of them so well thus far, they should certainly expect to starve now. And here stood Violet with six silver dollars! They could hardly believe their eyes. Some fairy must have given it to the child. True enough, old Reuben--the fairy LOVE! The rich doctor might have given six times as much, and never have felt the loss enough to remember it. But I cannot tell you how many comforts his money procured for the poor old people. Mary had a new warm gown, and Reuben a pair of rubbers and some flannel, and Violet a blanket shawl, and what was left they spent in tea, rice, flour, and molasses. Every afternoon, when the old lady sat down to sew that winter, feeling warmer than she had for many a cold month, and seeing so beautifully, too, from the light that came in at a new window they had bought for the hut where they lived, Mary would bless the rich man, and the good child God had given her. And every time Reuben waded through the snow towards town, and did not wet his feet, nor come home with rheumatism, as he used to the winter before, he, too, would think of the rich man, and thank God for his little daughter, and wonder if ever _any_ one had so many blessings as he. Violet too, with her thick, warm shawl, could go to the district school; and very soon she learned more out of books than Reuben and Mary had known in all their lives. CHAPTER XIX. GOING TO SCHOOL. Violet's years were like her days--busy and joyous; for they were spent in making all about her happy, and in finding new wonder and beauty in the world. Winter evenings she would sit on her cricket at the old people's feet, and amuse them by telling her adventures on the way to and from school, or the wonderful things she had learned there. Perhaps it had stormed, and she would describe how beautiful it was to see every thing folded in a mantle of white snow, and to run through the pearly dust, and scatter it far and wide, and to see it gathering like a world of blossoms in the branches of the dark pine trees. Then she would tell how, when it cleared away, every thing shone, and glittered, and stood so still in the cold, blue air, and she could not hear her own footsteps any more than those of the squirrels that darted along the stone wall, and how she had sung, and shouted, and clapped her hands for company. Or she had found a half-frozen bird, and, picking it up with her own half-frozen hands, had warmed it to life, while she felt its little frightened heart beating beneath her shawl--that heart and her own the only moving things in the wide, white silence. And then how glad it made her feel when her bird sprang forth into the sky again, and she watched his shadow circling round and round her, until he alighted in a tree just as she passed underneath, and, with his fluttering wings sent down a shower of snow flakes all over her. This, she supposed, was the only way he had of telling how well and strong he felt, and how he loved her for what she had done to him. But Violet could hardly make the old folks believe what she heard at school about far-off countries and strange animals--snakes large enough to crush a horse and rider in their folds, and fishes so huge that half a dozen people could sit inside of them. Every child knows these things now, and has pictures of them in his books; but when Reuben and Mary were young there were few schools; and they, poor people, had to work instead of study. On summer mornings, after her work was done, Violet would bring home roots from her favorite wood, and plant them about the house, until you would hardly know it, it was so buried in beautiful green vines. You could not have made Violet think there was a pleasanter home on earth than hers, when the clematis was starred all over with white blossoms, and the honeysuckle she had trained over the door was full of bright yellow flowers, and the hop vine hung full of its beautiful cones, and among all shone the bright pink wild roses, and the whole air was sweet with her own favorite violets. Birds built nests within the vine, and hatched their young, and sang loudly and sweetly to their friends in the hut as often as they cared to hear. CHAPTER XX. OLD REUBEN DEAD. Nothing pleased Reuben half as much as to sit in the shadow of the vines, watch the flowers grow, and feel that all this beauty was Violet's work; for the old gardener loved flowers dearly; and when he had grown too old to work himself, he was so glad to feel that his garden pets need not be smothered up in weeds, and die. So there he sat in the sun day after day, while he grew thinner and more feeble; and one pleasant afternoon, when Violet thought he had taken too long a nap, she went to waken him for fear he might take cold. But she paused to look at the good old man as he sat there with his hands folded on his bosom, and such a beautiful smile on the wrinkled face, and the wind stirring the gray locks, while his head rested among the fresh summer leaves. Reuben never awoke; he was dead. Violet burst into tears, and wished for a moment that she could die herself; but she thought of the mother who was too infirm to take care of herself, and who had lived with Reuben longer and would feel his loss more than she. Just then a bird flew from his nest in the vine, and soaring slowly, sang low at first, and sweetly, and then louder and louder, till he was lost among the clouds. And Violet remembered what her father had said so often, that one of these days he should shake off the old aching body, and soar as lightly as any bird, and live as happily, up in that calm heaven. They buried Reuben under a great elm tree in sight of his own garden, and where he had often rested after his work, and watched the orioles building their nests or teaching their young to sing. Lonely and sad enough it was in the hut when Violet and her mother went home and saw the old man's empty chair, and his garden tools hanging on the wall. "It won't be long before I shall follow him," said old Mary, "and then God will take care of our child." "But I will take care of my mother first, for a great many years," said Violet, drawing closer, and putting her arms around Mary protectingly; for Violet, though still young, was no longer a little child, as when we knew her first. The blue eyes, though, were just as bright and as full of love and tenderness; and the light hair, which was folded now in wavy bands over a calm white forehead, when the light touched it, had the same golden look as of old. She had grown tall too, and healthy, and was graceful as a bird, and had a low, musical voice like the brook, and a smile like sunshine, and, in short, was beautiful as a fairy herself. While she sat there, with her low, sweet voice, trying to console her mother, and now and then her own sunny smile breaking through even her tears, the door opened, and their landlord entered. He had sold the pasture and the whole blackberry hill to a rich man who would build there immediately; and they must move this very night, for the hut stood in his way. CHAPTER XXI. A NEW HOME AND OLD FRIENDS. Trouble seemed to come all at once; they had no money and no place to store their humble furniture; but Violet always hoped for the best, and only smiled when they began to move the rough chairs and table her father had nailed together. "There's one comfort," she said; "our things are not so fine that a little dew will hurt them. We may leave them here till we find a better place." But it did make her heart ache to see the men tear away her vines, even from above old Reuben's seat, and then, with a few axe strokes, batter down the wall, till nothing was left of the dear old home but a little pile of boards. "We had better go to this rich man and tell our story," said her mother, as they walked sadly out of the pasture for, as they thought, the last time. "He was boarding," the landlord said, "at a hotel in the village where Reuben had carried his marketing, only three or four miles thence." So, leaning on Violet's arm, old Mary crept along the dusty road, farther than she had walked for many a day, and was tired enough when they reached the hotel door. Not so Violet, who was full of hope, and had in her head more plans than one for finding a new home. They asked for the stranger, Dr. Story, were led to his parlor, and told their simple tale. He was interested at once, and very angry that they had been treated so badly on his account, and offered to give them money, while he hardly took his eyes from Violet's face. "No," she said, smiling; "we did not come to beg, but thought, as we had lost our home through you, you might be willing to help us find another." "And how shall I do that?" asked the doctor. Then Violet told him that she had studied evenings so long it seemed to her she could teach in the village school; but she was poor, and had no friends to speak a good word for her with the committee. "What is your name?" asked the gentleman, suddenly. "Violet." "I thought so; and what has become of Toady?" It was the doctor who had mended Toady's leg so many years ago, and the young man who sat reading on the sofa was no other than Alfred, his son, with the fairy Ambition still keeping him hard at work, and making him care for little else but books. He looked up though, and listened to Violet's story, and, as he watched her, actually closed his book, and always afterwards closed it if she entered the room; for fairy Love was stronger than Ambition, and he could no more see in the purple light which fell from her wings than an owl could in broad noonday. "But where is Narcissa?" asked Violet. The father's face grew sad as he told how, the very day they were at the hut, in riding home the carriage was overturned, and Narcissa not only lamed for life, but thrown against a tree, one of whose branches entered her eye and put it out. When Violet heard of this her eyes filled with tears, and forgetting all the unkindness she had received from this girl, she only remembered how handsome Narcissa was, and how happy she seemed as they drove away. And the fairy Love shed such a beautiful light around the poor berry girl, that Ambition hid in a corner, and Alfred didn't think of his books again that day. CHAPTER XXII. THE NEW OLD HOME. The doctor lent them money enough to hire a pleasant, sunny room in the village street, where her mother could sit and watch the passers by when she was tired of knitting and reading, for she was alone now almost all the day, and Violet was mistress of the village school. One morning, as Mary sat in her comfortable chair, and was wishing old Reuben could see what a beautiful home she had, a carriage drove to the door below, and then came a knock at her own door, and Dr. Story entered. "I have come to give you a ride this pleasant day," he said. "We will call for Violet. Wouldn't you like to see how I have improved the old blackberry field?" Mary was delighted. She had never ridden in a carriage in her life; and to go in that splendid one of the doctor's, with velvet cushions, and footmen behind! She sat very straight, you may be sure, and kept tucking in her gown; for though it was new, she was afraid it might harm the seats, and her wrinkled face was shining all over with smiles. They met Violet on her way home from school, and she was almost as much pleased as the old lady with her ride. But what was their surprise to find, instead of the little footpath, a broad avenue through the pasture, with young trees on each side, and the hill where the blackberry vines had been, covered with waving oats, and in front of Violet's own beloved wood a beautiful great house large as a palace! "But now look on the other side," said Dr. Story. Where the old hut had stood was the prettiest little cottage you ever saw, with the very clematis, and honeysuckle, and wild roses Violet had planted trained over it; and there was Reuben's garden all in order, just as they had left it; and under the great elm tree there was his grave, with a new white stone at the head, and the old man's name and age cut in it. They alighted at the cottage door, and Violet noticed how the air was perfumed with her own favorite flowers. While Alfred stooped to gather some of these for Violet, his father said,-- "Do you remember, Mary, whose birthday this is?" "Sure enough, it's Violet's!" exclaimed the old woman. "And this," said the doctor, "is Violet's birthday present--this house and garden, and these beds of flowers." But before they could thank him, he added,-- "In return, you are to give up your school, and teach my own children. Will you do it, Violet? They are so young it will be easy at first, and meantime you shall have teachers yourself." Pleased as Violet and Mary were, I don't think they were half as glad as Alfred, who threw his book down into the grass so suddenly at his father's speech, I should not be surprised if it broke fairy Ambition's head. CHAPTER XXIII. ALFRED. The cottage was all furnished, and had even a foot stove for the old lady, and a soft, stuffed easy chair in the parlor, while on the woodshed wall hung Reuben's tools; and what do you think hopped up from under a board as Violet stood looking at these? Toady, on his three legs, who winked his one round eye at her, as if he would say, "Isn't all this fine?" Then there was a school room, where Violet's pupils came every morning, and learned to love her as if she were their own sister. After school she would tell them stories about the birds, and squirrels, and flowers, among which she had lived so long, or take them to walk in the old pleasant places. They told their sister Narcissa, who, like Violet, was grown to a young lady now, so much about the new teacher, that one pleasant day she went to the cottage with them. Violet was grieved to see how the handsome face was scarred and spoiled; but Narcissa said,-- "It was the best thing that ever happened to me, Violet--that accident; it cured me of pride and selfishness." And it had, truly. Narcissa was so gentle and patient, you would not have known her for the same person. She grew as fond of Violet as the children were; and when they were busy in the school room, studying, she would often sit and read to the old lady in the sunny little room where she slept and spent almost all her time. This room looked out towards the violet beds, and over it the vines grew most luxuriantly; their blossoms looked in at her window, and their shadows flickered over the bright-red carpet; while old Mary sat in her easy chair thinking of Reuben, who was dead and gone, and rejoicing that she could live and die where every thing reminded her of him, and be buried by his side. By his side she _was_ buried, under the great elm tree, but not until she had lived many years in the cottage with Violet--the happiest years of her life. Then Violet's friends at the great house said she had better go and live with them, it was so lonely in the old place now; and about this time Alfred came home from India, where he had lived long enough to grow very sickly and very rich. He told Violet that he had been earning money to take care of her, and now, if she would be his wife, they might still live in the cottage and be happy all their days. But Alfred's father was proud and ambitious, and would not be satisfied to have his son marry a poor berry girl. This Violet knew well enough; so she never told Alfred that she loved him, but only said "No" to his offers, at which he felt so badly he threatened to shoot himself. But instead of this, he concluded afterwards to marry some one else--a lady, rich, and accomplished, and gay, who made the great house merrier than it had ever been before she went to it. There were balls, and parties, and concerts, strangers coming and going constantly; there was no such thing as quiet. Violet was unwilling to exchange for this her pleasant, sunny little cottage; the vines and the elm tree and crowded garden beds had grown so dear to her, and the very birds and squirrels seemed to know and love Violet, and sing and chip to her, "_Do_ stay." How could she refuse? Who would take care of poor Toady if she went? and who would feed the old faded cat lying now on the doorstep half asleep, opening half an eye sometimes to watch her kittens play, and then going off into a doze again like a worn-out grandmother, as she had become. Who will believe it?--she was the same kitten that followed Violet into the wood about the time our story began, and wasn't old enough then to catch a cricket or keep from drowning in the brook. CHAPTER XXIV. NARCISSA. While Violet sat on the doorstep wondering whether to please Alfred and his father by going to live with them or to stay with her favorites in the cottage, Narcissa came in sight. She was limping along with her crutches through the grass, and looked very pale and tired; for the walk from the wood to the cottage, which was nothing to Violet, was a great undertaking to the lame girl. She never walked as far in any other direction; but some how the path to Violet's seemed the smoothest and easiest. Shall I tell you why? Because the fairy Love went before her, picking up every rough stone and bur or brier, and when the sun was hottest, shaded the invalid with her delicate purple wings. Violet, too, had taught Narcissa how many pleasant things there are in the world even for one who is sick. So, instead of fretting because the way was dusty and the sunshine hot, Narcissa looked up at the cool green leaves which were fanning her, and watched along all the way to see what beautiful flowers the heat and light were opening. She, too, had learned to love the cool song of the brook; to be glad--though she could not follow them herself, poor cripple!--that the butterflies could flutter about and drink honey from all the flowers, and the squirrels could dart away with their nuts, and the birds go sailing and singing up into the far blue sky. Her old fairy, Envy, was banished forever from Narcissa's heart, and in its place dwelt Violet's fairy, Love, and Contentment, Love's unfailing friend. The moment these fairies came, her heart began to grow larger and purer; for it only takes a small soul to hold such a miserable little sprite as Envy, who is so mean and poor that he makes every place poor into which he enters, though he looks fine enough in his cloak streaked with purple, gold, and red, like the gaudiest of tulips. No wonder Narcissa was glad to make the exchange of friends; for Love soon taught her that the way to be happy is to forget all about ourselves, and be glad whenever another is glad, no matter how humble a thing. So when she watched the sunshine creep towards a flower that had been waiting for it in the shade, or when she saw a young bird fly for the first time, or, in frosty mornings that made her sick frame shiver, when she heard the nuts rattle down, and knew the frost had opened their burs, and that the children would be glad, Narcissa's heart would be so full of sympathy that I am not sure but she was the happiest of all. CHAPTER XXV. NEW PLANS. Violet saw Narcissa's white dress among the trees,--for the young elms in the avenue had grown so high as to meet now overhead,--and ran out to welcome her. She helped the invalid into her house, brought her mother's easy chair out to the porch, and a footstool and fan, and last of all a little table, upon which she placed fresh flowers and a new book that had been given her, and then hurried away to mix a cooling drink, of which Narcissa was very fond. "How good you are, Violet," said Narcissa when she came back, "and how little I deserve so much from you! A toad just hopped over the step--the queerest old fellow--looked as if he had been through a dozen wars, with his one eye and a missing leg. I could have laughed, we were so much alike; and yet I couldn't, for he made me think of that first day we came to your father's house, and----" "O, yes," interrupted Violet; "and only think how much good has come to _us_ from that first visit--how comfortably we have lived ever since!--your father was so kind." "But _I_ wasn't kind," said Narcissa, looking very sorrowful; "I did you nothing but harm; and think what you have done for me." "Brought you a chair and a fan," laughed Violet; "wonderful deeds!" "You may laugh if you will," answered the lady; "but I would not give what I have gained from you in exchange for a hundred times what I ever had before. My beauty only made me vexed if I was not admired; my health and strength made me restless, kept me always in search of what I could not find nor buy. Beauty, and health, and money are good for nothing by themselves. O Violet, you have given health and beauty to my _heart_, and now I am rich and happy because no living thing can be glad but I grow richer by sharing its joy--those cool cloud shadows flickering over the grass--this sweetness the air has caught from your violet beds; and look how that humming bird enjoys the dew and honey he is drinking out of the roses, hanging among them by his long, slim bill; I can almost taste it with him as clearly as I smell the odor he shakes from the roses with his glittering wings; and I feel, too, the coolness the shadows must bring to the heated grass. For all of this, my friend, I thank you constantly." Violet was not fond of hearing herself praised; she thought it pleasure enough to help any one; so she changed the subject by offering Narcissa some more of the refreshing drink. She answered,-- "Not now, I thank you; but pray where do you buy this cordial?--it is so much pleasanter to me than the rich wines we have at home, which always make me sick." When Violet told how she had made the cordial herself from wild raspberries of her own picking, had pressed the juice out with her own white hands, and that the same hands had made the light biscuit she brought with it, and arranged the tasteful bouquet, and nailed up the luxuriant rosebushes, Narcissa was quite enchanted, and wished she could live as independently herself. "O," she said, "I am so tired of the noise and confusion at home, and so many new faces, such rich food. If I could live here, Violet, with you!" "Why not make me a visit? and if you are contented with my simple fare, I shall be very glad to have you stay as long as you will. We might have beautiful times together." "Are you in earnest?" asked Narcissa, eagerly. "I shall be so happy and so independent here! and I won't be in the way either, for you shall teach me to work, and I can paint, and draw, and play on the piano, and read ever so many languages. All these I will teach you." She smiled, and Violet asked why. "I was thinking that the accomplishment of which I was proudest once must be taught by some one else." "Why?" "Every one praised my dancing; but how in the world could I teach you with my wooden leg? I will learn of you to work, to help others, to find out the best things in books, and the most beautiful things every where. Why, we shall be like two fairy queens in our little cottage palace." Narcissa's father, instead of objecting to this plan, was very much pleased with it--said the change would be better than any medicine for the invalid. CHAPTER XXVI. SPRING AT THE COTTAGE. Love and Contentment waved their bright wings now; for the two friends became so fond of each other they were not contented apart. Narcissa even grew beautiful again, there was such a peaceful smile upon her face, and such an earnest, loving look within her eyes. It was a real pleasure for Violet to comfort and amuse this friend, from whom she was constantly learning some new thing. Narcissa painted beautifully, and Violet would bring her the freshest and loveliest flowers to copy; so there was hardly a blossom or a green leaf in the neighborhood, from April to November, but you could find it almost living again in their portfolio. They would watch the birds too, find out all their names, and their different notes, and how they fed and taught their young; and Violet worked in her garden more than ever now, because Narcissa's maid took care of the cottage, and kept it as neat as even its mistress wished. She had the lawn before the house enclosed in a border shaped like the half of a great ring, and this was planted full of snowdrops, which blossom quite early, you know, and are very delicate and beautiful. It was like a ring of living pearls; and when these wilted, odors began to steal towards the cottage door, which tempted Violet to look under another border thick with green leaves, and there would be more violets than you could count; so the pearl ring changed to one of emerald and amethyst. Meantime the sweetbrier by the doorway would begin to have pale green buds on its brown stems, and the honeysuckle and bitter-sweet came forth in fresh green shoots, until there were so many new, tender, fragrant leaves, and buds, and blossoms that the birds were sure to select it as the place for their nests. Narcissa loved to watch them while Violet was busy with her work. A flock of robins would settle upon the plum tree in the garden, peck at the gum, and dig insect eggs out from the bark, and then fly away towards the wood, singing all together; but soon two would steal back to the plum tree, and chirp and twitter to each other, and look at the cottage, and then at the wood, and then at the thickest boughs of the plum. Presently both would fly together towards the house, one settling on the sweetbrier, and one on the roof, and then on the chimney, and then hop along the porch, and then back both would go to have another talk in the plum tree, and then fly off to find their brothers and sisters in the wood. But sure as another morning came, back would come the birds too, looking with their little bright eyes all about the cottage, and always settling at last on that one sweetbrier branch. Then they would begin to bring straws and hair, which they wove together into a soft little nest, working away as busy and happy as birds could be, now and then going back to the plum tree, as if from a distance to admire their tiny home. Before very long, looking out of the cottage window, you might find the nest full of little cunning eggs; but you could not see these often, for the birds kept them almost constantly sheltered with their own warm breasts, waiting until the little things within should grow strong enough to break and creep out of their shells. All this time the father bird would bring the mother food--bring her ripe cherries, seeds, buds, and worms; and sometimes he would take her place, letting her fly away for a look at the woods, or a drink from the sparkling brook. But some bright morning you would hear the old birds twittering so joyfully, you might know something had come to pass; and the first time they flew away, if you looked from the window again, there would be, instead of the eggs, a little heap of the homeliest things in the world, with great eyes, and great legs and claws, and long red necks, and mouths half as large as the bodies, gaping at you--not a feather to be seen except a little down, like whiskers, about their ears. Birds grow very fast; you would be surprised to find how soon they began to fill, and more than fill, the nest, until some morning one after another would hop out among the sweetbrier stems, and show you their glossy backs and speckled breasts, while the old birds watched so proud and happy, and began teaching them to fly and to sing. One morning towards the last of May, when Violet was in the garden transplanting her forget-me-nots, and Narcissa, in the porch, sat watching her, enjoying the cool, fresh air, the new life that budded forth from every thing, and the freedom and joy of the golden orioles as they flashed in and out among the elm boughs, and twittered forth their wild and plaintive melodies, her attention was caught by a stir and fluttering in the sweetbrier, and then a song from the larch tree opposite. These sounds came from two yellow birds, a mother and her little one. The young one would go, "Twe-te-twee," timidly and sweetly, with such a tired tremble at the end; then forth poured the old bird a clear, connected strain, half repeated it, and then paused; and the little sweet voice came again, "Pee-te-wee--pee-te-wee--twee-te-wee." It was too cunning, and the old bird took up the trembling, broken strain so clearly, with such ease, "Twitter, witter, witter--wee-te-twee-te-twee--twitter, witter, witter"--"Wee-te-twee," ended the young one, with that same little tremble in the midst, the same baby sweetness, just such as in a child would make you snatch it up and kiss it--"twee-te-wee." Narcissa wondered if there could have been more exquisite music in paradise. CHAPTER XXVII. VIOLET'S SCHOLARS. Violet still had her little school of Narcissa's brothers and sisters; but she was so gentle and patient that study was never very hard to them, though the lessons might be long; and then at recess time the boys would go out and pick cherries, or apples, or plums, from the garden, bring them in on fresh green leaves, and they would all sit in the porch and have a little feast together. Saturday afternoons they would take a walk in the woods; and Violet taught them how to weave oak leaves into crowns, and to make necklaces out of dandelion stems and lilac flowers, and baskets of rushes. They always took something home to Narcissa, who could not enjoy long walks because of her lameness. One would pick up a pocket full of checkerberries, and one a handful of the young, spicy leaves; and the prettiest branch of hawthorn, the longest-stemmed violets, the largest-leaved bough of oak, were sure to go home for her. When it grew late in the year, they had such sport gathering chestnuts, hazelnuts, and shagbarks; the boys climbed the trees, and shook or beat them with long poles, and down the nuts would come rattling by baskets full. These were stored away in the cottage; for they all knew that what Violet kept for them was safe. When they came near the cottage again after one of these excursions, looking so bright, with their rosy cheeks, and flying hair, and laughing faces, Narcissa's smiling face was always at the window watching, and quickly appeared at the door to welcome them. Sometimes they all went home crowned with autumn leaves, sometimes with woodbine or ground pine, and early in spring with bloodroots, violets, or anemones. But the prettiest crown, and the rarest flower, and the juiciest bunch of berries were always for Narcissa. In stormy days, or when the ground was covered with snow, Violet still made the holidays pleasant for her scholars; they would play games and sing in the afternoon. She would teach the girls how to dress their dolls, and the boys how to make pasteboard boxes and kites, and how to put puzzles together. Then at evening they would gather around the fireplace, with Narcissa's great chair in the midst of the circle, and she or Violet would tell stories for hours together. One of these stories Narcissa liked so much that she wrote it down, and after Violet was dead,--for, like the snowdrops and wild roses, our Violet died at last,--she read it to me. I will try and remember it for you; but first I must tell what sorrow there was in the great house on the hill, and not there only, but among all the poor in the neighborhood, when Violet went to heaven. Under the elm tree they buried her, beside Mary and Reuben; and the orioles she loved to watch still hatch their young and sing sweet songs above her grave. Alfred wanted to build a great marble monument over her; for he said the whole world did not contain a better or lovelier woman. But Narcissa said,-- "No; she has built her own monument of good deeds, which will last after marble has mouldered away. Let us cover her grave with her own sweet violets, that whenever we pass we may think of _our_ Violet." Long afterwards, even to this day, when any who knew her witness a kind action, or meet one with a cheerful, hopeful spirit, and a sunny smile, they say, "It is just like Violet." So, dear children, let us try to make friends with her fairies, Love and Contentment, and let us remember that whenever the thought of her urges _us_ to be cheerful, contented, and loving, we, too, shall plant a flower on Violet's grave. VIOLET'S STORY. CHAPTER I. It was a snowy night, and the children, as we gathered around the fire, began to ask for stories. I told them a queer dream of my own, and then they insisted that Violet should give one of her fairy tales. While she was puzzling her brain for a new one, my little sister Mabel, who had climbed upon the sofa and was nestling close to her, asked,-- "What makes you love violets so much? Here even in winter time you have some in your bosom. Aren't you sweeter than these little homely things?" "Narcissa," she answered, "has told a dream, and now I will tell one. It's a kind of fairy story besides, and partly true. You must not ask any questions about the little girl, or make any guesses. Her name happened to be just like yours, Mabel." "Little girl! I thought 'twas a _dream_," said Mabel. [Illustration: MABEL'S DREAM.] "Listen, then: A little girl went out one day in search of strawberries. She went into a wide green field that was starred all over with dandelions, and clusters of wild lilies hanging like bells around their stems, and violets, and blue-eyed grass. "There was not a living being in this place except the birds, and little fishes in the brook; for through the long grass all around the field ran a stream of clearest water over a dark-brown, pebbly bed. "Rising on every side, so as to shut the field in by itself, were hills closely covered with trees and vines. Here birds sang all day long, and flowers bloomed, and nuts and berries ripened; the ground was in some places slippery with fallen pine leaves, and in others soft with a carpet of fresh moss. "It was shady in these woods, but in the field the sun shone, opened the lilies, ripened the strawberries, and made the little girl feel bright and glad, although it was so warm. "Strawberries are tiny things to pick; the little girl thought it would take a million to fill her pail; and often she longed to leave them and gather flowers, or play with the fish in the brook, or rest in the cool wood. "But she had always loved violets, just as I love them; and a gardener's wife had promised Mabel that the first time she brought a pail full of strawberries to her, she should have in return a whole bunch of these fragrant flowers. "So, stooping among the lilies, which were almost as tall as herself, and picking one by one, one by one, the bright sun pouring its heat down upon her, after a great while her pail was heaped with berries. Almost as fragrant as violets they were, too, and looked, upon their long green stems, like little drops of coral. "Mabel's work was not over now; she climbed half way up the hill, found a beautiful shady place, where the grass was long, and the roots of a great tree had coiled themselves into a seat, which was cushioned over with moss. "She threw aside her sun bonnet, and began to pick off the green hulls from her fruit, while the broad oak leaves overhead kept fanning her, and lifting the matted curls from her warm forehead. "But then came a great mosquito, and then another, and another; they would whirl around her head, buzzing and buzzing, and fly from her forehead to her nose, and from nose to hand, and hand to shoulder, and then creep into the curly hair, and buzz so close to her ear it frightened her. "Twenty times she had a mind to throw her berries into the brook and run home; but then she thought of the violets--how splendid it would be to have them all to herself; she should not give away one flower, not one, she had worked so hard for them. "Throwing the stems away lowered the contents of her pail so much that Mabel had to go out in the hot field and pick again, and then back to the wood where the mosquitoes were, and work another hour. She never had such a long, hard task before. "But the little girl travelled home at last with her pail brimful in one hand, and a splendid great bunch of lilies in the other. This last served as a parasol till she reached the gardener's gate. "Then, taking her violets, Mabel hurried home. There were more of them, and they were larger and sweeter, than she had even hoped. She hardly took her eyes from them until she reached her mother's door. "While she was placing her flowers in water, a woman came up the hot, dusty road, with a young child in her arms. She looked tired and warm, and said she had eaten nothing all day long. Mabel looked in the closet; there was plenty of bread, but she dared not give it without her mother's leave. She looked in all the rooms; but her mother was not to be found; and when the poor woman had rested a little, Mabel watched her creep out into the blazing sun again, dragging the little child after her. She could not bear to think that while she had every thing to make her happy, others must go hungry and tired; and 'Suppose it were my mother,' Mabel thought; 'I _must_ do something for her; yet I have nothing in the world to give.' "'Except the violets,' whispered something inside of Mabel's heart. Snatching them from the table, she ran after the beggar, and said,-- "'There, I gave a whole pail of strawberries for these; perhaps you can sell them for a loaf of bread.'" The poor woman looked so pleased, and thanked Mabel so heartily, that she felt the violets could never have caused her so much joy as it had done to give them away. CHAPTER II. "Not many days after these events, Mabel went again to the field where the lilies and strawberries grew, played about in the sun until she was tired, and then seated herself under a shady tree to rest, and hear the birds and rustling leaves, and watch the brook glide through the grass. "The grass about her was long, and fine, and soft as any bed; it was cool too, and Mabel, listening to the quiet murmur of the brook, fell fast asleep; but all the while she thought herself wide awake, and wondered why the sound of the rippling of water changed to something like the tread of tiny feet; and then there came the sweetest, most delicate music; and all at once--could it be?--she saw a multitude of little beings marching through the very pathway her footsteps had made in the grass, and approaching her. They were hardly taller than a grasshopper would be if he could stand up like a man, and had formed themselves into the drollest little procession. "First came the musicians; there were flute players, using each a joint of grass stem for instrument, bell ringers, jingling lilies of the valley, and trumpeters tooting through white lilac blossoms. Then came the guards, dressed in uniform, and bearing each a fern leaf for banner at once and parasol. With these leaves they shaded a group of little women, who marched along as dignified as nuns until they came to a bunch of fennel leaves that grew near Mabel's resting-place. Towards this they flew, for the tiny people had wings; they climbed the stems and clung to the feathery leaves, and then all at once, espying Mabel, trooped towards her, and ranged themselves upon a platform of plantain leaves. "They were funny little women--tall, and prim, and slim, wearing green mantles and such big purple hoods. They were more polite than some larger people, and did nothing but bow, and courtesy, and smile to Mabel, who asked them who they were and whence they came. "They shook their heads, and laughed, while the air was filled with sweetest odor. At last one said,-- "'We are flower spirits. Every year we come to earth and live in some blossom, which we fill with beauty and fragrance; but when it withers we go back to Fairyland until another spring. We have, besides our fairy queen, a queen whom we choose every year among mortals, and serve her faithfully. We have just returned from working in her service.' "'Are you not hungry?' asked Mabel. 'I have brought luncheon. Won't you eat some of my gingerbread?' "The fairies laughed again. 'We live,' they said, 'upon flower dust and dewdrops; we should not relish mortal food.' "Then they called from the attendants who lingered among the fennel leaves their steward and butler; and it was Mabel's turn to laugh when she saw how queerly they ate. "Some blossoms from the elder bush, little ivory urns, served them for goblets. These were set upon a mushroom, and some red clover blossoms were rolled around the table for seats. The little men had tried in vain to break these blossoms off; so they caught a caterpillar, whipped him along with grass blades, and made him use his teeth for a knife. Then they had caught a toad, and heaped his round back with the blossoms, which rolled off as fast as they could be picked up again; and by the time they reached their mistresses, the fairy servants were warm and red in the face as any hay makers. "The fairies grew so hungry with waiting that they even tasted a crumb of Mabel's gingerbread; but not liking this very well, they took out from among the provisions that were packed in a wild rose, the petals nicely fastened together with cobweb threads, some poppy and caraway seeds, upon which they began to gnaw with their little white teeth. "'You must have lived in violets,' said Mabel. 'Every time you shake your bonnets and laugh, the air is full of their odor. Can't you smell it?' "'Yes, for we were violets once ourselves, and all blossomed in the same garden; some of us grew from the same root, and a queer life we have led in the last few days. One hot day this very week the gardener's wife picked us in the greatest haste, and tied us together so tightly we were all but smothered for a while. The woman gave us to a little girl, who was just putting our stems in some cool water, and we half dead with thirst, when she must needs give us away to a beggar woman.' "'Why,' exclaimed Mabel, 'were you _my_ violets?' "The fairies only laughed. "'The woman held us in her hot hands until we were all but wilted, and she gave one or two of my sisters to the poor tired child that followed her through the dust.' "'What is the matter?' asked Mabel; 'your eyes are full of tears.' "'I am thinking of my sisters, whom we shall never meet again;' and the tears ran down the fairy's little cheeks. 'The child was overtired, and so warm that when they came to a resting-place, and she lay down to sleep, she never awoke again. A lady who had taken pity upon her laid the little body out for burial, and finding those few violets still clinched in the dead hand, would not remove them; so my sisters were buried in her grave, and must remain there no one knows how long; for while we live on earth we must take care of these bodies, frail flowers though they be. If we omit this, all our happiness and usefulness are gone. The kind lady who buried the beggar child bought us from the woman, all wilted as we were. In her shady parlor we soon grew refreshed, lifted our heads again, and in gratitude breathed forth odors, till the room was all perfumed. A lovely girl came to visit the lady, and said so much about our sweetness, that, to our joy, we were divided with her. She took us to her home, a splendid place, all light, and gilding, and flowers, curtains, and cushions, and velvet carpets, and marble stands. Upon one of these last we were placed, in a white Parian cup, but hardly had time to regain our breath when one of the maiden's lovers came, selected me from among the rest, and twirled me around his finger as he talked, until my stem was broken, and I all but dead. In a lucky hour he let me fall, and, lame as I was, I caught by the leg of a great fly, who whizzed me out of the window in a second, buzzing so all the while that he almost stunned me. I have just found my friends here, and have not had time to ask about their adventures.' "The little woman, tired with talking so long, sank into her seat on the plantain leaf, and taking a caraway seed from her pocket, began nibbling, while her companions finished the story. "'We have had less trouble,' they said. 'The benevolent lady took us to a dismal prison, to be sure, and we were shut up for a while with a man who had murdered another, and was waiting to be hung. He had forgotten his own mother and his early home; but when he looked at us, the past came back to him. He remembered the little garden by his father's house, and felt for a moment like an innocent boy again. From that hour he grew penitent, and he may be forgiven in consequence by God.' "'But didn't the jailer forgive him?' asked Mabel. "'No; he was hung. We belonged to no one then, so we caught our withering bodies under our arms, and flew away through the iron gratings of his cell. But, Mabel, what are you thinking about?' ended the fairy. "'Thinking,' said Mabel, 'how much better it was to give away my violets than to keep them. I little dreamed they would do so much good in the world. But, fairy, what is the name of the earthly queen you told me about?' "'Mabel,' answered all the little voices; and the fern leaf banners waved, and violet odors filled the air again, while the tiny flutes and trumpets made sweet music at the mention of their queen. "'Why, that is my name,' said the little girl. "'And you are our queen,' said the fairies. 'It is a kind and loving heart that gives one power like a fairy wand, and can win all good spirits to serve its owner. This will change selfishness into benevolence, and sin to penitence, and hatred to forgiveness; it will transform--haven't you done it?--a prison into a dewy garden, and put love and penitence into a murderer's heart. Whoever uses us to best purposes is our queen; and _this_ summer our queen is Mabel.' "Mabel reached forward to take her little subjects from the leaf; but lo, it was only a handful of violets. In her surprise, she awoke, with a dim feeling still that she had watched the little procession wind away through her foot tracks in the grass, the fern leaf banners waving over it, while mingled with violet odors came back triumphant music from the tiny flutes and timbrels. Low but clear were the fairy voices; and Mabel never forgot the words they sang, which ended,-- 'All of us, whoe'er we be, May carve us out such royalty.'" JUVENILE WORKS CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS AT CHESTNUT HILL. BY COUSIN MARY. Containing fine engravings from original Designs, and printed very neatly. It will be found to be a charming little book for a present for all seasons. LITTLE BLOSSOM'S REWARD; A CHRISTMAS BOOK FOR CHILDREN BY MRS. EMILY HARE. Beautifully Illustrated from original Designs, and a charming Presentation Book for Young People. ESTELLE'S STORIES ABOUT DOGS; Containing six beautiful Illustrations; being original Portraits from Life. BY H. TRUSTA LITTLE MARY; OR, TALKS AND TALES. This little book is charmingly illustrated, and is a very beautiful book. It is made up of short lessons, and was originally written for the practical use of children from five to ten years of age. PEEP AT "NUMBER FIVE;" Or, A CHAPTER IN THE LIFE OF A CITY PASTOR. THE TELLTALE; Or, HOME SECRETS TOLD BY OLD TRAVELLERS. THE "LAST LEAF FROM SUNNY SIDE;" BY PAUL CREYTON. FATHER BRIGHTHOPES; Or, AN OLD CLERGYMAN'S VACATION. HEARTS AND FACES; Or, HOME LIFE UNVEILED. By Francis C. Woodworth. EDITOR OF "WOODWORTH'S YOUTH'S CABINET," AUTHOR OF "THE WILLOW LANE BUDGET," "THE STRAWBERRY GIRL," "THE MILLER OF OUR VILLAGE," "THEODORE THINKER'S TALES," ETC., ETC. UNCLE FRANK'S BOYS' AND GIRLS' LIBRARY _A Beautiful Series, comprising six volumes, with eight Tinted Engravings in each volume. The following are their titles respectively_:-- I. THE PEDDLER'S BOY; or, I'll be Somebody. II. THE DIVING BELL; or, Pearls to be sought for. III. THE POOR ORGAN GRINDER, and other Stories. IV. OUR SUE: Her Motto and its Uses. V. MIKE MARBLE: His Crotchets and Oddities. VI. THE WONDERFUL LETTER BAG OF KIT CURIOUS "Woodworth is unquestionably and immeasurably the best writer for children that we know of; for he combines a sturdy common sense and varied information with a most childlike and loveful spirit, that finds its way at once to the child's heart. We regard him as one of the truest benefactors of his race; for he is as wise as he is gentle, and never uses his power over the child-heart to instil into it the poison of false teaching, or to cramp it with unlovely bigotry. The publishers have done their part, as well as the author, to make these volumes attractive. Altogether we regard them as one of the pleasantest series of juvenile books extant, both in their literary character and mechanical execution."--_Syracuse (N. Y.) Daily Standard._ 
5676	----	A DOUBLE STORY BY GEORGE MACDONALD. NEW YORK: A DOUBLE STORY I. There was a certain country where things used to go rather oddly. For instance, you could never tell whether it was going to rain or hail, or whether or not the milk was going to turn sour. It was impossible to say whether the next baby would be a boy, or a girl, or even, after he was a week old, whether he would wake sweet-tempered or cross. In strict accordance with the peculiar nature of this country of uncertainties, it came to pass one day, that in the midst of a shower of rain that might well be called golden, seeing the sun, shining as it fell, turned all its drops into molten topazes, and every drop was good for a grain of golden corn, or a yellow cowslip, or a buttercup, or a dandelion at least;--while this splendid rain was falling, I say, with a musical patter upon the great leaves of the horse-chestnuts, which hung like Vandyke collars about the necks of the creamy, red-spotted blossoms, and on the leaves of the sycamores, looking as if they had blood in their veins, and on a multitude of flowers, of which some stood up and boldly held out their cups to catch their share, while others cowered down, laughing, under the soft patting blows of the heavy warm drops;--while this lovely rain was washing all the air clean from the motes, and the bad odors, and the poison-seeds that had escaped from their prisons during the long drought;--while it fell, splashing and sparkling, with a hum, and a rush, and a soft clashing--but stop! I am stealing, I find, and not that only, but with clumsy hands spoiling what I steal:-- "O Rain! with your dull twofold sound, The clash hard by, and the murmur all round:" --there! take it, Mr. Coleridge;--while, as I was saying, the lovely little rivers whose fountains are the clouds, and which cut their own channels through the air, and make sweet noises rubbing against their banks as they hurry down and down, until at length they are pulled up on a sudden, with a musical plash, in the very heart of an odorous flower, that first gasps and then sighs up a blissful scent, or on the bald head of a stone that never says, Thank you;--while the very sheep felt it blessing them, though it could never reach their skins through the depth of their long wool, and the veriest hedgehog--I mean the one with the longest spikes--came and spiked himself out to impale as many of the drops as he could;--while the rain was thus falling, and the leaves, and the flowers, and the sheep, and the cattle, and the hedgehog, were all busily receiving the golden rain, something happened. It was not a great battle, nor an earthquake, nor a coronation, but something more important than all those put together. A BABY-GIRL WAS BORN; and her father was a king; and her mother was a queen; and her uncles and aunts were princes and princesses; and her first-cousins were dukes and duchesses; and not one of her second-cousins was less than a marquis or marchioness, or of their third-cousins less than an earl or countess: and below a countess they did not care to count. So the little girl was Somebody; and yet for all that, strange to say, the first thing she did was to cry. I told you it was a strange country. As she grew up, everybody about her did his best to convince her that she was Somebody; and the girl herself was so easily persuaded of it that she quite forgot that anybody had ever told her so, and took it for a fundamental, innate, primary, first-born, self-evident, necessary, and incontrovertible idea and principle that SHE WAS SOMEBODY. And far be it from me to deny it. I will even go so far as to assert that in this odd country there was a huge number of Somebodies. Indeed, it was one of its oddities that every boy and girl in it, was rather too ready to think he or she was Somebody; and the worst of it was that the princess never thought of there being more than one Somebody--and that was herself. Far away to the north in the same country, on the side of a bleak hill, where a horse-chestnut or a sycamore was never seen, where were no meadows rich with buttercups, only steep, rough, breezy slopes, covered with dry prickly furze and its flowers of red gold, or moister, softer broom with its flowers of yellow gold, and great sweeps of purple heather, mixed with bilberries, and crowberries, and cranberries--no, I am all wrong: there was nothing out yet but a few furze-blossoms; the rest were all waiting behind their doors till they were called; and no full, slow-gliding river with meadow-sweet along its oozy banks, only a little brook here and there, that dashed past without a moment to say, "How do you do?"--there (would you believe it?) while the same cloud that was dropping down golden rain all about the queen's new baby was dashing huge fierce handfuls of hail upon the hills, with such force that they flew spinning off the rocks and stones, went burrowing in the sheep's wool, stung the cheeks and chin of the shepherd with their sharp spiteful little blows, and made his dog wink and whine as they bounded off his hard wise head, and long sagacious nose; only, when they dropped plump down the chimney, and fell hissing in the little fire, they caught it then, for the clever little fire soon sent them up the chimney again, a good deal swollen, and harmless enough for a while, there (what do you think?) among the hailstones, and the heather, and the cold mountain air, another little girl was born, whom the shepherd her father, and the shepherdess her mother, and a good many of her kindred too, thought Somebody. She had not an uncle or an aunt that was less than a shepherd or dairymaid, not a cousin, that was less than a farm-laborer, not a second-cousin that was less than a grocer, and they did not count farther. And yet (would you believe it?) she too cried the very first thing. It WAS an odd country! And, what is still more surprising, the shepherd and shepherdess and the dairymaids and the laborers were not a bit wiser than the king and the queen and the dukes and the marquises and the earls; for they too, one and all, so constantly taught the little woman that she was Somebody, that she also forgot that there were a great many more Somebodies besides herself in the world. It was, indeed, a peculiar country, very different from ours--so different, that my reader must not be too much surprised when I add the amazing fact, that most of its inhabitants, instead of enjoying the things they had, were always wanting the things they had not, often even the things it was least likely they ever could have. The grown men and women being like this, there is no reason to be further astonished that the Princess Rosamond--the name her parents gave her because it means Rose of the World--should grow up like them, wanting every thing she could and every thing she couldn't have. The things she could have were a great many too many, for her foolish parents always gave her what they could; but still there remained a few things they couldn't give her, for they were only a common king and queen. They could and did give her a lighted candle when she cried for it, and managed by much care that she should not burn her fingers or set her frock on fire; but when she cried for the moon, that they could not give her. They did the worst thing possible, instead, however; for they pretended to do what they could not. They got her a thin disc of brilliantly polished silver, as near the size of the moon as they could agree upon; and, for a time she was delighted. But, unfortunately, one evening she made the discovery that her moon was a little peculiar, inasmuch as she could not shine in the dark. Her nurse happened to snuff out the candles as she was playing with it; and instantly came a shriek of rage, for her moon had vanished. Presently, through the opening of the curtains, she caught sight of the real moon, far away in the sky, and shining quite calmly, as if she had been there all the time; and her rage increased to such a degree that if it had not passed off in a fit, I do not know what might have come of it. As she grew up it was still the same, with this difference, that not only must she have every thing, but she got tired of every thing almost as soon as she had it. There was an accumulation of things in her nursery and schoolroom and bedroom that was perfectly appalling. Her mother's wardrobes were almost useless to her, so packed were they with things of which she never took any notice. When she was five years old, they gave her a splendid gold repeater, so close set with diamonds and rubies, that the back was just one crust of gems. In one of her little tempers, as they called her hideously ugly rages, she dashed it against the back of the chimney, after which it never gave a single tick; and some of the diamonds went to the ash-pit. As she grew older still, she became fond of animals, not in a way that brought them much pleasure, or herself much satisfaction. When angry, she would beat them, and try to pull them to pieces, and as soon as she became a little used to them, would neglect them altogether. Then, if they could, they would run away, and she was furious. Some white mice, which she had ceased feeding altogether, did so; and soon the palace was swarming with white mice. Their red eyes might be seen glowing, and their white skins gleaming, in every dark corner; but when it came to the king's finding a nest of them in his second-best crown, he was angry and ordered them to be drowned. The princess heard of it, however, and raised such a clamor, that there they were left until they should run away of themselves; and the poor king had to wear his best crown every day till then. Nothing that was the princess's property, whether she cared for it or not, was to be meddled with. Of course, as she grew, she grew worse; for she never tried to grow better. She became more and more peevish and fretful every day--dissatisfied not only with what she had, but with all that was around her, and constantly wishing things in general to be different. She found fault with every thing and everybody, and all that happened, and grew more and more disagreeable to every one who had to do with her. At last, when she had nearly killed her nurse, and had all but succeeded in hanging herself, and was miserable from morning to night, her parents thought it time to do something. A long way from the palace, in the heart of a deep wood of pine-trees, lived a wise woman. In some countries she would have been called a witch; but that would have been a mistake, for she never did any thing wicked, and had more power than any witch could have. As her fame was spread through all the country, the king heard of her; and, thinking she might perhaps be able to suggest something, sent for her. In the dead of the night, lest the princess should know it, the king's messenger brought into the palace a tall woman, muffled from head to foot in a cloak of black cloth. In the presence of both their Majesties, the king, to do her honor, requested her to sit; but she declined, and stood waiting to hear what they had to say. Nor had she to wait long, for almost instantly they began to tell her the dreadful trouble they were in with their only child; first the king talking, then the queen interposing with some yet more dreadful fact, and at times both letting out a torrent of words together, so anxious were they to show the wise woman that their perplexity was real, and their daughter a very terrible one. For a long while there appeared no sign of approaching pause. But the wise woman stood patiently folded in her black cloak, and listened without word or motion. At length silence fell; for they had talked themselves tired, and could not think of any thing more to add to the list of their child's enormities. After a minute, the wise woman unfolded her arms; and her cloak dropping open in front, disclosed a garment made of a strange stuff, which an old poet who knew her well has thus described:-- "All lilly white, withoutten spot or pride, That seemd like silke and silver woven neare; But neither silke nor silver therein did appeare." "How very badly you have treated her!" said the wise woman. "Poor child!" "Treated her badly?" gasped the king. "She is a very wicked child," said the queen; and both glared with indignation. "Yes, indeed!" returned the wise woman. "She is very naughty indeed, and that she must be made to feel; but it is half your fault too." "What!" stammered the king. "Haven't we given her every mortal thing she wanted?" "Surely," said the wise woman: "what else could have all but killed her? You should have given her a few things of the other sort. But you are far too dull to understand me." "You are very polite," remarked the king, with royal sarcasm on his thin, straight lips. The wise woman made no answer beyond a deep sigh; and the king and queen sat silent also in their anger, glaring at the wise woman. The silence lasted again for a minute, and then the wise woman folded her cloak around her, and her shining garment vanished like the moon when a great cloud comes over her. Yet another minute passed and the silence endured, for the smouldering wrath of the king and queen choked the channels of their speech. Then the wise woman turned her back on them, and so stood. At this, the rage of the king broke forth; and he cried to the queen, stammering in his fierceness,-- "How should such an old hag as that teach Rosamond good manners? She knows nothing of them herself! Look how she stands!--actually with her back to us." At the word the wise woman walked from the room. The great folding doors fell to behind her; and the same moment the king and queen were quarrelling like apes as to which of them was to blame for her departure. Before their altercation was over, for it lasted till the early morning, in rushed Rosamond, clutching in her hand a poor little white rabbit, of which she was very fond, and from which, only because it would not come to her when she called it, she was pulling handfuls of fur in the attempt to tear the squealing, pink-eared, red-eyed thing to pieces. "Rosa, RosaMOND!" cried the queen; whereupon Rosamond threw the rabbit in her mother's face. The king started up in a fury, and ran to seize her. She darted shrieking from the room. The king rushed after her; but, to his amazement, she was nowhere to be seen: the huge hall was empty.--No: just outside the door, close to the threshold, with her back to it, sat the figure of the wise woman, muffled in her dark cloak, with her head bowed over her knees. As the king stood looking at her, she rose slowly, crossed the hall, and walked away down the marble staircase. The king called to her; but she never turned her head, or gave the least sign that she heard him. So quietly did she pass down the wide marble stair, that the king was all but persuaded he had seen only a shadow gliding across the white steps. For the princess, she was nowhere to be found. The queen went into hysterics; and the rabbit ran away. The king sent out messengers in every direction, but in vain. In a short time the palace was quiet--as quiet as it used to be before the princess was born. The king and queen cried a little now and then, for the hearts of parents were in that country strangely fashioned; and yet I am afraid the first movement of those very hearts would have been a jump of terror if the ears above them had heard the voice of Rosamond in one of the corridors. As for the rest of the household, they could not have made up a single tear amongst them. They thought, whatever it might be for the princess, it was, for every one else, the best thing that could have happened; and as to what had become of her, if their heads were puzzled, their hearts took no interest in the question. The lord-chancellor alone had an idea about it, but he was far too wise to utter it. II. The fact, as is plain, was, that the princess had disappeared in the folds of the wise woman's cloak. When she rushed from the room, the wise woman caught her to her bosom and flung the black garment around her. The princess struggled wildly, for she was in fierce terror, and screamed as loud as choking fright would permit her; but her father, standing in the door, and looking down upon the wise woman, saw never a movement of the cloak, so tight was she held by her captor. He was indeed aware of a most angry crying, which reminded him of his daughter; but it sounded to him so far away, that he took it for the passion of some child in the street, outside the palace-gates. Hence, unchallenged, the wise woman carried the princess down the marble stairs, out at the palace-door, down a great flight of steps outside, across a paved court, through the brazen gates, along half-roused streets where people were opening their shops, through the huge gates of the city, and out into the wide road, vanishing northwards; the princess struggling and screaming all the time, and the wise woman holding her tight. When at length she was too tired to struggle or scream any more, the wise woman unfolded her cloak, and set her down; and the princess saw the light and opened her swollen eyelids. There was nothing in sight that she had ever seen before. City and palace had disappeared. They were upon a wide road going straight on, with a ditch on each side of it, that behind them widened into the great moat surrounding the city. She cast up a terrified look into the wise woman's face, that gazed down upon her gravely and kindly. Now the princess did not in the least understand kindness. She always took it for a sign either of partiality or fear. So when the wise woman looked kindly upon her, she rushed at her, butting with her head like a ram: but the folds of the cloak had closed around the wise woman; and, when the princess ran against it, she found it hard as the cloak of a bronze statue, and fell back upon the road with a great bruise on her head. The wise woman lifted her again, and put her once more under the cloak, where she fell asleep, and where she awoke again only to find that she was still being carried on and on. When at length the wise woman again stopped and set her down, she saw around her a bright moonlit night, on a wide heath, solitary and houseless. Here she felt more frightened than before; nor was her terror assuaged when, looking up, she saw a stern, immovable countenance, with cold eyes fixedly regarding her. All she knew of the world being derived from nursery-tales, she concluded that the wise woman was an ogress, carrying her home to eat her. I have already said that the princess was, at this time of her life, such a low-minded creature, that severity had greater influence over her than kindness. She understood terror better far than tenderness. When the wise woman looked at her thus, she fell on her knees, and held up her hands to her, crying,-- "Oh, don't eat me! don't eat me!" Now this being the best SHE could do, it was a sign she was a low creature. Think of it--to kick at kindness, and kneel from terror. But the sternness on the face of the wise woman came from the same heart and the same feeling as the kindness that had shone from it before. The only thing that could save the princess from her hatefulness, was that she should be made to mind somebody else than her own miserable Somebody. Without saying a word, the wise woman reached down her hand, took one of Rosamond's, and, lifting her to her feet, led her along through the moonlight. Every now and then a gush of obstinacy would well up in the heart of the princess, and she would give a great ill-tempered tug, and pull her hand away; but then the wise woman would gaze down upon her with such a look, that she instantly sought again the hand she had rejected, in pure terror lest she should be eaten upon the spot. And so they would walk on again; and when the wind blew the folds of the cloak against the princess, she found them soft as her mother's camel-hair shawl. After a little while the wise woman began to sing to her, and the princess could not help listening; for the soft wind amongst the low dry bushes of the heath, the rustle of their own steps, and the trailing of the wise woman's cloak, were the only sounds beside. And this is the song she sang:-- Out in the cold, With a thin-worn fold Of withered gold Around her rolled, Hangs in the air the weary moon. She is old, old, old; And her bones all cold, And her tales all told, And her things all sold, And she has no breath to croon. Like a castaway clout, She is quite shut out! She might call and shout, But no one about Would ever call back, "Who's there?" There is never a hut, Not a door to shut, Not a footpath or rut, Long road or short cut, Leading to anywhere! She is all alone Like a dog-picked bone, The poor old crone! She fain would groan, But she cannot find the breath. She once had a fire; But she built it no higher, And only sat nigher Till she saw it expire; And now she is cold as death. She never will smile All the lonesome while. Oh the mile after mile, And never a stile! And never a tree or a stone! She has not a tear: Afar and anear It is all so drear, But she does not care, Her heart is as dry as a bone. None to come near her! No one to cheer her! No one to jeer her! No one to hear her! Not a thing to lift and hold! She is always awake, But her heart will not break: She can only quake, Shiver, and shake: The old woman is very cold. As strange as the song, was the crooning wailing tune that the wise woman sung. At the first note almost, you would have thought she wanted to frighten the princess; and so indeed she did. For when people WILL be naughty, they have to be frightened, and they are not expected to like it. The princess grew angry, pulled her hand away, and cried,-- "YOU are the ugly old woman. I hate you!" Therewith she stood still, expecting the wise woman to stop also, perhaps coax her to go on: if she did, she was determined not to move a step. But the wise woman never even looked about: she kept walking on steadily, the same pace as before. Little Obstinate thought for certain she would turn; for she regarded herself as much too precious to be left behind. But on and on the wise woman went, until she had vanished away in the dim moonlight. Then all at once the princess perceived that she was left alone with the moon, looking down on her from the height of her loneliness. She was horribly frightened, and began to run after the wise woman, calling aloud. But the song she had just heard came back to the sound of her own running feet,-- All all alone, Like a dog-picked bone! and again,-- She might call and shout, And no one about Would ever call back, "Who's there?" and she screamed as she ran. How she wished she knew the old woman's name, that she might call it after her through the moonlight! But the wise woman had, in truth, heard the first sound of her running feet, and stopped and turned, waiting. What with running and crying, however, and a fall or two as she ran, the princess never saw her until she fell right into her arms--and the same moment into a fresh rage; for as soon as any trouble was over the princess was always ready to begin another. The wise woman therefore pushed her away, and walked on; while the princess ran scolding and storming after her. She had to run till, from very fatigue, her rudeness ceased. Her heart gave way; she burst into tears, and ran on silently weeping. A minute more and the wise woman stooped, and lifting her in her arms, folded her cloak around her. Instantly she fell asleep, and slept as soft and as soundly as if she had been in her own bed. She slept till the moon went down; she slept till the sun rose up; she slept till he climbed the topmost sky; she slept till he went down again, and the poor old moon came peaking and peering out once more: and all that time the wise woman went walking on and on very fast. And now they had reached a spot where a few fir-trees came to meet them through the moonlight. At the same time the princess awaked, and popping her head out between the folds of the wise woman's cloak--a very ugly little owlet she looked--saw that they were entering the wood. Now there is something awful about every wood, especially in the moonlight; and perhaps a fir-wood is more awful than other woods. For one thing, it lets a little more light through, rendering the darkness a little more visible, as it were; and then the trees go stretching away up towards the moon, and look as if they cared nothing about the creatures below them--not like the broad trees with soft wide leaves that, in the darkness even, look sheltering. So the princess is not to be blamed that she was very much frightened. She is hardly to be blamed either that, assured the wise woman was an ogress carrying her to her castle to eat her up, she began again to kick and scream violently, as those of my readers who are of the same sort as herself will consider the right and natural thing to do. The wrong in her was this--that she had led such a bad life, that she did not know a good woman when she saw her; took her for one like herself, even after she had slept in her arms. Immediately the wise woman set her down, and, walking on, within a few paces vanished among the trees. Then the cries of the princess rent the air, but the fir-trees never heeded her; not one of their hard little needles gave a single shiver for all the noise she made. But there were creatures in the forest who were soon quite as much interested in her cries as the fir-trees were indifferent to them. They began to hearken and howl and snuff about, and run hither and thither, and grin with their white teeth, and light up the green lamps in their eyes. In a minute or two a whole army of wolves and hyenas were rushing from all quarters through the pillar like stems of the fir-trees, to the place where she stood calling them, without knowing it. The noise she made herself, however, prevented her from hearing either their howls or the soft pattering of their many trampling feet as they bounded over the fallen fir needles and cones. One huge old wolf had outsped the rest--not that he could run faster, but that from experience he could more exactly judge whence the cries came, and as he shot through the wood, she caught sight at last of his lamping eyes coming swiftly nearer and nearer. Terror silenced her. She stood with her mouth open, as if she were going to eat the wolf, but she had no breath to scream with, and her tongue curled up in her mouth like a withered and frozen leaf. She could do nothing but stare at the coming monster. And now he was taking a few shorter bounds, measuring the distance for the one final leap that should bring him upon her, when out stepped the wise woman from behind the very tree by which she had set the princess down, caught the wolf by the throat half-way in his last spring, shook him once, and threw him from her dead. Then she turned towards the princess, who flung herself into her arms, and was instantly lapped in the folds of her cloak. But now the huge army of wolves and hyenas had rushed like a sea around them, whose waves leaped with hoarse roar and hollow yell up against the wise woman. But she, like a strong stately vessel, moved unhurt through the midst of them. Ever as they leaped against her cloak, they dropped and slunk away back through the crowd. Others ever succeeded, and ever in their turn fell, and drew back confounded. For some time she walked on attended and assailed on all sides by the howling pack. Suddenly they turned and swept away, vanishing in the depths of the forest. She neither slackened nor hastened her step, but went walking on as before. In a little while she unfolded her cloak, and let the princess look out. The firs had ceased; and they were on a lofty height of moorland, stony and bare and dry, with tufts of heather and a few small plants here and there. About the heath, on every side, lay the forest, looking in the moonlight like a cloud; and above the forest, like the shaven crown of a monk, rose the bare moor over which they were walking. Presently, a little way in front of them, the princess espied a whitewashed cottage, gleaming in the moon. As they came nearer, she saw that the roof was covered with thatch, over which the moss had grown green. It was a very simple, humble place, not in the least terrible to look at, and yet, as soon as she saw it, her fear again awoke, and always, as soon as her fear awoke, the trust of the princess fell into a dead sleep. Foolish and useless as she might by this time have known it, she once more began kicking and screaming, whereupon, yet once more, the wise woman set her down on the heath, a few yards from the back of the cottage, and saying only, "No one ever gets into my house who does not knock at the door, and ask to come in," disappeared round the corner of the cottage, leaving the princess alone with the moon--two white faces in the cone of the night. III. The moon stared at the princess, and the princess stared at the moon; but the moon had the best of it, and the princess began to cry. And now the question was between the moon and the cottage. The princess thought she knew the worst of the moon, and she knew nothing at all about the cottage, therefore she would stay with the moon. Strange, was it not, that she should have been so long with the wise woman, and yet know NOTHING about that cottage? As for the moon, she did not by any means know the worst of her, or even, that, if she were to fall asleep where she could find her, the old witch would certainly do her best to twist her face. But she had scarcely sat a moment longer before she was assailed by all sorts of fresh fears. First of all, the soft wind blowing gently through the dry stalks of the heather and its thousands of little bells raised a sweet rustling, which the princess took for the hissing of serpents, for you know she had been naughty for so long that she could not in a great many things tell the good from the bad. Then nobody could deny that there, all round about the heath, like a ring of darkness, lay the gloomy fir-wood, and the princess knew what it was full of, and every now and then she thought she heard the howling of its wolves and hyenas. And who could tell but some of them might break from their covert and sweep like a shadow across the heath? Indeed, it was not once nor twice that for a moment she was fully persuaded she saw a great beast coming leaping and bounding through the moonlight to have her all to himself. She did not know that not a single evil creature dared set foot on that heath, or that, if one should do so, it would that instant wither up and cease. If an army of them had rushed to invade it, it would have melted away on the edge of it, and ceased like a dying wave.--She even imagined that the moon was slowly coming nearer and nearer down the sky to take her and freeze her to death in her arms. The wise woman, too, she felt sure, although her cottage looked asleep, was watching her at some little window. In this, however, she would have been quite right, if she had only imagined enough--namely, that the wise woman was watching OVER her from the little window. But after all, somehow, the thought of the wise woman was less frightful than that of any of her other terrors, and at length she began to wonder whether it might not turn out that she was no ogress, but only a rude, ill-bred, tyrannical, yet on the whole not altogether ill-meaning person. Hardly had the possibility arisen in her mind, before she was on her feet: if the woman was any thing short of an ogress, her cottage must be better than that horrible loneliness, with nothing in all the world but a stare; and even an ogress had at least the shape and look of a human being. She darted round the end of the cottage to find the front. But, to her surprise, she came only to another back, for no door was to be seen. She tried the farther end, but still no door. She must have passed it as she ran--but no--neither in gable nor in side was any to be found. A cottage without a door!--she rushed at it in a rage and kicked at the wall with her feet. But the wall was hard as iron, and hurt her sadly through her gay silken slippers. She threw herself on the heath, which came up to the walls of the cottage on every side, and roared and screamed with rage. Suddenly, however, she remembered how her screaming had brought the horde of wolves and hyenas about her in the forest, and, ceasing at once, lay still, gazing yet again at the moon. And then came the thought of her parents in the palace at home. In her mind's eye she saw her mother sitting at her embroidery with the tears dropping upon it, and her father staring into the fire as if he were looking for her in its glowing caverns. It is true that if they had both been in tears by her side because of her naughtiness, she would not have cared a straw; but now her own forlorn condition somehow helped her to understand their grief at having lost her, and not only a great longing to be back in her comfortable home, but a feeble flutter of genuine love for her parents awoke in her heart as well, and she burst into real tears--soft, mournful tears--very different from those of rage and disappointment to which she was so much used. And another very remarkable thing was that the moment she began to love her father and mother, she began to wish to see the wise woman again. The idea of her being an ogress vanished utterly, and she thought of her only as one to take her in from the moon, and the loneliness, and the terrors of the forest-haunted heath, and hide her in a cottage with not even a door for the horrid wolves to howl against. But the old woman--as the princess called her, not knowing that her real name was the Wise Woman--had told her that she must knock at the door: how was she to do that when there was no door? But again she bethought herself--that, if she could not do all she was told, she could, at least, do a part of it: if she could not knock at the door, she could at least knock--say on the wall, for there was nothing else to knock upon--and perhaps the old woman would hear her, and lift her in by some window. Thereupon, she rose at once to her feet, and picking up a stone, began to knock on the wall with it. A loud noise was the result, and she found she was knocking on the very door itself. For a moment she feared the old woman would be offended, but the next, there came a voice, saying, "Who is there?" The princess answered, "Please, old woman, I did not mean to knock so loud." To this there came no reply. Then the princess knocked again, this time with her knuckles, and the voice came again, saying, "Who is there?" And the princess answered, "Rosamond." Then a second time there was silence. But the princess soon ventured to knock a third time. "What do you want?" said the voice. "Oh, please, let me in!" said the princess. "The moon will keep staring at me; and I hear the wolves in the wood." Then the door opened, and the princess entered. She looked all around, but saw nothing of the wise woman. It was a single bare little room, with a white deal table, and a few old wooden chairs, a fire of fir-wood on the hearth, the smoke of which smelt sweet, and a patch of thick-growing heath in one corner. Poor as it was, compared to the grand place Rosamond had left, she felt no little satisfaction as she shut the door, and looked around her. And what with the sufferings and terrors she had left outside, the new kind of tears she had shed, the love she had begun to feel for her parents, and the trust she had begun to place in the wise woman, it seemed to her as if her soul had grown larger of a sudden, and she had left the days of her childishness and naughtiness far behind her. People are so ready to think themselves changed when it is only their mood that is changed! Those who are good-tempered because it is a fine day, will be ill-tempered when it rains: their selves are just the same both days; only in the one case, the fine weather has got into them, in the other the rainy. Rosamond, as she sat warming herself by the glow of the peat-fire, turning over in her mind all that had passed, and feeling how pleasant the change in her feelings was, began by degrees to think how very good she had grown, and how very good she was to have grown good, and how extremely good she must always have been that she was able to grow so very good as she now felt she had grown; and she became so absorbed in her self-admiration as never to notice either that the fire was dying, or that a heap of fir-cones lay in a corner near it. Suddenly, a great wind came roaring down the chimney, and scattered the ashes about the floor; a tremendous rain followed, and fell hissing on the embers; the moon was swallowed up, and there was darkness all about her. Then a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder, so terrified the princess, that she cried aloud for the old woman, but there came no answer to her cry. Then in her terror the princess grew angry, and saying to herself, "She must be somewhere in the place, else who was there to open the door to me?" began to shout and yell, and call the wise woman all the bad names she had been in the habit of throwing at her nurses. But there came not a single sound in reply. Strange to say, the princess never thought of telling herself now how naughty she was, though that would surely have been reasonable. On the contrary, she thought she had a perfect right to be angry, for was she not most desperately ill used--and a princess too? But the wind howled on, and the rain kept pouring down the chimney, and every now and then the lightning burst out, and the thunder rushed after it, as if the great lumbering sound could ever think to catch up with the swift light! At length the princess had again grown so angry, frightened, and miserable, all together, that she jumped up and hurried about the cottage with outstretched arms, trying to find the wise woman. But being in a bad temper always makes people stupid, and presently she struck her forehead such a blow against something--she thought herself it felt like the old woman's cloak--that she fell back--not on the floor, though, but on the patch of heather, which felt as soft and pleasant as any bed in the palace. There, worn out with weeping and rage, she soon fell fast asleep. She dreamed that she was the old cold woman up in the sky, with no home and no friends, and no nothing at all, not even a pocket; wandering, wandering forever, over a desert of blue sand, never to get to anywhere, and never to lie down or die. It was no use stopping to look about her, for what had she to do but forever look about her as she went on and on and on--never seeing any thing, and never expecting to see any thing! The only shadow of a hope she had was, that she might by slow degrees grow thinner and thinner, until at last she wore away to nothing at all; only alas! she could not detect the least sign that she had yet begun to grow thinner. The hopelessness grew at length so unendurable that she woke with a start. Seeing the face of the wise woman bending over her, she threw her arms around her neck and held up her mouth to be kissed. And the kiss of the wise woman was like the rose-gardens of Damascus. IV. The wise woman lifted her tenderly, and washed and dressed her far more carefully than even her nurse. Then she set her down by the fire, and prepared her breakfast. The princess was very hungry, and the bread and milk as good as it could be, so that she thought she had never in her life eaten any thing nicer. Nevertheless, as soon as she began to have enough, she said to herself,-- "Ha! I see how it is! The old woman wants to fatten me! That is why she gives me such nice creamy milk. She doesn't kill me now because she's going to kill me then! She IS an ogress, after all!" Thereupon she laid down her spoon, and would not eat another mouthful--only followed the basin with longing looks, as the wise woman carried it away. When she stopped eating, her hostess knew exactly what she was thinking; but it was one thing to understand the princess, and quite another to make the princess understand her: that would require time. For the present she took no notice, but went about the affairs of the house, sweeping the floor, brushing down the cobwebs, cleaning the hearth, dusting the table and chairs, and watering the bed to keep it fresh and alive--for she never had more than one guest at a time, and never would allow that guest to go to sleep upon any thing that had no life in it. All the time she was thus busied, she spoke not a word to the princess, which, with the princess, went to confirm her notion of her purposes. But whatever she might have said would have been only perverted by the princess into yet stronger proof of her evil designs, for a fancy in her own head would outweigh any multitude of facts in another's. She kept staring at the fire, and never looked round to see what the wise woman might be doing. By and by she came close up to the back of her chair, and said, "Rosamond!" But the princess had fallen into one of her sulky moods, and shut herself up with her own ugly Somebody; so she never looked round or even answered the wise woman. "Rosamond," she repeated, "I am going out. If you are a good girl, that is, if you do as I tell you, I will carry you back to your father and mother the moment I return." The princess did not take the least notice. "Look at me, Rosamond," said the wise woman. But Rosamond never moved--never even shrugged her shoulders--perhaps because they were already up to her ears, and could go no farther. "I want to help you to do what I tell you," said the wise woman. "Look at me." Still Rosamond was motionless and silent, saying only to herself, "I know what she's after! She wants to show me her horrid teeth. But I won't look. I'm not going to be frightened out of my senses to please her." "You had better look, Rosamond. Have you forgotten how you kissed me this morning?" But Rosamond now regarded that little throb of affection as a momentary weakness into which the deceitful ogress had betrayed her, and almost despised herself for it. She was one of those who the more they are coaxed are the more disagreeable. For such, the wise woman had an awful punishment, but she remembered that the princess had been very ill brought up, and therefore wished to try her with all gentleness first. She stood silent for a moment, to see what effect her words might have. But Rosamond only said to herself,-- "She wants to fatten and eat me." And it was such a little while since she had looked into the wise woman's loving eyes, thrown her arms round her neck, and kissed her! "Well," said the wise woman gently, after pausing as long as it seemed possible she might bethink herself, "I must tell you then without; only whoever listens with her back turned, listens but half, and gets but half the help." "She wants to fatten me," said the princess. "You must keep the cottage tidy while I am out. When I come back, I must see the fire bright, the hearth swept, and the kettle boiling; no dust on the table or chairs, the windows clear, the floor clean, and the heather in blossom--which last comes of sprinkling it with water three times a day. When you are hungry, put your hand into that hole in the wall, and you will find a meal." "She wants to fatten me," said the princess. "But on no account leave the house till I come back," continued the wise woman, "or you will grievously repent it. Remember what you have already gone through to reach it. Dangers lie all around this cottage of mine; but inside, it is the safest place--in fact the only quite safe place in all the country." "She means to eat me," said the princess, "and therefore wants to frighten me from running away." She heard the voice no more. Then, suddenly startled at the thought of being alone, she looked hastily over her shoulder. The cottage was indeed empty of all visible life. It was soundless, too: there was not even a ticking clock or a flapping flame. The fire burned still and smouldering-wise; but it was all the company she had, and she turned again to stare into it. Soon she began to grow weary of having nothing to do. Then she remembered that the old woman, as she called her, had told her to keep the house tidy. "The miserable little pig-sty!" she said. "Where's the use of keeping such a hovel clean!" But in truth she would have been glad of the employment, only just because she had been told to do it, she was unwilling; for there ARE people--however unlikely it may seem--who object to doing a thing for no other reason than that it is required of them. "I am a princess," she said, "and it is very improper to ask me to do such a thing." She might have judged it quite as suitable for a princess to sweep away the dust as to sit the centre of a world of dirt. But just because she ought, she wouldn't. Perhaps she feared that if she gave in to doing her duty once, she might have to do it always--which was true enough--for that was the very thing for which she had been specially born. Unable, however, to feel quite comfortable in the resolve to neglect it, she said to herself, "I'm sure there's time enough for such a nasty job as that!" and sat on, watching the fire as it burned away, the glowing red casting off white flakes, and sinking lower and lower on the hearth. By and by, merely for want of something to do, she would see what the old woman had left for her in the hole of the wall. But when she put in her hand she found nothing there, except the dust which she ought by this time to have wiped away. Never reflecting that the wise woman had told her she would find food there WHEN SHE WAS HUNGRY, she flew into one of her furies, calling her a cheat, and a thief, and a liar, and an ugly old witch, and an ogress, and I do not know how many wicked names besides. She raged until she was quite exhausted, and then fell fast asleep on her chair. When she awoke the fire was out. By this time she was hungry; but without looking in the hole, she began again to storm at the wise woman, in which labor she would no doubt have once more exhausted herself, had not something white caught her eye: it was the corner of a napkin hanging from the hole in the wall. She bounded to it, and there was a dinner for her of something strangely good--one of her favorite dishes, only better than she had ever tasted it before. This might surely have at least changed her mood towards the wise woman; but she only grumbled to herself that it was as it ought to be, ate up the food, and lay down on the bed, never thinking of fire, or dust, or water for the heather. The wind began to moan about the cottage, and grew louder and louder, till a great gust came down the chimney, and again scattered the white ashes all over the place. But the princess was by this time fast asleep, and never woke till the wind had sunk to silence. One of the consequences, however, of sleeping when one ought to be awake is waking when one ought to be asleep; and the princess awoke in the black midnight, and found enough to keep her awake. For although the wind had fallen, there was a far more terrible howling than that of the wildest wind all about the cottage. Nor was the howling all; the air was full of strange cries; and everywhere she heard the noise of claws scratching against the house, which seemed all doors and windows, so crowded were the sounds, and from so many directions. All the night long she lay half swooning, yet listening to the hideous noises. But with the first glimmer of morning they ceased. Then she said to herself, "How fortunate it was that I woke! They would have eaten me up if I had been asleep." The miserable little wretch actually talked as if she had kept them out! If she had done her work in the day, she would have slept through the terrors of the darkness, and awaked fearless; whereas now, she had in the storehouse of her heart a whole harvest of agonies, reaped from the dun fields of the night! They were neither wolves nor hyenas which had caused her such dismay, but creatures of the air, more frightful still, which, as soon as the smoke of the burning fir-wood ceased to spread itself abroad, and the sun was a sufficient distance down the sky, and the lone cold woman was out, came flying and howling about the cottage, trying to get in at every door and window. Down the chimney they would have got, but that at the heart of the fire there always lay a certain fir-cone, which looked like solid gold red-hot, and which, although it might easily get covered up with ashes, so as to be quite invisible, was continually in a glow fit to kindle all the fir-cones in the world; this it was which had kept the horrible birds--some say they have a claw at the tip of every wing-feather--from tearing the poor naughty princess to pieces, and gobbling her up. When she rose and looked about her, she was dismayed to see what a state the cottage was in. The fire was out, and the windows were all dim with the wings and claws of the dirty birds, while the bed from which she had just risen was brown and withered, and half its purple bells had fallen. But she consoled herself that she could set all to rights in a few minutes--only she must breakfast first. And, sure enough, there was a basin of the delicious bread and milk ready for her in the hole of the wall! After she had eaten it, she felt comfortable, and sat for a long time building castles in the air--till she was actually hungry again, without having done an atom of work. She ate again, and was idle again, and ate again. Then it grew dark, and she went trembling to bed, for now she remembered the horrors of the last night. This time she never slept at all, but spent the long hours in grievous terror, for the noises were worse than before. She vowed she would not pass another night in such a hateful haunted old shed for all the ugly women, witches, and ogresses in the wide world. In the morning, however, she fell asleep, and slept late. Breakfast was of course her first thought, after which she could not avoid that of work. It made her very miserable, but she feared the consequences of being found with it undone. A few minutes before noon, she actually got up, took her pinafore for a duster, and proceeded to dust the table. But the wood-ashes flew about so, that it seemed useless to attempt getting rid of them, and she sat down again to think what was to be done. But there is very little indeed to be done when we will not do that which we have to do. Her first thought now was to run away at once while the sun was high, and get through the forest before night came on. She fancied she could easily go back the way she had come, and get home to her father's palace. But not the most experienced traveller in the world can ever go back the way the wise woman has brought him. She got up and went to the door. It was locked! What could the old woman have meant by telling her not to leave the cottage? She was indignant. The wise woman had meant to make it difficult, but not impossible. Before the princess, however, could find the way out, she heard a hand at the door, and darted in terror behind it. The wise woman opened it, and, leaving it open, walked straight to the hearth. Rosamond immediately slid out, ran a little way, and then laid herself down in the long heather. V. The wise woman walked straight up to the hearth, looked at the fire, looked at the bed, glanced round the room, and went up to the table. When she saw the one streak in the thick dust which the princess had left there, a smile, half sad, half pleased, like the sun peeping through a cloud on a rainy day in spring, gleamed over her face. She went at once to the door, and called in a loud voice, "Rosamond, come to me." All the wolves and hyenas, fast asleep in the wood, heard her voice, and shivered in their dreams. No wonder then that the princess trembled, and found herself compelled, she could not understand how, to obey the summons. She rose, like the guilty thing she felt, forsook of herself the hiding-place she had chosen, and walked slowly back to the cottage she had left full of the signs of her shame. When she entered, she saw the wise woman on her knees, building up the fire with fir-cones. Already the flame was climbing through the heap in all directions, crackling gently, and sending a sweet aromatic odor through the dusty cottage. "That is my part of the work," she said, rising. "Now you do yours. But first let me remind you that if you had not put it off, you would have found it not only far easier, but by and by quite pleasant work, much more pleasant than you can imagine now; nor would you have found the time go wearily: you would neither have slept in the day and let the fire out, nor waked at night and heard the howling of the beast-birds. More than all, you would have been glad to see me when I came back; and would have leaped into my arms instead of standing there, looking so ugly and foolish." As she spoke, suddenly she held up before the princess a tiny mirror, so clear that nobody looking into it could tell what it was made of, or even see it at all--only the thing reflected in it. Rosamond saw a child with dirty fat cheeks, greedy mouth, cowardly eyes--which, not daring to look forward, seemed trying to hide behind an impertinent nose--stooping shoulders, tangled hair, tattered clothes, and smears and stains everywhere. That was what she had made herself. And to tell the truth, she was shocked at the sight, and immediately began, in her dirty heart, to lay the blame on the wise woman, because she had taken her away from her nurses and her fine clothes; while all the time she knew well enough that, close by the heather-bed, was the loveliest little well, just big enough to wash in, the water of which was always springing fresh from the ground, and running away through the wall. Beside it lay the whitest of linen towels, with a comb made of mother-of-pearl, and a brush of fir-needles, any one of which she had been far too lazy to use. She dashed the glass out of the wise woman's hand, and there it lay, broken into a thousand pieces! Without a word, the wise woman stooped, and gathered the fragments--did not leave searching until she had gathered the last atom, and she laid them all carefully, one by one, in the fire, now blazing high on the hearth. Then she stood up and looked at the princess, who had been watching her sulkily. "Rosamond," she said, with a countenance awful in its sternness, "until you have cleansed this room--" "She calls it a room!" sneered the princess to herself. "You shall have no morsel to eat. You may drink of the well, but nothing else you shall have. When the work I set you is done, you will find food in the same place as before. I am going from home again; and again I warn you not to leave the house." "She calls it a house!--It's a good thing she's going out of it anyhow!" said the princess, turning her back for mere rudeness, for she was one who, even if she liked a thing before, would dislike it the moment any person in authority over her desired her to do it. When she looked again, the wise woman had vanished. Thereupon the princess ran at once to the door, and tried to open it; but open it would not. She searched on all sides, but could discover no way of getting out. The windows would not open--at least she could not open them; and the only outlet seemed the chimney, which she was afraid to try because of the fire, which looked angry, she thought, and shot out green flames when she went near it. So she sat down to consider. One may well wonder what room for consideration there was--with all her work lying undone behind her. She sat thus, however, considering, as she called it, until hunger began to sting her, when she jumped up and put her hand as usual in the hole of the wall: there was nothing there. She fell straight into one of her stupid rages; but neither her hunger nor the hole in the wall heeded her rage. Then, in a burst of self-pity, she fell a-weeping, but neither the hunger nor the hole cared for her tears. The darkness began to come on, and her hunger grew and grew, and the terror of the wild noises of the last night invaded her. Then she began to feel cold, and saw that the fire was dying. She darted to the heap of cones, and fed it. It blazed up cheerily, and she was comforted a little. Then she thought with herself it would surely be better to give in so far, and do a little work, than die of hunger. So catching up a duster, she began upon the table. The dust flew about and nearly choked her. She ran to the well to drink, and was refreshed and encouraged. Perceiving now that it was a tedious plan to wipe the dust from the table on to the floor, whence it would have all to be swept up again, she got a wooden platter, wiped the dust into that, carried it to the fire, and threw it in. But all the time she was getting more and more hungry and, although she tried the hole again and again, it was only to become more and more certain that work she must if she would eat. At length all the furniture was dusted, and she began to sweep the floor, which happily, she thought of sprinkling with water, as from the window she had seen them do to the marble court of the palace. That swept, she rushed again to the hole--but still no food! She was on the verge of another rage, when the thought came that she might have forgotten something. To her dismay she found that table and chairs and every thing was again covered with dust--not so badly as before, however. Again she set to work, driven by hunger, and drawn by the hope of eating, and yet again, after a second careful wiping, sought the hole. But no! nothing was there for her! What could it mean? Her asking this question was a sign of progress: it showed that she expected the wise woman to keep her word. Then she bethought her that she had forgotten the household utensils, and the dishes and plates, some of which wanted to be washed as well as dusted. Faint with hunger, she set to work yet again. One thing made her think of another, until at length she had cleaned every thing she could think of. Now surely she must find some food in the hole! When this time also there was nothing, she began once more to abuse the wise woman as false and treacherous;--but ah! there was the bed unwatered! That was soon amended.--Still no supper! Ah! there was the hearth unswept, and the fire wanted making up!--Still no supper! What else could there be? She was at her wits' end, and in very weariness, not laziness this time, sat down and gazed into the fire. There, as she gazed, she spied something brilliant,--shining even, in the midst of the fire: it was the little mirror all whole again; but little she knew that the dust which she had thrown into the fire had helped to heal it. She drew it out carefully, and, looking into it, saw, not indeed the ugly creature she had seen there before, but still a very dirty little animal; whereupon she hurried to the well, took off her clothes, plunged into it, and washed herself clean. Then she brushed and combed her hair, made her clothes as tidy as might be, and ran to the hole in the wall: there was a huge basin of bread and milk! Never had she eaten any thing with half the relish! Alas! however, when she had finished, she did not wash the basin, but left it as it was, revealing how entirely all the rest had been done only from hunger. Then she threw herself on the heather, and was fast asleep in a moment. Never an evil bird came near her all that night, nor had she so much as one troubled dream. In the morning as she lay awake before getting up, she spied what seemed a door behind the tall eight-day clock that stood silent in the corner. "Ah!" she thought, "that must be the way out!" and got up instantly. The first thing she did, however, was to go to the hole in the wall. Nothing was there. "Well, I am hardly used!" she cried aloud. "All that cleaning for the cross old woman yesterday, and this for my trouble,--nothing for breakfast! Not even a crust of bread! Does Mistress Ogress fancy a princess will bear that?" The poor foolish creature seemed to think that the work of one day ought to serve for the next day too! But that is nowhere the way in the whole universe. How could there be a universe in that case? And even she never dreamed of applying the same rule to her breakfast. "How good I was all yesterday!" she said, "and how hungry and ill used I am to-day!" But she would NOT be a slave, and do over again to-day what she had done only last night! SHE didn't care about her breakfast! She might have it no doubt if she dusted all the wretched place again, but she was not going to do that--at least, without seeing first what lay behind the clock! Off she darted, and putting her hand behind the clock found the latch of a door. It lifted, and the door opened a little way. By squeezing hard, she managed to get behind the clock, and so through the door. But how she stared, when instead of the open heath, she found herself on the marble floor of a large and stately room, lighted only from above. Its walls were strengthened by pilasters, and in every space between was a large picture, from cornice to floor. She did not know what to make of it. Surely she had run all round the cottage, and certainly had seen nothing of this size near it! She forgot that she had also run round what she took for a hay-mow, a peat-stack, and several other things which looked of no consequence in the moonlight. "So, then," she cried, "the old woman IS a cheat! I believe she's an ogress, after all, and lives in a palace--though she pretends it's only a cottage, to keep people from suspecting that she eats good little children like me!" Had the princess been tolerably tractable, she would, by this time, have known a good deal about the wise woman's beautiful house, whereas she had never till now got farther than the porch. Neither was she at all in its innermost places now. But, king's daughter as she was, she was not a little daunted when, stepping forward from the recess of the door, she saw what a great lordly hall it was. She dared hardly look to the other end, it seemed so far off: so she began to gaze at the things near her, and the pictures first of all, for she had a great liking for pictures. One in particular attracted her attention. She came back to it several times, and at length stood absorbed in it. A blue summer sky, with white fleecy clouds floating beneath it, hung over a hill green to the very top, and alive with streams darting down its sides toward the valley below. On the face of the hill strayed a flock of sheep feeding, attended by a shepherd and two dogs. A little way apart, a girl stood with bare feet in a brook, building across it a bridge of rough stones. The wind was blowing her hair back from her rosy face. A lamb was feeding close beside her; and a sheepdog was trying to reach her hand to lick it. "Oh, how I wish I were that little girl!" said the princess aloud. "I wonder how it is that some people are made to be so much happier than others! If I were that little girl, no one would ever call me naughty." She gazed and gazed at the picture. At length she said to herself, "I do not believe it is a picture. It is the real country, with a real hill, and a real little girl upon it. I shall soon see whether this isn't another of the old witch's cheats!" She went close up to the picture, lifted her foot, and stepped over the frame. "I am free, I am free!" she exclaimed; and she felt the wind upon her cheek. The sound of a closing door struck on her ear. She turned--and there was a blank wall, without door or window, behind her. The hill with the sheep was before her, and she set out at once to reach it. Now, if I am asked how this could be, I can only answer, that it was a result of the interaction of things outside and things inside, of the wise woman's skill, and the silly child's folly. If this does not satisfy my questioner, I can only add, that the wise woman was able to do far more wonderful things than this. VI. Meantime the wise woman was busy as she always was; and her business now was with the child of the shepherd and shepherdess, away in the north. Her name was Agnes. Her father and mother were poor, and could not give her many things. Rosamond would have utterly despised the rude, simple playthings she had. Yet in one respect they were of more value far than hers: the king bought Rosamond's with his money; Agnes's father made hers with his hands. And while Agnes had but few things--not seeing many things about her, and not even knowing that there were many things anywhere, she did not wish for many things, and was therefore neither covetous nor avaricious. She played with the toys her father made her, and thought them the most wonderful things in the world--windmills, and little crooks, and water-wheels, and sometimes lambs made all of wool, and dolls made out of the leg-bones of sheep, which her mother dressed for her; and of such playthings she was never tired. Sometimes, however, she preferred playing with stones, which were plentiful, and flowers, which were few, or the brooks that ran down the hill, of which, although they were many, she could only play with one at a time, and that, indeed, troubled her a little--or live lambs that were not all wool, or the sheep-dogs, which were very friendly with her, and the best of playfellows, as she thought, for she had no human ones to compare them with. Neither was she greedy after nice things, but content, as well she might be, with the homely food provided for her. Nor was she by nature particularly self-willed or disobedient; she generally did what her father and mother wished, and believed what they told her. But by degrees they had spoiled her; and this was the way: they were so proud of her that they always repeated every thing she said, and told every thing she did, even when she was present; and so full of admiration of their child were they, that they wondered and laughed at and praised things in her which in another child would never have struck them as the least remarkable, and some things even which would in another have disgusted them altogether. Impertinent and rude things done by THEIR child they thought SO clever! laughing at them as something quite marvellous; her commonplace speeches were said over again as if they had been the finest poetry; and the pretty ways which every moderately good child has were extolled as if the result of her excellent taste, and the choice of her judgment and will. They would even say sometimes that she ought not to hear her own praises for fear it should make her vain, and then whisper them behind their hands, but so loud that she could not fail to hear every word. The consequence was that she soon came to believe--so soon, that she could not recall the time when she did not believe, as the most absolute fact in the universe, that she was SOMEBODY; that is, she became most immoderately conceited. Now as the least atom of conceit is a thing to be ashamed of, you may fancy what she was like with such a quantity of it inside her! At first it did not show itself outside in any very active form; but the wise woman had been to the cottage, and had seen her sitting alone, with such a smile of self-satisfaction upon her face as would have been quite startling to her, if she had ever been startled at any thing; for through that smile she could see lying at the root of it the worm that made it. For some smiles are like the ruddiness of certain apples, which is owing to a centipede, or other creeping thing, coiled up at the heart of them. Only her worm had a face and shape the very image of her own; and she looked so simpering, and mawkish, and self-conscious, and silly, that she made the wise woman feel rather sick. Not that the child was a fool. Had she been, the wise woman would have only pitied and loved her, instead of feeling sick when she looked at her. She had very fair abilities, and were she once but made humble, would be capable not only of doing a good deal in time, but of beginning at once to grow to no end. But, if she were not made humble, her growing would be to a mass of distorted shapes all huddled together; so that, although the body she now showed might grow up straight and well-shaped and comely to behold, the new body that was growing inside of it, and would come out of it when she died, would be ugly, and crooked this way and that, like an aged hawthorn that has lived hundreds of years exposed upon all sides to salt sea-winds. As time went on, this disease of self-conceit went on too, gradually devouring the good that was in her. For there is no fault that does not bring its brothers and sisters and cousins to live with it. By degrees, from thinking herself so clever, she came to fancy that whatever seemed to her, must of course be the correct judgment, and whatever she wished, the right thing; and grew so obstinate, that at length her parents feared to thwart her in any thing, knowing well that she would never give in. But there are victories far worse than defeats; and to overcome an angel too gentle to put out all his strength, and ride away in triumph on the back of a devil, is one of the poorest. So long as she was left to take her own way and do as she would, she gave her parents little trouble. She would play about by herself in the little garden with its few hardy flowers, or amongst the heather where the bees were busy; or she would wander away amongst the hills, and be nobody knew where, sometimes from morning to night; nor did her parents venture to find fault with her. She never went into rages like the princess, and would have thought Rosamond--oh, so ugly and vile! if she had seen her in one of her passions. But she was no better, for all that, and was quite as ugly in the eyes of the wise woman, who could not only see but read her face. What is there to choose between a face distorted to hideousness by anger, and one distorted to silliness by self-complacency? True, there is more hope of helping the angry child out of her form of selfishness than the conceited child out of hers; but on the other hand, the conceited child was not so terrible or dangerous as the wrathful one. The conceited one, however, was sometimes very angry, and then her anger was more spiteful than the other's; and, again, the wrathful one was often very conceited too. So that, on the whole, of two very unpleasant creatures, I would say that the king's daughter would have been the worse, had not the shepherd's been quite as bad. But, as I have said, the wise woman had her eye upon her: she saw that something special must be done, else she would be one of those who kneel to their own shadows till feet grow on their knees; then go down on their hands till their hands grow into feet; then lay their faces on the ground till they grow into snouts; when at last they are a hideous sort of lizards, each of which believes himself the best, wisest, and loveliest being in the world, yea, the very centre of the universe. And so they run about forever looking for their own shadows, that they may worship them, and miserable because they cannot find them, being themselves too near the ground to have any shadows; and what becomes of them at last there is but one who knows. The wise woman, therefore, one day walked up to the door of the shepherd's cottage, dressed like a poor woman, and asked for a drink of water. The shepherd's wife looked at her, liked her, and brought her a cup of milk. The wise woman took it, for she made it a rule to accept every kindness that was offered her. Agnes was not by nature a greedy girl, as I have said; but self-conceit will go far to generate every other vice under the sun. Vanity, which is a form of self-conceit, has repeatedly shown itself as the deepest feeling in the heart of a horrible murderess. That morning, at breakfast, her mother had stinted her in milk--just a little--that she might have enough to make some milk-porridge for their dinner. Agnes did not mind it at the time, but when she saw the milk now given to a beggar, as she called the wise woman--though, surely, one might ask a draught of water, and accept a draught of milk, without being a beggar in any such sense as Agnes's contemptuous use of the word implied--a cloud came upon her forehead, and a double vertical wrinkle settled over her nose. The wise woman saw it, for all her business was with Agnes though she little knew it, and, rising, went and offered the cup to the child, where she sat with her knitting in a corner. Agnes looked at it, did not want it, was inclined to refuse it from a beggar, but thinking it would show her consequence to assert her rights, took it and drank it up. For whoever is possessed by a devil, judges with the mind of that devil; and hence Agnes was guilty of such a meanness as many who are themselves capable of something just as bad will consider incredible. The wise woman waited till she had finished it--then, looking into the empty cup, said: "You might have given me back as much as you had no claim upon!" Agnes turned away and made no answer--far less from shame than indignation. The wise woman looked at the mother. "You should not have offered it to her if you did not mean her to have it," said the mother, siding with the devil in her child against the wise woman and her child too. Some foolish people think they take another's part when they take the part he takes. The wise woman said nothing, but fixed her eyes upon her, and soon the mother hid her face in her apron weeping. Then she turned again to Agnes, who had never looked round but sat with her back to both, and suddenly lapped her in the folds of her cloak. When the mother again lifted her eyes, she had vanished. Never supposing she had carried away her child, but uncomfortable because of what she had said to the poor woman, the mother went to the door, and called after her as she toiled slowly up the hill. But she never turned her head; and the mother went back into her cottage. The wise woman walked close past the shepherd and his dogs, and through the midst of his flock of sheep. The shepherd wondered where she could be going--right up the hill. There was something strange about her too, he thought; and he followed her with his eyes as she went up and up. It was near sunset, and as the sun went down, a gray cloud settled on the top of the mountain, which his last rays turned into a rosy gold. Straight into this cloud the shepherd saw the woman hold her pace, and in it she vanished. He little imagined that his child was under her cloak. He went home as usual in the evening, but Agnes had not come in. They were accustomed to such an absence now and then, and were not at first frightened; but when it grew dark and she did not appear, the husband set out with his dogs in one direction, and the wife in another, to seek their child. Morning came and they had not found her. Then the whole country-side arose to search for the missing Agnes; but day after day and night after night passed, and nothing was discovered of or concerning her, until at length all gave up the search in despair except the mother, although she was nearly convinced now that the poor woman had carried her off. One day she had wandered some distance from her cottage, thinking she might come upon the remains of her daughter at the foot of some cliff, when she came suddenly, instead, upon a disconsolate-looking creature sitting on a stone by the side of a stream. Her hair hung in tangles from her head; her clothes were tattered, and through the rents her skin showed in many places; her cheeks were white, and worn thin with hunger; the hollows were dark under her eyes, and they stood out scared and wild. When she caught sight of the shepherdess, she jumped to her feet, and would have run away, but fell down in a faint. At first sight the mother had taken her for her own child, but now she saw, with a pang of disappointment, that she had mistaken. Full of compassion, nevertheless, she said to herself: "If she is not my Agnes, she is as much in need of help as if she were. If I cannot be good to my own, I will be as good as I can to some other woman's; and though I should scorn to be consoled for the loss of one by the presence of another, I yet may find some gladness in rescuing one child from the death which has taken the other." Perhaps her words were not just like these, but her thoughts were. She took up the child, and carried her home. And this is how Rosamond came to occupy the place of the little girl whom she had envied in the picture. VII. Notwithstanding the differences between the two girls, which were, indeed, so many that most people would have said they were not in the least alike, they were the same in this, that each cared more for her own fancies and desires than for any thing else in the world. But I will tell you another difference: the princess was like several children in one--such was the variety of her moods; and in one mood she had no recollection or care about any thing whatever belonging to a previous mood--not even if it had left her but a moment before, and had been so violent as to make her ready to put her hand in the fire to get what she wanted. Plainly she was the mere puppet of her moods, and more than that, any cunning nurse who knew her well enough could call or send away those moods almost as she pleased, like a showman pulling strings behind a show. Agnes, on the contrary, seldom changed her mood, but kept that of calm assured self-satisfaction. Father nor mother had ever by wise punishment helped her to gain a victory over herself, and do what she did not like or choose; and their folly in reasoning with one unreasonable had fixed her in her conceit. She would actually nod her head to herself in complacent pride that she had stood out against them. This, however, was not so difficult as to justify even the pride of having conquered, seeing she loved them so little, and paid so little attention to the arguments and persuasions they used. Neither, when she found herself wrapped in the dark folds of the wise woman's cloak, did she behave in the least like the princess, for she was not afraid. "She'll soon set me down," she said, too self-important to suppose that any one would dare do her an injury. Whether it be a good thing or a bad not to be afraid depends on what the fearlessness is founded upon. Some have no fear, because they have no knowledge of the danger: there is nothing fine in that. Some are too stupid to be afraid: there is nothing fine in that. Some who are not easily frightened would yet turn their backs and run, the moment they were frightened: such never had more courage than fear. But the man who will do his work in spite of his fear is a man of true courage. The fearlessness of Agnes was only ignorance: she did not know what it was to be hurt; she had never read a single story of giant, or ogress or wolf; and her mother had never carried out one of her threats of punishment. If the wise woman had but pinched her, she would have shown herself an abject little coward, trembling with fear at every change of motion so long as she carried her. Nothing such, however, was in the wise woman's plan for the curing of her. On and on she carried her without a word. She knew that if she set her down she would never run after her like the princess, at least not before the evil thing was already upon her. On and on she went, never halting, never letting the light look in, or Agnes look out. She walked very fast, and got home to her cottage very soon after the princess had gone from it. But she did not set Agnes down either in the cottage or in the great hall. She had other places, none of them alike. The place she had chosen for Agnes was a strange one--such a one as is to be found nowhere else in the wide world. It was a great hollow sphere, made of a substance similar to that of the mirror which Rosamond had broken, but differently compounded. That substance no one could see by itself. It had neither door, nor window, nor any opening to break its perfect roundness. The wise woman carried Agnes into a dark room, there undressed her, took from her hand her knitting-needles, and put her, naked as she was born, into the hollow sphere. What sort of a place it was she could not tell. She could see nothing but a faint cold bluish light all about her. She could not feel that any thing supported her, and yet she did not sink. She stood for a while, perfectly calm, then sat down. Nothing bad could happen to HER--she was so important! And, indeed, it was but this: she had cared only for Somebody, and now she was going to have only Somebody. Her own choice was going to be carried a good deal farther for her than she would have knowingly carried it for herself. After sitting a while, she wished she had something to do, but nothing came. A little longer, and it grew wearisome. She would see whether she could not walk out of the strange luminous dusk that surrounded her. Walk she found she could, well enough, but walk out she could not. On and on she went, keeping as much in a straight line as she might, but after walking until she was thoroughly tired, she found herself no nearer out of her prison than before. She had not, indeed, advanced a single step; for, in whatever direction she tried to go, the sphere turned round and round, answering her feet accordingly. Like a squirrel in his cage she but kept placing another spot of the cunningly suspended sphere under her feet, and she would have been still only at its lowest point after walking for ages. At length she cried aloud; but there was no answer. It grew dreary and drearier--in her, that is: outside there was no change. Nothing was overhead, nothing under foot, nothing on either hand, but the same pale, faint, bluish glimmer. She wept at last, then grew very angry, and then sullen; but nobody heeded whether she cried or laughed. It was all the same to the cold unmoving twilight that rounded her. On and on went the dreary hours--or did they go at all?--"no change, no pause, no hope;"--on and on till she FELT she was forgotten, and then she grew strangely still and fell asleep. The moment she was asleep, the wise woman came, lifted her out, and laid her in her bosom; fed her with a wonderful milk, which she received without knowing it; nursed her all the night long, and, just ere she woke, laid her back in the blue sphere again. When first she came to herself, she thought the horrors of the preceding day had been all a dream of the night. But they soon asserted themselves as facts, for here they were!--nothing to see but a cold blue light, and nothing to do but see it. Oh, how slowly the hours went by! She lost all notion of time. If she had been told that she had been there twenty years, she would have believed it--or twenty minutes--it would have been all the same: except for weariness, time was for her no more. Another night came, and another still, during both of which the wise woman nursed and fed her. But she knew nothing of that, and the same one dreary day seemed ever brooding over her. All at once, on the third day, she was aware that a naked child was seated beside her. But there was something about the child that made her shudder. She never looked at Agnes, but sat with her chin sunk on her chest, and her eyes staring at her own toes. She was the color of pale earth, with a pinched nose, and a mere slit in her face for a mouth. "How ugly she is!" thought Agnes. "What business has she beside me!" But it was so lonely that she would have been glad to play with a serpent, and put out her hand to touch her. She touched nothing. The child, also, put out her hand--but in the direction away from Agnes. And that was well, for if she had touched Agnes it would have killed her. Then Agnes said, "Who are you?" And the little girl said, "Who are you?" "I am Agnes," said Agnes; and the little girl said, "I am Agnes." Then Agnes thought she was mocking her, and said, "You are ugly;" and the little girl said, "You are ugly." Then Agnes lost her temper, and put out her hands to seize the little girl; but lo! the little girl was gone, and she found herself tugging at her own hair. She let go; and there was the little girl again! Agnes was furious now, and flew at her to bite her. But she found her teeth in her own arm, and the little girl was gone--only to return again; and each time she came back she was tenfold uglier than before. And now Agnes hated her with her whole heart. The moment she hated her, it flashed upon her with a sickening disgust that the child was not another, but her Self, her Somebody, and that she was now shut up with her for ever and ever--no more for one moment ever to be alone. In her agony of despair, sleep descended, and she slept. When she woke, there was the little girl, heedless, ugly, miserable, staring at her own toes. All at once, the creature began to smile, but with such an odious, self-satisfied expression, that Agnes felt ashamed of seeing her. Then she began to pat her own cheeks, to stroke her own body, and examine her finger-ends, nodding her head with satisfaction. Agnes felt that there could not be such another hateful, ape-like creature, and at the same time was perfectly aware she was only doing outside of her what she herself had been doing, as long as she could remember, inside of her. She turned sick at herself, and would gladly have been put out of existence, but for three days the odious companionship went on. By the third day, Agnes was not merely sick but ashamed of the life she had hitherto led, was despicable in her own eyes, and astonished that she had never seen the truth concerning herself before. The next morning she woke in the arms of the wise woman; the horror had vanished from her sight, and two heavenly eyes were gazing upon her. She wept and clung to her, and the more she clung, the more tenderly did the great strong arms close around her. When she had lain thus for a while, the wise woman carried her into her cottage, and washed her in the little well; then dressed her in clean garments, and gave her bread and milk. When she had eaten it, she called her to her, and said very solemnly,-- "Agnes, you must not imagine you are cured. That you are ashamed of yourself now is no sign that the cause for such shame has ceased. In new circumstances, especially after you have done well for a while, you will be in danger of thinking just as much of yourself as before. So beware of yourself. I am going from home, and leave you in charge of the house. Do just as I tell you till my return." She then gave her the same directions she had formerly given Rosamond--with this difference, that she told her to go into the picture-hall when she pleased, showing her the entrance, against which the clock no longer stood--and went away, closing the door behind her. VIII. As soon as she was left alone, Agnes set to work tidying and dusting the cottage, made up the fire, watered the bed, and cleaned the inside of the windows: the wise woman herself always kept the outside of them clean. When she had done, she found her dinner--of the same sort she was used to at home, but better--in the hole of the wall. When she had eaten it, she went to look at the pictures. By this time her old disposition had begun to rouse again. She had been doing her duty, and had in consequence begun again to think herself Somebody. However strange it may well seem, to do one's duty will make any one conceited who only does it sometimes. Those who do it always would as soon think of being conceited of eating their dinner as of doing their duty. What honest boy would pride himself on not picking pockets? A thief who was trying to reform would. To be conceited of doing one's duty is then a sign of how little one does it, and how little one sees what a contemptible thing it is not to do it. Could any but a low creature be conceited of not being contemptible? Until our duty becomes to us common as breathing, we are poor creatures. So Agnes began to stroke herself once more, forgetting her late self-stroking companion, and never reflecting that she was now doing what she had then abhorred. And in this mood she went into the picture-gallery. The first picture she saw represented a square in a great city, one side of which was occupied by a splendid marble palace, with great flights of broad steps leading up to the door. Between it and the square was a marble-paved court, with gates of brass, at which stood sentries in gorgeous uniforms, and to which was affixed the following proclamation in letters of gold, large enough for Agnes to read:-- "By the will of the King, from this time until further notice, every stray child found in the realm shall be brought without a moment's delay to the palace. Whoever shall be found having done otherwise shall straightway lose his head by the hand of the public executioner." Agnes's heart beat loud, and her face flushed. "Can there be such a city in the world?" she said to herself. "If I only knew where it was, I should set out for it at once. THERE would be the place for a clever girl like me!" Her eyes fell on the picture which had so enticed Rosamond. It was the very country where her father fed his flocks. Just round the shoulder of the hill was the cottage where her parents lived, where she was born and whence she had been carried by the beggar-woman. "Ah!" she said, "they didn't know me there. They little thought what I could be, if I had the chance. If I were but in this good, kind, loving, generous king's palace, I should soon be such a great lady as they never saw! Then they would understand what a good little girl I had always been! And I shouldn't forget my poor parents like some I have read of. _I_ would be generous. _I_ should never be selfish and proud like girls in story-books!" As she said this, she turned her back with disdain upon the picture of her home, and setting herself before the picture of the palace, stared at it with wide ambitious eyes, and a heart whose every beat was a throb of arrogant self-esteem. The shepherd-child was now worse than ever the poor princess had been. For the wise woman had given her a terrible lesson one of which the princess was not capable, and she had known what it meant; yet here she was as bad as ever, therefore worse than before. The ugly creature whose presence had made her so miserable had indeed crept out of sight and mind too--but where was she? Nestling in her very heart, where most of all she had her company, and least of all could see her. The wise woman had called her out, that Agnes might see what sort of creature she was herself; but now she was snug in her soul's bed again, and she did not even suspect she was there. After gazing a while at the palace picture, during which her ambitious pride rose and rose, she turned yet again in condescending mood, and honored the home picture with one stare more. "What a poor, miserable spot it is compared with this lordly palace!" she said. But presently she spied something in it she had not seen before, and drew nearer. It was the form of a little girl, building a bridge of stones over one of the hill-brooks. "Ah, there I am myself!" she said. "That is just how I used to do.--No," she resumed, "it is not me. That snub-nosed little fright could never be meant for me! It was the frock that made me think so. But it IS a picture of the place. I declare, I can see the smoke of the cottage rising from behind the hill! What a dull, dirty, insignificant spot it is! And what a life to lead there!" She turned once more to the city picture. And now a strange thing took place. In proportion as the other, to the eyes of her mind, receded into the background, this, to her present bodily eyes, appeared to come forward and assume reality. At last, after it had been in this way growing upon her for some time, she gave a cry of conviction, and said aloud,-- "I do believe it is real! That frame is only a trick of the woman to make me fancy it a picture lest I should go and make my fortune. She is a witch, the ugly old creature! It would serve her right to tell the king and have her punished for not taking me to the palace--one of his poor lost children he is so fond of! I should like to see her ugly old head cut off. Anyhow I will try my luck without asking her leave. How she has ill used me!" But at that moment, she heard the voice of the wise woman calling, "Agnes!" and, smoothing her face, she tried to look as good as she could, and walked back into the cottage. There stood the wise woman, looking all round the place, and examining her work. She fixed her eyes upon Agnes in a way that confused her, and made her cast hers down, for she felt as if she were reading her thoughts. The wise woman, however, asked no questions, but began to talk about her work, approving of some of it, which filled her with arrogance, and showing how some of it might have been done better, which filled her with resentment. But the wise woman seemed to take no care of what she might be thinking, and went straight on with her lesson. By the time it was over, the power of reading thoughts would not have been necessary to a knowledge of what was in the mind of Agnes, for it had all come to the surface--that is up into her face, which is the surface of the mind. Ere it had time to sink down again, the wise woman caught up the little mirror, and held it before her: Agnes saw her Somebody--the very embodiment of miserable conceit and ugly ill-temper. She gave such a scream of horror that the wise woman pitied her, and laying aside the mirror, took her upon her knees, and talked to her most kindly and solemnly; in particular about the necessity of destroying the ugly things that come out of the heart--so ugly that they make the very face over them ugly also. And what was Agnes doing all the time the wise woman was talking to her? Would you believe it?--instead of thinking how to kill the ugly things in her heart, she was with all her might resolving to be more careful of her face, that is, to keep down the things in her heart so that they should not show in her face, she was resolving to be a hypocrite as well as a self-worshipper. Her heart was wormy, and the worms were eating very fast at it now. Then the wise woman laid her gently down upon the heather-bed, and she fell fast asleep, and had an awful dream about her Somebody. When she woke in the morning, instead of getting up to do the work of the house, she lay thinking--to evil purpose. In place of taking her dream as a warning, and thinking over what the wise woman had said the night before, she communed with herself in this fashion:-- "If I stay here longer, I shall be miserable, It is nothing better than slavery. The old witch shows me horrible things in the day to set me dreaming horrible things in the night. If I don't run away, that frightful blue prison and the disgusting girl will come back, and I shall go out of my mind. How I do wish I could find the way to the good king's palace! I shall go and look at the picture again--if it be a picture--as soon as I've got my clothes on. The work can wait. It's not my work. It's the old witch's; and she ought to do it herself." She jumped out of bed, and hurried on her clothes. There was no wise woman to be seen; and she hastened into the hall. There was the picture, with the marble palace, and the proclamation shining in letters of gold upon its gates of brass. She stood before it, and gazed and gazed; and all the time it kept growing upon her in some strange way, until at last she was fully persuaded that it was no picture, but a real city, square, and marble palace, seen through a framed opening in the wall. She ran up to the frame, stepped over it, felt the wind blow upon her cheek, heard the sound of a closing door behind her, and was free. FREE was she, with that creature inside her? The same moment a terrible storm of thunder and lightning, wind and rain, came on. The uproar was appalling. Agnes threw herself upon the ground, hid her face in her hands, and there lay until it was over. As soon as she felt the sun shining on her, she rose. There was the city far away on the horizon. Without once turning to take a farewell look of the place she was leaving, she set off, as fast as her feet would carry her, in the direction of the city. So eager was she, that again and again she fell, but only to get up, and run on faster than before. IX. The shepherdess carried Rosamond home, gave her a warm bath in the tub in which she washed her linen, made her some bread-and-milk, and after she had eaten it, put her to bed in Agnes's crib, where she slept all the rest of that day and all the following night. When at last she opened her eyes, it was to see around her a far poorer cottage than the one she had left--very bare and uncomfortable indeed, she might well have thought; but she had come through such troubles of late, in the way of hunger and weariness and cold and fear, that she was not altogether in her ordinary mood of fault-finding, and so was able to lie enjoying the thought that at length she was safe, and going to be fed and kept warm. The idea of doing any thing in return for shelter and food and clothes, did not, however, even cross her mind. But the shepherdess was one of that plentiful number who can be wiser concerning other women's children than concerning their own. Such will often give you very tolerable hints as to how you ought to manage your children, and will find fault neatly enough with the system you are trying to carry out; but all their wisdom goes off in talking, and there is none left for doing what they have themselves said. There is one road talk never finds, and that is the way into the talker's own hands and feet. And such never seem to know themselves--not even when they are reading about themselves in print. Still, not being specially blinded in any direction but their own, they can sometimes even act with a little sense towards children who are not theirs. They are affected with a sort of blindness like that which renders some people incapable of seeing, except sideways. She came up to the bed, looked at the princess, and saw that she was better. But she did not like her much. There was no mark of a princess about her, and never had been since she began to run alone. True, hunger had brought down her fat cheeks, but it had not turned down her impudent nose, or driven the sullenness and greed from her mouth. Nothing but the wise woman could do that--and not even she, without the aid of the princess herself. So the shepherdess thought what a poor substitute she had got for her own lovely Agnes--who was in fact equally repulsive, only in a way to which she had got used; for the selfishness in her love had blinded her to the thin pinched nose and the mean self-satisfied mouth. It was well for the princess, though, sad as it is to say, that the shepherdess did not take to her, for then she would most likely have only done her harm instead of good. "Now, my girl," she said, "you must get up, and do something. We can't keep idle folk here." "I'm not a folk," said Rosamond; "I'm a princess." "A pretty princess--with a nose like that! And all in rags too! If you tell such stories, I shall soon let you know what I think of you." Rosamond then understood that the mere calling herself a princess, without having any thing to show for it, was of no use. She obeyed and rose, for she was hungry; but she had to sweep the floor ere she had any thing to eat. The shepherd came in to breakfast, and was kinder than his wife. He took her up in his arms and would have kissed her; but she took it as an insult from a man whose hands smelt of tar, and kicked and screamed with rage. The poor man, finding he had made a mistake, set her down at once. But to look at the two, one might well have judged it condescension rather than rudeness in such a man to kiss such a child. He was tall, and almost stately, with a thoughtful forehead, bright eyes, eagle nose, and gentle mouth; while the princess was such as I have described her. Not content with being set down and let alone, she continued to storm and scold at the shepherd, crying she was a princess, and would like to know what right he had to touch her! But he only looked down upon her from the height of his tall person with a benignant smile, regarding her as a spoiled little ape whose mother had flattered her by calling her a princess. "Turn her out of doors, the ungrateful hussy!" cried his wife. "With your bread and your milk inside her ugly body, this is what she gives you for it! Troth, I'm paid for carrying home such an ill-bred tramp in my arms! My own poor angel Agnes! As if that ill-tempered toad were one hair like her!" These words drove the princess beside herself; for those who are most given to abuse can least endure it. With fists and feet and teeth, as was her wont, she rushed at the shepherdess, whose hand was already raised to deal her a sound box on the ear, when a better appointed minister of vengeance suddenly showed himself. Bounding in at the cottage-door came one of the sheep-dogs, who was called Prince, and whom I shall not refer to with a WHICH, because he was a very superior animal indeed, even for a sheep-dog, which is the most intelligent of dogs: he flew at the princess, knocked her down, and commenced shaking her so violently as to tear her miserable clothes to pieces. Used, however, to mouthing little lambs, he took care not to hurt her much, though for her good he left her a blue nip or two by way of letting her imagine what biting might be. His master, knowing he would not injure her, thought it better not to call him off, and in half a minute he left her of his own accord, and, casting a glance of indignant rebuke behind him as he went, walked slowly to the hearth, where he laid himself down with his tail toward her. She rose, terrified almost to death, and would have crept again into Agnes's crib for refuge; but the shepherdess cried-- "Come, come, princess! I'll have no skulking to bed in the good daylight. Go and clean your master's Sunday boots there." "I will not!" screamed the princess, and ran from the house. "Prince!" cried the shepherdess, and up jumped the dog, and looked in her face, wagging his bushy tail. "Fetch her back," she said, pointing to the door. With two or three bounds Prince caught the princess, again threw her down, and taking her by her clothes dragged her back into the cottage, and dropped her at his mistress' feet, where she lay like a bundle of rags. "Get up," said the shepherdess. Rosamond got up as pale as death. "Go and clean the boots." "I don't know how." "Go and try. There are the brushes, and yonder is the blacking-pot." Instructing her how to black boots, it came into the thought of the shepherdess what a fine thing it would be if she could teach this miserable little wretch, so forsaken and ill-bred, to be a good, well-behaved, respectable child. She was hardly the woman to do it, but every thing well meant is a help, and she had the wisdom to beg her husband to place Prince under her orders for a while, and not take him to the hill as usual, that he might help her in getting the princess into order. When the husband was gone, and his boots, with the aid of her own finishing touches, at last quite respectably brushed, the shepherdess told the princess that she might go and play for a while, only she must not go out of sight of the cottage-door. The princess went right gladly, with the firm intention, however, of getting out of sight by slow degrees, and then at once taking to her heels. But no sooner was she over the threshold than the shepherdess said to the dog, "Watch her;" and out shot Prince. The moment she saw him, Rosamond threw herself on her face, trembling from head to foot. But the dog had no quarrel with her, and of the violence against which he always felt bound to protest in dog fashion, there was no sign in the prostrate shape before him; so he poked his nose under her, turned her over, and began licking her face and hands. When she saw that he meant to be friendly, her love for animals, which had had no indulgence for a long time now, came wide awake, and in a little while they were romping and rushing about, the best friends in the world. Having thus seen one enemy, as she thought, changed to a friend, she began to resume her former plan, and crept cunningly farther and farther. At length she came to a little hollow, and instantly rolled down into it. Finding then that she was out of sight of the cottage, she ran off at full speed. But she had not gone more than a dozen paces, when she heard a growling rush behind her, and the next instant was on the ground, with the dog standing over her, showing his teeth, and flaming at her with his eyes. She threw her arms round his neck, and immediately he licked her face, and let her get up. But the moment she would have moved a step farther from the cottage, there he was it front of her, growling, and showing his teeth. She saw it was of no use, and went back with him. Thus was the princess provided with a dog for a private tutor--just the right sort for her. Presently the shepherdess appeared at the door and called her. She would have disregarded the summons, but Prince did his best to let her know that, until she could obey herself, she must obey him. So she went into the cottage, and there the shepherdess ordered her to peel the potatoes for dinner. She sulked and refused. Here Prince could do nothing to help his mistress, but she had not to go far to find another ally. "Very well, Miss Princess!" she said; "we shall soon see how you like to go without when dinner-time comes." Now the princess had very little foresight, and the idea of future hunger would have moved her little; but happily, from her game of romps with Prince, she had begun to be hungry already, and so the threat had force. She took the knife and began to peel the potatoes. By slow degrees the princess improved a little. A few more outbreaks of passion, and a few more savage attacks from Prince, and she had learned to try to restrain herself when she felt the passion coming on; while a few dinnerless afternoons entirely opened her eyes to the necessity of working in order to eat. Prince was her first, and Hunger her second dog-counsellor. But a still better thing was that she soon grew very fond of Prince. Towards the gaining of her affections, he had three advantages: first, his nature was inferior to hers; next, he was a beast; and last, she was afraid of him; for so spoiled was she that she could more easily love what was below than what was above her, and a beast, than one of her own kind, and indeed could hardly have ever come to love any thing much that she had not first learned to fear, and the white teeth and flaming eyes of the angry Prince were more terrible to her than any thing had yet been, except those of the wolf, which she had now forgotten. Then again, he was such a delightful playfellow, that so long as she neither lost her temper, nor went against orders, she might do almost any thing she pleased with him. In fact, such was his influence upon her, that she who had scoffed at the wisest woman in the whole world, and derided the wishes of her own father and mother, came at length to regard this dog as a superior being, and to look up to him as well as love him. And this was best of all. The improvement upon her, in the course of a month, was plain. She had quite ceased to go into passions, and had actually begun to take a little interest in her work and try to do it well. Still, the change was mostly an outside one. I do not mean that she was pretending. Indeed she had never been given to pretence of any sort. But the change was not in HER, only in her mood. A second change of circumstances would have soon brought a second change of behavior; and, so long as that was possible, she continued the same sort of person she had always been. But if she had not gained much, a trifle had been gained for her: a little quietness and order of mind, and hence a somewhat greater possibility of the first idea of right arising in it, whereupon she would begin to see what a wretched creature she was, and must continue until she herself was right. Meantime the wise woman had been watching her when she least fancied it, and taking note of the change that was passing upon her. Out of the large eyes of a gentle sheep she had been watching her--a sheep that puzzled the shepherd; for every now and then she would appear in his flock, and he would catch sight of her two or three times in a day, sometimes for days together, yet he never saw her when he looked for her, and never when he counted the flock into the fold at night. He knew she was not one of his; but where could she come from, and where could she go to? For there was no other flock within many miles, and he never could get near enough to her to see whether or not she was marked. Nor was Prince of the least use to him for the unravelling of the mystery; for although, as often as he told him to fetch the strange sheep, he went bounding to her at once, it was only to lie down at her feet. At length, however, the wise woman had made up her mind, and after that the strange sheep no longer troubled the shepherd. As Rosamond improved, the shepherdess grew kinder. She gave her all Agnes's clothes, and began to treat her much more like a daughter. Hence she had a great deal of liberty after the little work required of her was over, and would often spend hours at a time with the shepherd, watching the sheep and the dogs, and learning a little from seeing how Prince, and the others as well, managed their charge--how they never touched the sheep that did as they were told and turned when they were bid, but jumped on a disobedient flock, and ran along their backs, biting, and barking, and half choking themselves with mouthfuls of their wool. Then also she would play with the brooks, and learn their songs, and build bridges over them. And sometimes she would be seized with such delight of heart that she would spread out her arms to the wind, and go rushing up the hill till her breath left her, when she would tumble down in the heather, and lie there till it came back again. A noticeable change had by this time passed also on her countenance. Her coarse shapeless mouth had begun to show a glimmer of lines and curves about it, and the fat had not returned with the roses to her cheeks, so that her eyes looked larger than before; while, more noteworthy still, the bridge of her nose had grown higher, so that it was less of the impudent, insignificant thing inherited from a certain great-great-great-grandmother, who had little else to leave her. For a long time, it had fitted her very well, for it was just like her; but now there was ground for alteration, and already the granny who gave it her would not have recognized it. It was growing a little liker Prince's; and Prince's was a long, perceptive, sagacious nose,--one that was seldom mistaken. One day about noon, while the sheep were mostly lying down, and the shepherd, having left them to the care of the dogs, was himself stretched under the shade of a rock a little way apart, and the princess sat knitting, with Prince at her feet, lying in wait for a snap at a great fly, for even he had his follies--Rosamond saw a poor woman come toiling up the hill, but took little notice of her until she was passing, a few yards off, when she heard her utter the dog's name in a low voice. Immediately on the summons, Prince started up and followed her--with hanging head, but gently-wagging tail. At first the princess thought he was merely taking observations, and consulting with his nose whether she was respectable or not, but she soon saw that he was following her in meek submission. Then she sprung to her feet and cried, "Prince, Prince!" But Prince only turned his head and gave her an odd look, as if he were trying to smile, and could not. Then the princess grew angry, and ran after him, shouting, "Prince, come here directly." Again Prince turned his head, but this time to growl and show his teeth. The princess flew into one of her forgotten rages, and picking up a stone, flung it at the woman. Prince turned and darted at her, with fury in his eyes, and his white teeth gleaming. At the awful sight the princess turned also, and would have fled, but he was upon her in a moment, and threw her to the ground, and there she lay. It was evening when she came to herself. A cool twilight wind, that somehow seemed to come all the way from the stars, was blowing upon her. The poor woman and Prince, the shepherd and his sheep, were all gone, and she was left alone with the wind upon the heather. She felt sad, weak, and, perhaps, for the first time in her life, a little ashamed. The violence of which she had been guilty had vanished from her spirit, and now lay in her memory with the calm morning behind it, while in front the quiet dusky night was now closing in the loud shame betwixt a double peace. Between the two her passion looked ugly. It pained her to remember. She felt it was hateful, and HERS. But, alas, Prince was gone! That horrid woman had taken him away! The fury rose again in her heart, and raged--until it came to her mind how her dear Prince would have flown at her throat if he had seen her in such a passion. The memory calmed her, and she rose and went home. There, perhaps, she would find Prince, for surely he could never have been such a silly dog as go away altogether with a strange woman! She opened the door and went in. Dogs were asleep all about the cottage, it seemed to her, but nowhere was Prince. She crept away to her little bed, and cried herself asleep. In the morning the shepherd and shepherdess were indeed glad to find she had come home, for they thought she had run away. "Where is Prince?" she cried, the moment she waked. "His mistress has taken him," answered the shepherd. "Was that woman his mistress?" "I fancy so. He followed her as if he had known her all his life. I am very sorry to lose him, though." The poor woman had gone close past the rock where the shepherd lay. He saw her coming, and thought of the strange sheep which had been feeding beside him when he lay down. "Who can she be?" he said to himself; but when he noted how Prince followed her, without even looking up at him as he passed, he remembered how Prince had come to him. And this was how: as he lay in bed one fierce winter morning, just about to rise, he heard the voice of a woman call to him through the storm, "Shepherd, I have brought you a dog. Be good to him. I will come again and fetch him away." He dressed as quickly as he could, and went to the door. It was half snowed up, but on the top of the white mound before it stood Prince. And now he had gone as mysteriously as he had come, and he felt sad. Rosamond was very sorry too, and hence when she saw the looks of the shepherd and shepherdess, she was able to understand them. And she tried for a while to behave better to them because of their sorrow. So the loss of the dog brought them all nearer to each other. X. After the thunder-storm, Agnes did not meet with a single obstruction or misadventure. Everybody was strangely polite, gave her whatever she desired, and answered her questions, but asked none in return, and looked all the time as if her departure would be a relief. They were afraid, in fact, from her appearance, lest she should tell them that she was lost, when they would be bound, on pain of public execution, to take her to the palace. But no sooner had she entered the city than she saw it would hardly do to present herself as a lost child at the palace-gates; for how were they to know that she was not an impostor, especially since she really was one, having run away from the wise woman? So she wandered about looking at every thing until she was tired, and bewildered by the noise and confusion all around her. The wearier she got, the more was she pushed in every direction. Having been used to a whole hill to wander upon, she was very awkward in the crowded streets, and often on the point of being run over by the horses, which seemed to her to be going every way like a frightened flock. She spoke to several persons, but no one stopped to answer her; and at length, her courage giving way, she felt lost indeed, and began to cry. A soldier saw her, and asked what was the matter. "I've nowhere to go to," she sobbed. "Where's your mother?" asked the soldier. "I don't know," answered Agnes. "I was carried off by an old woman, who then went away and left me. I don't know where she is, or where I am myself." "Come," said the soldier, "this is a case for his Majesty." So saying, he took her by the hand, led her to the palace, and begged an audience of the king and queen. The porter glanced at Agnes, immediately admitted them, and showed them into a great splendid room, where the king and queen sat every day to review lost children, in the hope of one day thus finding their Rosamond. But they were by this time beginning to get tired of it. The moment they cast their eyes upon Agnes, the queen threw back her head, threw up her hands, and cried, "What a miserable, conceited, white-faced little ape!" and the king turned upon the soldier in wrath, and cried, forgetting his own decree, "What do you mean by bringing such a dirty, vulgar-looking, pert creature into my palace? The dullest soldier in my army could never for a moment imagine a child like THAT, one hair's-breadth like the lovely angel we lost!" "I humbly beg your Majesty's pardon," said the soldier, "but what was I to do? There stands your Majesty's proclamation in gold letters on the brazen gates of the palace." "I shall have it taken down," said the king. "Remove the child." "Please your Majesty, what am I to do with her?" "Take her home with you." "I have six already, sire, and do not want her." "Then drop her where you picked her up." "If I do, sire, some one else will find her and bring her back to your Majesties." "That will never do," said the king. "I cannot bear to look at her." "For all her ugliness," said the queen, "she is plainly lost, and so is our Rosamond." "It may be only a pretence, to get into the palace," said the king. "Take her to the head scullion, soldier," said the queen, "and tell her to make her useful. If she should find out she has been pretending to be lost, she must let me know." The soldier was so anxious to get rid of her, that he caught her up in his arms, hurried her from the room, found his way to the scullery, and gave her, trembling with fear, in charge to the head maid, with the queen's message. As it was evident that the queen had no favor for her, the servants did as they pleased with her, and often treated her harshly. Not one amongst them liked her, nor was it any wonder, seeing that, with every step she took from the wise woman's house, she had grown more contemptible, for she had grown more conceited. Every civil answer given her, she attributed to the impression she made, not to the desire to get rid of her; and every kindness, to approbation of her looks and speech, instead of friendliness to a lonely child. Hence by this time she was twice as odious as before; for whoever has had such severe treatment as the wise woman gave her, and is not the better for it, always grows worse than before. They drove her about, boxed her ears on the smallest provocation, laid every thing to her charge, called her all manner of contemptuous names, jeered and scoffed at her awkwardnesses, and made her life so miserable that she was in a fair way to forget every thing she had learned, and know nothing but how to clean saucepans and kettles. They would not have been so hard upon her, however, but for her irritating behavior. She dared not refuse to do as she was told, but she obeyed now with a pursed-up mouth, and now with a contemptuous smile. The only thing that sustained her was her constant contriving how to get out of the painful position in which she found herself. There is but one true way, however, of getting out of any position we may be in, and that is, to do the work of it so well that we grow fit for a better: I need not say this was not the plan upon which Agnes was cunning enough to fix. She had soon learned from the talk around her the reason of the proclamation which had brought her hither. "Was the lost princess so very beautiful?" she said one day to the youngest of her fellow-servants. "Beautiful!" screamed the maid; "she was just the ugliest little toad you ever set eyes upon." "What was she like?" asked Agnes. "She was about your size, and quite as ugly, only not in the same way; for she had red cheeks, and a cocked little nose, and the biggest, ugliest mouth you ever saw." Agnes fell a-thinking. "Is there a picture of her anywhere in the palace?" she asked. "How should I know? You can ask a housemaid." Agnes soon learned that there was one, and contrived to get a peep of it. Then she was certain of what she had suspected from the description given of her, namely, that she was the same she had seen in the picture at the wise woman's house. The conclusion followed, that the lost princess must be staying with her father and mother, for assuredly in the picture she wore one of her frocks. She went to the head scullion, and with humble manner, but proud heart, begged her to procure for her the favor of a word with the queen. "A likely thing indeed!" was the answer, accompanied by a resounding box on the ear. She tried the head cook next, but with no better success, and so was driven to her meditations again, the result of which was that she began to drop hints that she knew something about the princess. This came at length to the queen's ears, and she sent for her. Absorbed in her own selfish ambitions, Agnes never thought of the risk to which she was about to expose her parents, but told the queen that in her wanderings she had caught sight of just such a lovely creature as she described the princess, only dressed like a peasant--saying, that, if the king would permit her to go and look for her, she had little doubt of bringing her back safe and sound within a few weeks. But although she spoke the truth, she had such a look of cunning on her pinched face, that the queen could not possibly trust her, but believed that she made the proposal merely to get away, and have money given her for her journey. Still there was a chance, and she would not say any thing until she had consulted the king. Then they had Agnes up before the lord chancellor, who, after much questioning of her, arrived at last, he thought, at some notion of the part of the country described by her--that was, if she spoke the truth, which, from her looks and behavior, he also considered entirely doubtful. Thereupon she was ordered back to the kitchen, and a band of soldiers, under a clever lawyer, sent out to search every foot of the supposed region. They were commanded not to return until they brought with them, bound hand and foot, such a shepherd pair as that of which they received a full description. And now Agnes was worse off than before. For to her other miseries was added the fear of what would befall her when it was discovered that the persons of whom they were in quest, and whom she was certain they must find, were her own father and mother. By this time the king and queen were so tired of seeing lost children, genuine or pretended--for they cared for no child any longer than there seemed a chance of its turning out their child--that with this new hope, which, however poor and vague at first, soon began to grow upon such imaginations as they had, they commanded the proclamation to be taken down from the palace gates, and directed the various sentries to admit no child whatever, lost or found, be the reason or pretence what it might, until further orders. "I'm sick of children!" said the king to his secretary, as he finished dictating the direction. XI. After Prince was gone, the princess, by degrees, fell back into some of her bad old ways, from which only the presence of the dog, not her own betterment, had kept her. She never grew nearly so selfish again, but she began to let her angry old self lift up its head once more, until by and by she grew so bad that the shepherdess declared she should not stop in the house a day longer, for she was quite unendurable. "It is all very well for you, husband," she said, "for you haven't her all day about you, and only see the best of her. But if you had her in work instead of play hours, you would like her no better than I do. And then it's not her ugly passions only, but when she's in one of her tantrums, it's impossible to get any work out of her. At such times she's just as obstinate as--as--as"-- She was going to say "as Agnes," but the feelings of a mother overcame her, and she could not utter the words. "In fact," she said instead, "she makes my life miserable." The shepherd felt he had no right to tell his wife she must submit to have her life made miserable, and therefore, although he was really much attached to Rosamond, he would not interfere; and the shepherdess told her she must look out for another place. The princess was, however, this much better than before, even in respect of her passions, that they were not quite so bad, and after one was over, she was really ashamed of it. But not once, ever since the departure of Prince had she tried to check the rush of the evil temper when it came upon her. She hated it when she was out of it, and that was something; but while she was in it, she went full swing with it wherever the prince of the power of it pleased to carry her. Nor was this all: although she might by this time have known well enough that as soon as she was out of it she was certain to be ashamed of it, she would yet justify it to herself with twenty different arguments that looked very good at the time, but would have looked very poor indeed afterwards, if then she had ever remembered them. She was not sorry to leave the shepherd's cottage, for she felt certain of soon finding her way back to her father and mother; and she would, indeed, have set out long before, but that her foot had somehow got hurt when Prince gave her his last admonition, and she had never since been able for long walks, which she sometimes blamed as the cause of her temper growing worse. But if people are good-tempered only when they are comfortable, what thanks have they?--Her foot was now much better; and as soon as the shepherdess had thus spoken, she resolved to set out at once, and work or beg her way home. At the moment she was quite unmindful of what she owed the good people, and, indeed, was as yet incapable of understanding a tenth part of her obligation to them. So she bade them good by without a tear, and limped her way down the hill, leaving the shepherdess weeping, and the shepherd looking very grave. When she reached the valley she followed the course of the stream, knowing only that it would lead her away from the hill where the sheep fed, into richer lands where were farms and cattle. Rounding one of the roots of the hill she saw before her a poor woman walking slowly along the road with a burden of heather upon her back, and presently passed her, but had gone only a few paces farther when she heard her calling after her in a kind old voice-- "Your shoe-tie is loose, my child." But Rosamond was growing tired, for her foot had become painful, and so she was cross, and neither returned answer, nor paid heed to the warning. For when we are cross, all our other faults grow busy, and poke up their ugly heads like maggots, and the princess's old dislike to doing any thing that came to her with the least air of advice about it returned in full force. "My child," said the woman again, "if you don't fasten your shoe-tie, it will make you fall." "Mind your own business," said Rosamond, without even turning her head, and had not gone more than three steps when she fell flat on her face on the path. She tried to get up, but the effort forced from her a scream, for she had sprained the ankle of the foot that was already lame. The old woman was by her side instantly. "Where are you hurt, child?" she asked, throwing down her burden and kneeling beside her. "Go away," screamed Rosamond. "YOU made me fall, you bad woman!" The woman made no reply, but began to feel her joints, and soon discovered the sprain. Then, in spite of Rosamond's abuse, and the violent pushes and even kicks she gave her, she took the hurt ankle in her hands, and stroked and pressed it, gently kneading it, as it were, with her thumbs, as if coaxing every particle of the muscles into its right place. Nor had she done so long before Rosamond lay still. At length she ceased, and said:-- "Now, my child, you may get up." "I can't get up, and I'm not your child," cried Rosamond. "Go away." Without another word the woman left her, took up her burden, and continued her journey. In a little while Rosamond tried to get up, and not only succeeded, but found she could walk, and, indeed, presently discovered that her ankle and foot also were now perfectly well. "I wasn't much hurt after all," she said to herself, nor sent a single grateful thought after the poor woman, whom she speedily passed once more upon the road without even a greeting. Late in the afternoon she came to a spot where the path divided into two, and was taking the one she liked the look of better, when she started at the sound of the poor woman's voice, whom she thought she had left far behind, again calling her. She looked round, and there she was, toiling under her load of heather as before. "You are taking the wrong turn, child." she cried. "How can you tell that?" said Rosamond. "You know nothing about where I want to go." "I know that road will take you where you won't want to go," said the woman. "I shall know when I get there, then," returned Rosamond, "and no thanks to you." She set off running. The woman took the other path, and was soon out of sight. By and by, Rosamond found herself in the midst of a peat-moss--a flat, lonely, dismal, black country. She thought, however, that the road would soon lead her across to the other side of it among the farms, and went on without anxiety. But the stream, which had hitherto been her guide, had now vanished; and when it began to grow dark, Rosamond found that she could no longer distinguish the track. She turned, therefore, but only to find that the same darkness covered it behind as well as before. Still she made the attempt to go back by keeping as direct a line as she could, for the path was straight as an arrow. But she could not see enough even to start her in a line, and she had not gone far before she found herself hemmed in, apparently on every side, by ditches and pools of black, dismal, slimy water. And now it was so dark that she could see nothing more than the gleam of a bit of clear sky now and then in the water. Again and again she stepped knee-deep in black mud, and once tumbled down in the shallow edge of a terrible pool; after which she gave up the attempt to escape the meshes of the watery net, stood still, and began to cry bitterly, despairingly. She saw now that her unreasonable anger had made her foolish as well as rude, and felt that she was justly punished for her wickedness to the poor woman who had been so friendly to her. What would Prince think of her, if he knew? She cast herself on the ground, hungry, and cold, and weary. Presently, she thought she saw long creatures come heaving out of the black pools. A toad jumped upon her, and she shrieked, and sprang to her feet, and would have run away headlong, when she spied in the distance a faint glimmer. She thought it was a Will-o'-the-wisp. What could he be after? Was he looking for her? She dared not run, lest he should see and pounce upon her. The light came nearer, and grew brighter and larger. Plainly, the little fiend was looking for her--he would torment her. After many twistings and turnings among the pools, it came straight towards her, and she would have shrieked, but that terror made her dumb. It came nearer and nearer, and lo! it was borne by a dark figure, with a burden on its back: it was the poor woman, and no demon, that was looking for her! She gave a scream of joy, fell down weeping at her feet, and clasped her knees. Then the poor woman threw away her burden, laid down her lantern, took the princess up in her arms, folded her cloak around her, and having taken up her lantern again, carried her slowly and carefully through the midst of the black pools, winding hither and thither. All night long she carried her thus, slowly and wearily, until at length the darkness grew a little thinner, an uncertain hint of light came from the east, and the poor woman, stopping on the brow of a little hill, opened her cloak, and set the princess down. "I can carry you no farther," she said. "Sit there on the grass till the light comes. I will stand here by you." Rosamond had been asleep. Now she rubbed her eyes and looked, but it was too dark to see any thing more than that there was a sky over her head. Slowly the light grew, until she could see the form of the poor woman standing in front of her; and as it went on growing, she began to think she had seen her somewhere before, till all at once she thought of the wise woman, and saw it must be she. Then she was so ashamed that she bent down her head, and could look at her no longer. But the poor woman spoke, and the voice was that of the wise woman, and every word went deep into the heart of the princess. "Rosamond," she said, "all this time, ever since I carried you from your father's palace, I have been doing what I could to make you a lovely creature: ask yourself how far I have succeeded." All her past story, since she found herself first under the wise woman's cloak, arose, and glided past the inner eyes of the princess, and she saw, and in a measure understood, it all. But she sat with her eyes on the ground, and made no sign. Then said the wise woman:-- "Below there is the forest which surrounds my house. I am going home. If you pledge to come there to me, I will help you, in a way I could not do now, to be good and lovely. I will wait you there all day, but if you start at once, you may be there long before noon. I shall have your breakfast waiting for you. One thing more: the beasts have not yet all gone home to their holes; but I give you my word, not one will touch you so long as you keep coming nearer to my house." She ceased. Rosamond sat waiting to hear something more; but nothing came. She looked up; she was alone. Alone once more! Always being left alone, because she would not yield to what was right! Oh, how safe she had felt under the wise woman's cloak! She had indeed been good to her, and she had in return behaved like one of the hyenas of the awful wood! What a wonderful house it was she lived in! And again all her own story came up into her brain from her repentant heart. "Why didn't she take me with her?" she said. "I would have gone gladly." And she wept. But her own conscience told her that, in the very middle of her shame and desire to be good, she had returned no answer to the words of the wise woman; she had sat like a tree-stump, and done nothing. She tried to say there was nothing to be done; but she knew at once that she could have told the wise woman she had been very wicked, and asked her to take her with her. Now there was nothing to be done. "Nothing to be done!" said her conscience. "Cannot you rise, and walk down the hill, and through the wood?" "But the wild beasts!" "There it is! You don't believe the wise woman yet! Did she not tell you the beasts would not touch you?" "But they are so horrid!" "Yes, they are; but it would be far better to be eaten up alive by them than live on--such a worthless creature as you are. Why, you're not fit to be thought about by any but bad ugly creatures." This was how herself talked to her. XII. All at once she jumped to her feet, and ran at full speed down the hill and into the wood. She heard howlings and yellings on all sides of her, but she ran straight on, as near as she could judge. Her spirits rose as she ran. Suddenly she saw before her, in the dusk of the thick wood, a group of some dozen wolves and hyenas, standing all together right in her way, with their green eyes fixed upon her staring. She faltered one step, then bethought her of what the wise woman had promised, and keeping straight on, dashed right into the middle of them. They fled howling, as if she had struck them with fire. She was no more afraid after that, and ere the sun was up she was out of the wood and upon the heath, which no bad thing could step upon and live. With the first peep of the sun above the horizon, she saw the little cottage before her, and ran as fast as she could run towards it, When she came near it, she saw that the door was open, and ran straight into the outstretched arms of the wise woman. The wise woman kissed her and stroked her hair, set her down by the fire, and gave her a bowl of bread and milk. When she had eaten it she drew her before her where she sat, and spoke to her thus:-- "Rosamond, if you would be a blessed creature instead of a mere wretch, you must submit to be tried." "Is that something terrible?" asked the princess, turning white. "No, my child; but it is something very difficult to come well out of. Nobody who has not been tried knows how difficult it is; but whoever has come well out of it, and those who do not overcome never do come out of it, always looks back with horror, not on what she has come through, but on the very idea of the possibility of having failed, and being still the same miserable creature as before." "You will tell me what it is before it begins?" said the princess. "I will not tell you exactly. But I will tell you some things to help you. One great danger is that perhaps you will think you are in it before it has really begun, and say to yourself, 'Oh! this is really nothing to me. It may be a trial to some, but for me I am sure it is not worth mentioning.' And then, before you know, it will be upon you, and you will fail utterly and shamefully." "I will be very, very careful," said the princess. "Only don't let me be frightened." "You shall not be frightened, except it be your own doing. You are already a brave girl, and there is no occasion to try you more that way. I saw how you rushed into the middle of the ugly creatures; and as they ran from you, so will all kinds of evil things, as long as you keep them outside of you, and do not open the cottage of your heart to let them in. I will tell you something more about what you will have to go through. "Nobody can be a real princess--do not imagine you have yet been any thing more than a mock one--until she is a princess over herself, that is, until, when she finds herself unwilling to do the thing that is right, she makes herself do it. So long as any mood she is in makes her do the thing she will be sorry for when that mood is over, she is a slave, and no princess. A princess is able to do what is right even should she unhappily be in a mood that would make another unable to do it. For instance, if you should be cross and angry, you are not a whit the less bound to be just, yes, kind even--a thing most difficult in such a mood--though ease itself in a good mood, loving and sweet. Whoever does what she is bound to do, be she the dirtiest little girl in the street, is a princess, worshipful, honorable. Nay, more; her might goes farther than she could send it, for if she act so, the evil mood will wither and die, and leave her loving and clean.--Do you understand me, dear Rosamond?" As she spoke, the wise woman laid her hand on her head and looked--oh, so lovingly!--into her eyes. "I am not sure," said the princess, humbly. "Perhaps you will understand me better if I say it just comes to this, that you must NOT DO what is wrong, however much you are inclined to do it, and you must DO what is right, however much you are disinclined to do it." "I understand that," said the princess. "I am going, then, to put you in one of the mood-chambers of which I have many in the house. Its mood will come upon you, and you will have to deal with it." She rose and took her by the hand. The princess trembled a little, but never thought of resisting. The wise woman led her into the great hall with the pictures, and through a door at the farther end, opening upon another large hall, which was circular, and had doors close to each other all round it. Of these she opened one, pushed the princess gently in, and closed it behind her. The princess found herself in her old nursery. Her little white rabbit came to meet her in a lumping canter as if his back were going to tumble over his head. Her nurse, in her rocking-chair by the chimney corner, sat just as she had used. The fire burned brightly, and on the table were many of her wonderful toys, on which, however, she now looked with some contempt. Her nurse did not seem at all surprised to see her, any more than if the princess had but just gone from the room and returned again. "Oh! how different I am from what I used to be!" thought the princess to herself, looking from her toys to her nurse. "The wise woman has done me so much good already! I will go and see mamma at once, and tell her I am very glad to be at home again, and very sorry I was so naughty." She went towards the door. "Your queen-mamma, princess, cannot see you now," said her nurse. "I have yet to learn that it is my part to take orders from a servant," said the princess with temper and dignity. "I beg your pardon, princess," returned her nurse, politely; "but it is my duty to tell you that your queen-mamma is at this moment engaged. She is alone with her most intimate friend, the Princess of the Frozen Regions." "I shall see for myself," returned the princess, bridling, and walked to the door. Now little bunny, leap-frogging near the door, happened that moment to get about her feet, just as she was going to open it, so that she tripped and fell against it, striking her forehead a good blow. She caught up the rabbit in a rage, and, crying, "It is all your fault, you ugly old wretch!" threw it with violence in her nurse's face. Her nurse caught the rabbit, and held it to her face, as if seeking to sooth its fright. But the rabbit looked very limp and odd, and, to her amazement, Rosamond presently saw that the thing was no rabbit, but a pocket-handkerchief. The next moment she removed it from her face, and Rosamond beheld--not her nurse, but the wise woman--standing on her own hearth, while she herself stood by the door leading from the cottage into the hall. "First trial a failure," said the wise woman quietly. Overcome with shame, Rosamond ran to her, fell down on her knees, and hid her face in her dress. "Need I say any thing?" said the wise woman, stroking her hair. "No, no," cried the princess. "I am horrid." "You know now the kind of thing you have to meet: are you ready to try again?" "MAY I try again?" cried the princess, jumping up. "I'm ready. I do not think I shall fail this time." "The trial will be harder." Rosamond drew in her breath, and set her teeth. The wise woman looked at her pitifully, but took her by the hand, led her to the round hall, opened the same door, and closed it after her. The princess expected to find herself again in the nursery, but in the wise woman's house no one ever has the same trial twice. She was in a beautiful garden, full of blossoming trees and the loveliest roses and lilies. A lake was in the middle of it, with a tiny boat. So delightful was it that Rosamond forgot all about how or why she had come there, and lost herself in the joy of the flowers and the trees and the water. Presently came the shout of a child, merry and glad, and from a clump of tulip trees rushed a lovely little boy, with his arms stretched out to her. She was charmed at the sight, ran to meet him, caught him up in her arms, kissed him, and could hardly let him go again. But the moment she set him down he ran from her towards the lake, looking back as he ran, and crying "Come, come." She followed. He made straight for the boat, clambered into it, and held out his hand to help her in. Then he caught up the little boat-hook, and pushed away from the shore: there was a great white flower floating a few yards off, and that was the little fellow's goal. But, alas! no sooner had Rosamond caught sight of it, huge and glowing as a harvest moon, than she felt a great desire to have it herself. The boy, however, was in the bows of the boat, and caught it first. It had a long stem, reaching down to the bottom of the water, and for a moment he tugged at it in vain, but at last it gave way so suddenly, that he tumbled back with the flower into the bottom of the boat. Then Rosamond, almost wild at the danger it was in as he struggled to rise, hurried to save it, but somehow between them it came in pieces, and all its petals of fretted silver were scattered about the boat. When the boy got up, and saw the ruin his companion had occasioned, he burst into tears, and having the long stalk of the flower still in his hand, struck her with it across the face. It did not hurt her much, for he was a very little fellow, but it was wet and slimy. She tumbled rather than rushed at him, seized him in her arms, tore him from his frightened grasp, and flung him into the water. His head struck on the boat as he fell, and he sank at once to the bottom, where he lay looking up at her with white face and open eyes. The moment she saw the consequences of her deed she was filled with horrible dismay. She tried hard to reach down to him through the water, but it was far deeper than it looked, and she could not. Neither could she get her eyes to leave the white face: its eyes fascinated and fixed hers; and there she lay leaning over the boat and staring at the death she had made. But a voice crying, "Ally! Ally!" shot to her heart, and springing to her feet she saw a lovely lady come running down the grass to the brink of the water with her hair flying about her head. "Where is my Ally?" she shrieked. But Rosamond could not answer, and only stared at the lady, as she had before stared at her drowned boy. Then the lady caught sight of the dead thing at the bottom of the water, and rushed in, and, plunging down, struggled and groped until she reached it. Then she rose and stood up with the dead body of her little son in her arms, his head hanging back, and the water streaming from him. "See what you have made of him, Rosamond!" she said, holding the body out to her; "and this is your second trial, and also a failure." The dead child melted away from her arms, and there she stood, the wise woman, on her own hearth, while Rosamond found herself beside the little well on the floor of the cottage, with one arm wet up to the shoulder. She threw herself on the heather-bed and wept from relief and vexation both. The wise woman walked out of the cottage, shut the door, and left her alone. Rosamond was sobbing, so that she did not hear her go. When at length she looked up, and saw that the wise woman was gone, her misery returned afresh and tenfold, and she wept and wailed. The hours passed, the shadows of evening began to fall, and the wise woman entered. XIII. She went straight to the bed, and taking Rosamond in her arms, sat down with her by the fire. "My poor child!" she said. "Two terrible failures! And the more the harder! They get stronger and stronger. What is to be done?" "Couldn't you help me?" said Rosamond piteously. "Perhaps I could, now you ask me," answered the wise woman. "When you are ready to try again, we shall see." "I am very tired of myself," said the princess. "But I can't rest till I try again." "That is the only way to get rid of your weary, shadowy self, and find your strong, true self. Come, my child; I will help you all I can, for now I CAN help you." Yet again she led her to the same door, and seemed to the princess to send her yet again alone into the room. She was in a forest, a place half wild, half tended. The trees were grand, and full of the loveliest birds, of all glowing gleaming and radiant colors, which, unlike the brilliant birds we know in our world, sang deliciously, every one according to his color. The trees were not at all crowded, but their leaves were so thick, and their boughs spread so far, that it was only here and there a sunbeam could get straight through. All the gentle creatures of a forest were there, but no creatures that killed, not even a weasel to kill the rabbits, or a beetle to eat the snails out of their striped shells. As to the butterflies, words would but wrong them if they tried to tell how gorgeous they were. The princess's delight was so great that she neither laughed nor ran, but walked about with a solemn countenance and stately step. "But where are the flowers?" she said to herself at length. They were nowhere. Neither on the high trees, nor on the few shrubs that grew here and there amongst them, were there any blossoms; and in the grass that grew everywhere there was not a single flower to be seen. "Ah, well!" said Rosamond again to herself, "where all the birds and butterflies are living flowers, we can do without the other sort." Still she could not help feeling that flowers were wanted to make the beauty of the forest complete. Suddenly she came out on a little open glade; and there, on the root of a great oak, sat the loveliest little girl, with her lap full of flowers of all colors, but of such kinds as Rosamond had never before seen. She was playing with them--burying her hands in them, tumbling them about, and every now and then picking one from the rest, and throwing it away. All the time she never smiled, except with her eyes, which were as full as they could hold of the laughter of the spirit--a laughter which in this world is never heard, only sets the eyes alight with a liquid shining. Rosamond drew nearer, for the wonderful creature would have drawn a tiger to her side, and tamed him on the way. A few yards from her, she came upon one of her cast-away flowers and stooped to pick it up, as well she might where none grew save in her own longing. But to her amazement she found, instead of a flower thrown away to wither, one fast rooted and quite at home. She left it, and went to another; but it also was fast in the soil, and growing comfortably in the warm grass. What could it mean? One after another she tried, until at length she was satisfied that it was the same with every flower the little girl threw from her lap. She watched then until she saw her throw one, and instantly bounded to the spot. But the flower had been quicker than she: there it grew, fast fixed in the earth, and, she thought, looked at her roguishly. Something evil moved in her, and she plucked it. "Don't! don't!" cried the child. "My flowers cannot live in your hands." Rosamond looked at the flower. It was withered already. She threw it from her, offended. The child rose, with difficulty keeping her lapful together, picked it up, carried it back, sat down again, spoke to it, kissed it, sang to it--oh! such a sweet, childish little song!--the princess never could recall a word of it--and threw it away. Up rose its little head, and there it was, busy growing again! Rosamond's bad temper soon gave way: the beauty and sweetness of the child had overcome it; and, anxious to make friends with her, she drew near, and said: "Won't you give me a little flower, please, you beautiful child?" "There they are; they are all for you," answered the child, pointing with her outstretched arm and forefinger all round. "But you told me, a minute ago, not to touch them." "Yes, indeed, I did." "They can't be mine, if I'm not to touch them." "If, to call them yours, you must kill them, then they are not yours, and never, never can be yours. They are nobody's when they are dead." "But you don't kill them." "I don't pull them; I throw them away. I live them." "How is it that you make them grow?" "I say, 'You darling!' and throw it away and there it is." "Where do you get them?" "In my lap." "I wish you would let me throw one away." "Have you got any in your lap? Let me see." "No; I have none." "Then you can't throw one away, if you haven't got one." "You are mocking me!" cried the princess. "I am not mocking you," said the child, looking her full in the face, with reproach in her large blue eyes. "Oh, that's where the flowers come from!" said the princess to herself, the moment she saw them, hardly knowing what she meant. Then the child rose as if hurt, and quickly threw away all the flowers she had in her lap, but one by one, and without any sign of anger. When they were all gone, she stood a moment, and then, in a kind of chanting cry, called, two or three times, "Peggy! Peggy! Peggy!" A low, glad cry, like the whinny of a horse, answered, and, presently, out of the wood on the opposite side of the glade, came gently trotting the loveliest little snow-white pony, with great shining blue wings, half-lifted from his shoulders. Straight towards the little girl, neither hurrying nor lingering, he trotted with light elastic tread. Rosamond's love for animals broke into a perfect passion of delight at the vision. She rushed to meet the pony with such haste, that, although clearly the best trained animal under the sun, he started back, plunged, reared, and struck out with his fore-feet ere he had time to observe what sort of a creature it was that had so startled him. When he perceived it was a little girl, he dropped instantly upon all fours, and content with avoiding her, resumed his quiet trot in the direction of his mistress. Rosamond stood gazing after him in miserable disappointment. When he reached the child, he laid his head on her shoulder, and she put her arm up round his neck; and after she had talked to him a little, he turned and came trotting back to the princess. Almost beside herself with joy, she began caressing him in the rough way which, not-withstanding her love for them, she was in the habit of using with animals; and she was not gentle enough, in herself even, to see that he did not like it, and was only putting up with it for the sake of his mistress. But when, that she might jump upon his back, she laid hold of one of his wings, and ruffled some of the blue feathers, he wheeled suddenly about, gave his long tail a sharp whisk which threw her flat on the grass, and, trotting back to his mistress, bent down his head before her as if asking excuse for ridding himself of the unbearable. The princess was furious. She had forgotten all her past life up to the time when she first saw the child: her beauty had made her forget, and yet she was now on the very borders of hating her. What she might have done, or rather tried to do, had not Peggy's tail struck her down with such force that for a moment she could not rise, I cannot tell. But while she lay half-stunned, her eyes fell on a little flower just under them. It stared up in her face like the living thing it was, and she could not take her eyes off its face. It was like a primrose trying to express doubt instead of confidence. It seemed to put her half in mind of something, and she felt as if shame were coming. She put out her hand to pluck it; but the moment her fingers touched it, the flower withered up, and hung as dead on its stalks as if a flame of fire had passed over it. Then a shudder thrilled through the heart of the princess, and she thought with herself, saying--"What sort of a creature am I that the flowers wither when I touch them, and the ponies despise me with their tails? What a wretched, coarse, ill-bred creature I must be! There is that lovely child giving life instead of death to the flowers, and a moment ago I was hating her! I am made horrid, and I shall be horrid, and I hate myself, and yet I can't help being myself!" She heard the sound of galloping feet, and there was the pony, with the child seated betwixt his wings, coming straight on at full speed for where she lay. "I don't care," she said. "They may trample me under their feet if they like. I am tired and sick of myself--a creature at whose touch the flowers wither!" On came the winged pony. But while yet some distance off, he gave a great bound, spread out his living sails of blue, rose yards and yards above her in the air, and alighted as gently as a bird, just a few feet on the other side of her. The child slipped down and came and kneeled over her. "Did my pony hurt you?" she said. "I am so sorry!" "Yes, he hurt me," answered the princess, "but not more than I deserved, for I took liberties with him, and he did not like it." "Oh, you dear!" said the little girl. "I love you for talking so of my Peggy. He is a good pony, though a little playful sometimes. Would you like a ride upon him?" "You darling beauty!" cried Rosamond, sobbing. "I do love you so, you are so good. How did you become so sweet?" "Would you like to ride my pony?" repeated the child, with a heavenly smile in her eyes. "No, no; he is fit only for you. My clumsy body would hurt him," said Rosamond. "You don't mind me having such a pony?" said the child. "What! mind it?" cried Rosamond, almost indignantly. Then remembering certain thoughts that had but a few moments before passed through her mind, she looked on the ground and was silent. "You don't mind it, then?" repeated the child. "I am very glad there is such a you and such a pony, and that such a you has got such a pony," said Rosamond, still looking on the ground. "But I do wish the flowers would not die when I touch them. I was cross to see you make them grow, but now I should be content if only I did not make them wither." As she spoke, she stroked the little girl's bare feet, which were by her, half buried in the soft moss, and as she ended she laid her cheek on them and kissed them. "Dear princess!" said the little girl, "the flowers will not always wither at your touch. Try now--only do not pluck it. Flowers ought never to be plucked except to give away. Touch it gently." A silvery flower, something like a snow-drop, grew just within her reach. Timidly she stretched out her hand and touched it. The flower trembled, but neither shrank nor withered. "Touch it again," said the child. It changed color a little, and Rosamond fancied it grew larger. "Touch it again," said the child. It opened and grew until it was as large as a narcissus, and changed and deepened in color till it was a red glowing gold. Rosamond gazed motionless. When the transfiguration of the flower was perfected, she sprang to her feet with clasped hands, but for very ecstasy of joy stood speechless, gazing at the child. "Did you never see me before, Rosamond?" she asked. "No, never," answered the princess. "I never saw any thing half so lovely." "Look at me," said the child. And as Rosamond looked, the child began, like the flower, to grow larger. Quickly through every gradation of growth she passed, until she stood before her a woman perfectly beautiful, neither old nor young; for hers was the old age of everlasting youth. Rosamond was utterly enchanted, and stood gazing without word or movement until she could endure no more delight. Then her mind collapsed to the thought--had the pony grown too? She glanced round. There was no pony, no grass, no flowers, no bright-birded forest--but the cottage of the wise woman--and before her, on the hearth of it, the goddess-child, the only thing unchanged. She gasped with astonishment. "You must set out for your father's palace immediately," said the lady. "But where is the wise woman?" asked Rosamond, looking all about. "Here," said the lady. And Rosamond, looking again, saw the wise woman, folded as usual in her long dark cloak. "And it was you all the time?" she cried in delight, and kneeled before her, burying her face in her garments. "It always is me, all the time," said the wise woman, smiling. "But which is the real you?" asked Rosamond; "this or that?" "Or a thousand others?" returned the wise woman. "But the one you have just seen is the likest to the real me that you are able to see just yet--but--. And that me you could not have seen a little while ago.--But, my darling child," she went on, lifting her up and clasping her to her bosom, "you must not think, because you have seen me once, that therefore you are capable of seeing me at all times. No; there are many things in you yet that must be changed before that can be. Now, however, you will seek me. Every time you feel you want me, that is a sign I am wanting you. There are yet many rooms in my house you may have to go through; but when you need no more of them, then you will be able to throw flowers like the little girl you saw in the forest." The princess gave a sigh. "Do not think," the wise woman went on, "that the things you have seen in my house are mere empty shows. You do not know, you cannot yet think, how living and true they are.--Now you must go." She led her once more into the great hall, and there showed her the picture of her father's capital, and his palace with the brazen gates. "There is your home," she said. "Go to it." The princess understood, and a flush of shame rose to her forehead. She turned to the wise woman and said: "Will you forgive ALL my naughtiness, and ALL the trouble I have given you?" "If I had not forgiven you, I would never have taken the trouble to punish you. If I had not loved you, do you think I would have carried you away in my cloak?" "How could you love such an ugly, ill-tempered, rude, hateful little wretch?" "I saw, through it all, what you were going to be," said the wise woman, kissing her. "But remember you have yet only BEGUN to be what I saw." "I will try to remember," said the princess, holding her cloak, and looking up in her face. "Go, then," said the wise woman. Rosamond turned away on the instant, ran to the picture, stepped over the frame of it, heard a door close gently, gave one glance back, saw behind her the loveliest palace-front of alabaster, gleaming in the pale-yellow light of an early summer-morning, looked again to the eastward, saw the faint outline of her father's city against the sky, and ran off to reach it. It looked much further off now than when it seemed a picture, but the sun was not yet up, and she had the whole of a summer day before her. XIV. The soldiers sent out by the king, had no great difficulty in finding Agnes's father and mother, of whom they demanded if they knew any thing of such a young princess as they described. The honest pair told them the truth in every point--that, having lost their own child and found another, they had taken her home, and treated her as their own; that she had indeed called herself a princess, but they had not believed her, because she did not look like one; that, even if they had, they did not know how they could have done differently, seeing they were poor people, who could not afford to keep any idle person about the place; that they had done their best to teach her good ways, and had not parted with her until her bad temper rendered it impossible to put up with her any longer; that, as to the king's proclamation, they heard little of the world's news on their lonely hill, and it had never reached them; that if it had, they did not know how either of them could have gone such a distance from home, and left their sheep or their cottage, one or the other, uncared for. "You must learn, then, how both of you can go, and your sheep must take care of your cottage," said the lawyer, and commanded the soldiers to bind them hand and foot. Heedless of their entreaties to be spared such an indignity, the soldiers obeyed, bore them to a cart, and set out for the king's palace, leaving the cottage door open, the fire burning, the pot of potatoes boiling upon it, the sheep scattered over the hill, and the dogs not knowing what to do. Hardly were they gone, however, before the wise woman walked up, with Prince behind her, peeped into the cottage, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and then walked away up the hill. In a few minutes there arose a great battle between Prince and the dog which filled his former place--a well-meaning but dull fellow, who could fight better than feed. Prince was not long in showing him that he was meant for his master, and then, by his efforts, and directions to the other dogs, the sheep were soon gathered again, and out of danger from foxes and bad dogs. As soon as this was done, the wise woman left them in charge of Prince, while she went to the next farm to arrange for the folding of the sheep and the feeding of the dogs. When the soldiers reached the palace, they were ordered to carry their prisoners at once into the presence of the king and queen, in the throne room. Their two thrones stood upon a high dais at one end, and on the floor at the foot of the dais, the soldiers laid their helpless prisoners. The queen commanded that they should be unbound, and ordered them to stand up. They obeyed with the dignity of insulted innocence, and their bearing offended their foolish majesties. Meantime the princess, after a long day's journey, arrived at the palace, and walked up to the sentry at the gate. "Stand back," said the sentry. "I wish to go in, if you please," said the princess gently. "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the sentry, for he was one of those dull people who form their judgment from a person's clothes, without even looking in his eyes; and as the princess happened to be in rags, her request was amusing, and the booby thought himself quite clever for laughing at her so thoroughly. "I am the princess," Rosamond said quietly. "WHAT princess?" bellowed the man. "The princess Rosamond. Is there another?" she answered and asked. But the man was so tickled at the wondrous idea of a princess in rags, that he scarcely heard what she said for laughing. As soon as he recovered a little, he proceeded to chuck the princess under the chin, saying-- "You're a pretty girl, my dear, though you ain't no princess." Rosamond drew back with dignity. "You have spoken three untruths at once," she said. "I am NOT pretty, and I AM a princess, and if I were dear to you, as I ought to be, you would not laugh at me because I am badly dressed, but stand aside, and let me go to my father and mother." The tone of her speech, and the rebuke she gave him, made the man look at her; and looking at her, he began to tremble inside his foolish body, and wonder whether he might not have made a mistake. He raised his hand in salute, and said-- "I beg your pardon, miss, but I have express orders to admit no child whatever within the palace gates. They tell me his majesty the king says he is sick of children." "He may well be sick of me!" thought the princess; "but it can't mean that he does not want me home again.--I don't think you can very well call me a child," she said, looking the sentry full in the face. "You ain't very big, miss," answered the soldier, "but so be you say you ain't a child, I'll take the risk. The king can only kill me, and a man must die once." He opened the gate, stepped aside, and allowed her to pass. Had she lost her temper, as every one but the wise woman would have expected of her, he certainly would not have done so. She ran into the palace, the door of which had been left open by the porter when he followed the soldiers and prisoners to the throne-room, and bounded up the stairs to look for her father and mother. As she passed the door of the throne-room she heard an unusual noise in it, and running to the king's private entrance, over which hung a heavy curtain, she peeped past the edge of it, and saw, to her amazement, the shepherd and shepherdess standing like culprits before the king and queen, and the same moment heard the king say-- "Peasants, where is the princess Rosamond?" "Truly, sire, we do not know," answered the shepherd. "You ought to know," said the king. "Sire, we could keep her no longer." "You confess, then," said the king, suppressing the outbreak of the wrath that boiled up in him, "that you turned her out of your house." For the king had been informed by a swift messenger of all that had passed long before the arrival of the prisoners. "We did, sire; but not only could we keep her no longer, but we knew not that she was the princess." "You ought to have known, the moment you cast your eyes upon her," said the king. "Any one who does not know a princess the moment he sees her, ought to have his eyes put out." "Indeed he ought," said the queen. To this they returned no answer, for they had none ready. "Why did you not bring her at once to the palace," pursued the king, "whether you knew her to be a princess or not? My proclamation left nothing to your judgment. It said EVERY CHILD." "We heard nothing of the proclamation, sire." "You ought to have heard," said the king. "It is enough that I make proclamations; it is for you to read them. Are they not written in letters of gold upon the brazen gates of this palace?" "A poor shepherd, your majesty--how often must he leave his flock, and go hundreds of miles to look whether there may not be something in letters of gold upon the brazen gates? We did not know that your majesty had made a proclamation, or even that the princess was lost." "You ought to have known," said the king. The shepherd held his peace. "But," said the queen, taking up the word, "all that is as nothing, when I think how you misused the darling." The only ground the queen had for saying thus, was what Agnes had told her as to how the princess was dressed; and her condition seemed to the queen so miserable, that she had imagined all sorts of oppression and cruelty. But this was more than the shepherdess, who had not yet spoken, could bear. "She would have been dead, and NOT buried, long ago, madam, if I had not carried her home in my two arms." "Why does she say her TWO arms?" said the king to himself. "Has she more than two? Is there treason in that?" "You dressed her in cast-off clothes," said the queen. "I dressed her in my own sweet child's Sunday clothes. And this is what I get for it!" cried the shepherdess, bursting into tears. "And what did you do with the clothes you took off her? Sell them?" "Put them in the fire, madam. They were not fit for the poorest child in the mountains. They were so ragged that you could see her skin through them in twenty different places." "You cruel woman, to torture a mother's feelings so!" cried the queen, and in her turn burst into tears. "And I'm sure," sobbed the shepherdess, "I took every pains to teach her what it was right for her to know. I taught her to tidy the house and"-- "Tidy the house!" moaned the queen. "My poor wretched offspring!" "And peel the potatoes, and"-- "Peel the potatoes!" cried the queen. "Oh, horror!" "And black her master's boots," said the shepherdess. "Black her master's boots!" shrieked the queen. "Oh, my white-handed princess! Oh, my ruined baby!" "What I want to know," said the king, paying no heed to this maternal duel, but patting the top of his sceptre as if it had been the hilt of a sword which he was about to draw, "is, where the princess is now." The shepherd made no answer, for he had nothing to say more than he had said already. "You have murdered her!" shouted the king. "You shall be tortured till you confess the truth; and then you shall be tortured to death, for you are the most abominable wretches in the whole wide world." "Who accuses me of crime?" cried the shepherd, indignant. "I accuse you," said the king; "but you shall see, face to face, the chief witness to your villany. Officer, bring the girl." Silence filled the hall while they waited. The king's face was swollen with anger. The queen hid hers behind her handkerchief. The shepherd and shepherdess bent their eyes on the ground, wondering. It was with difficulty Rosamond could keep her place, but so wise had she already become that she saw it would be far better to let every thing come out before she interfered. At length the door opened, and in came the officer, followed by Agnes, looking white as death and mean as sin. The shepherdess gave a shriek, and darted towards her with arms spread wide; the shepherd followed, but not so eagerly. "My child! my lost darling! my Agnes!" cried the shepherdess. "Hold them asunder," shouted the king. "Here is more villany! What! have I a scullery-maid in my house born of such parents? The parents of such a child must be capable of any thing. Take all three of them to the rack. Stretch them till their joints are torn asunder, and give them no water. Away with them!" The soldiers approached to lay hands on them. But, behold! a girl all in rags, with such a radiant countenance that it was right lovely to see, darted between, and careless of the royal presence, flung herself upon the shepherdess, crying,-- "Do not touch her. She is my good, kind mistress." But the shepherdess could hear or see no one but her Agnes, and pushed her away. Then the princess turned, with the tears in her eyes, to the shepherd, and threw her arms about his neck and pulled down his head and kissed him. And the tall shepherd lifted her to his bosom and kept her there, but his eyes were fixed on his Agnes. "What is the meaning of this?" cried the king, starting up from his throne. "How did that ragged girl get in here? Take her away with the rest. She is one of them, too." But the princess made the shepherd set her down, and before any one could interfere she had run up the steps of the dais and then the steps of the king's throne like a squirrel, flung herself upon the king, and begun to smother him with kisses. All stood astonished, except the three peasants, who did not even see what took place. The shepherdess kept calling to her Agnes, but she was so ashamed that she did not dare even lift her eyes to meet her mother's, and the shepherd kept gazing on her in silence. As for the king, he was so breathless and aghast with astonishment, that he was too feeble to fling the ragged child from him, as he tried to do. But she left him, and running down the steps of the one throne and up those of the other, began kissing the queen next. But the queen cried out,-- "Get away, you great rude child!--Will nobody take her to the rack?" Then the princess, hardly knowing what she did for joy that she had come in time, ran down the steps of the throne and the dais, and placing herself between the shepherd and shepherdess, took a hand of each, and stood looking at the king and queen. Their faces began to change. At last they began to know her. But she was so altered--so lovelily altered, that it was no wonder they should not have known her at the first glance; but it was the fault of the pride and anger and injustice with which their hearts were filled, that they did not know her at the second. The king gazed and the queen gazed, both half risen from their thrones, and looking as if about to tumble down upon her, if only they could be right sure that the ragged girl was their own child. A mistake would be such a dreadful thing! "My darling!" at last shrieked the mother, a little doubtfully. "My pet of pets?" cried the father, with an interrogative twist of tone. Another moment, and they were half way down the steps of the dais. "Stop!" said a voice of command from somewhere in the hall, and, king and queen as they were, they stopped at once half way, then drew themselves up, stared, and began to grow angry again, but durst not go farther. The wise woman was coming slowly up through the crowd that filled the hall. Every one made way for her. She came straight on until she stood in front of the king and queen. "Miserable man and woman!" she said, in words they alone could hear, "I took your daughter away when she was worthy of such parents; I bring her back, and they are unworthy of her. That you did not know her when she came to you is a small wonder, for you have been blind in soul all your lives: now be blind in body until your better eyes are unsealed." She threw her cloak open. It fell to the ground, and the radiance that flashed from her robe of snowy whiteness, from her face of awful beauty, and from her eyes that shone like pools of sunlight, smote them blind. Rosamond saw them give a great start, shudder, waver to and fro, then sit down on the steps of the dais; and she knew they were punished, but knew not how. She rushed up to them, and catching a hand of each said-- "Father, dear father! mother dear! I will ask the wise woman to forgive you." "Oh, I am blind! I am blind!" they cried together. "Dark as night! Stone blind!" Rosamond left them, sprang down the steps, and kneeling at her feet, cried, "Oh, my lovely wise woman! do let them see. Do open their eyes, dear, good, wise woman." The wise woman bent down to her, and said, so that none else could hear, "I will one day. Meanwhile you must be their servant, as I have been yours. Bring them to me, and I will make them welcome." Rosamond rose, went up the steps again to her father and mother, where they sat like statues with closed eyes, half-way from the top of the dais where stood their empty thrones, seated herself between them, took a hand of each, and was still. All this time very few in the room saw the wise woman. The moment she threw off her cloak she vanished from the sight of almost all who were present. The woman who swept and dusted the hall and brushed the thrones, saw her, and the shepherd had a glimmering vision of her; but no one else that I know of caught a glimpse of her. The shepherdess did not see her. Nor did Agnes, but she felt her presence upon her like the beat of a furnace seven times heated. As soon as Rosamond had taken her place between her father and mother, the wise woman lifted her cloak from the floor, and threw it again around her. Then everybody saw her, and Agnes felt as if a soft dewy cloud had come between her and the torrid rays of a vertical sun. The wise woman turned to the shepherd and shepherdess. "For you," she said, "you are sufficiently punished by the work of your own hands. Instead of making your daughter obey you, you left her to be a slave to herself; you coaxed when you ought to have compelled; you praised when you ought to have been silent; you fondled when you ought to have punished; you threatened when you ought to have inflicted--and there she stands, the full-grown result of your foolishness! She is your crime and your punishment. Take her home with you, and live hour after hour with the pale-hearted disgrace you call your daughter. What she is, the worm at her heart has begun to teach her. When life is no longer endurable, come to me. "Madam," said the shepherd, "may I not go with you now?" "You shall," said the wise woman. "Husband! husband!" cried the shepherdess, "how are we two to get home without you?" "I will see to that," said the wise woman. "But little of home you will find it until you have come to me. The king carried you hither, and he shall carry you back. But your husband shall not go with you. He cannot now if he would." The shepherdess looked and saw that the shepherd stood in a deep sleep. She went to him and sought to rouse him, but neither tongue nor hands were of the slightest avail. The wise woman turned to Rosamond. "My child," she said, "I shall never be far from you. Come to me when you will. Bring them to me." Rosamond smiled and kissed her hand, but kept her place by her parents. They also were now in a deep sleep like the shepherd. The wise woman took the shepherd by the hand, and led him away. And that is all my double story. How double it is, if you care to know, you must find out. If you think it is not finished--I never knew a story that was. I could tell you a great deal more concerning them all, but I have already told more than is good for those who read but with their foreheads, and enough for those whom it has made look a little solemn, and sigh as they close the book. 
44123	----	_LITTLE SUNBEAMS._ IV. JESSIE'S PARROT. =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 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_. [Illustration: Jessie's Parrot. FRONTISPIECE.] JESSIE'S PARROT. "A HAUGHTY SPIRIT GOETH BEFORE A FALL." "He that is down need fear no fall, He that is low no pride, He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide." BY JOANNA H. MATHEWS, AUTHOR OF THE "BESSIE BOOKS" AND THE "FLOWERETS." NEW YORK: ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, 530 BROADWAY. 1876. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. CAMBRIDGE: PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. THE NEW SCHOLAR 9 II. AN EXCURSION 31 III. JESSIE AND HER GRANDFATHER 52 IV. THE PARROT 69 V. GRANDMAMMA HOWARD 90 VI. JEALOUSY 110 VII. A MISFORTUNE 129 VIII. "THE SPIDER AND THE FLY" 148 IX. A GUILTY CONSCIENCE 168 X. A GAME OF CHARACTERS 189 XI. CONFESSION 205 XII. THE FAIR 223 [Illustration] JESSIE'S PARROT. I. _THE NEW SCHOLAR._ "Fanny Leroy is going away from our school," said Carrie Ransom one morning to Belle Powers and two or three more of her young schoolmates. "Oh, dear! I'm sorry," said Belle. "So am I," said Dora Johnson. "Why is she going?" "Has she finished her education, and is she never going to school any more?" asked Mabel Walton. "Why, no," said Belle; "she's nothing but a little girl; and you don't finish your education till you're quite grown up and have long dresses." "Why is she going away?" asked Lily. "I don't want her to go. I like Fanny." "So do I. She's real nice," said Carrie; "but she is going, for all, 'cause her father and mother and all her family are going to Europe and she is going with them." "I wish she wouldn't," said Belle; and one and another echoed their sorrow at the loss of their schoolmate. Fanny had always been well liked in the school; but now that they were about to lose her the little girls found that they were even more fond of her than they had supposed, and many regrets were expressed when, a moment later, she came in accompanied by Gracie Howard. Fanny herself was very melancholy and low, for this was to be the last day at school, as she informed the other children; the journey to Europe having been decided upon rather suddenly, and the departure was to take place within a few days. Nevertheless, although she was sorry to part with her teacher and classmates, and in mortal dread of the voyage, she felt herself rather of a heroine, and entitled to be made much of. "We'll have an empty place in our school then," said Belle. "No," said Fanny, "for my cousin Hattie is coming to take my place; it is all arranged, and Miss Ashton says she can come." "Is she nice?" asked Lily. "Well--yes," answered Fanny, half doubtfully. "You don't seem to think she's so _very_," said Belle. No, Fanny evidently had her own opinion on this subject; but as she was not a child who was ready to speak ill of the absent, she would not say more than she could help. But the interest and curiosity of her schoolmates were aroused, and they could not be satisfied without hearing more. "I know Hattie," said Gracie Howard, who was more intimate with Fanny and her family than any of the other children,--"I know Hattie, and I like her. She thinks I am very nice. She told me so." This was plainly the highest of recommendations in Gracie's eyes. Any one who admired her was sure of her favor; but this fact did not have quite as much weight with her companions as it did with herself, and they turned once more to Fanny. "But tell us, Fanny," said Lily Norris, "why don't you like her so very much?" Fanny looked, as she felt, uncomfortable at this close question. "Why," she answered reluctantly, "I do like her; she's my cousin, you know, so I have to; but then--but then--I think I'll let you wait till she comes to find out the kind of girl she is. Maybe you'll like her very much. Gracie does." Fanny had her own doubts whether Gracie or any of the others would always continue to like Hattie as well as they might do upon a first acquaintance; but she very properly and generously resolved not to tell tales and prejudice the minds of the other children against the new comer. Better to give Hattie all the chance she could and let it be her own fault if she were not popular with her classmates. I cannot say that Fanny reasoned this out in just such words; but the kind thought was in her mind, and she resolved to hold her peace and say nothing unkind about her cousin. Would Hattie have done as much for her or for any one else? You shall judge for yourself by and by. The parting with Fanny was rather a sad one, for the children were all fond of her, and she took it so very hardly herself, declaring that she never expected to see any one of them again. For Fanny, though a very good and amiable little girl, was one who was apt to "borrow trouble," as the saying is; that is, she was always worrying herself about misfortunes which would, could, or might happen to herself or her friends. Therefore she now expressed her expectation of never seeing any of her young friends again, and when Lily very naturally inquired if the family meant to stay "for ever an' ever an' ever," said, "No, but people were very often drowned when they went to Europe in a steamer, and very likely she would be." Nor was she to be persuaded to take a more cheerful view of the future, even when Dora Johnson suggested that many more people crossed the ocean and returned in safety than were lost upon it. She was determined to dwell upon the possibilities, and even probabilities of her being shipwrecked, and took leave of her schoolmates with a view to such a fate. "Fanny did not act as if she thought we'd like her cousin Hattie very much, did she?" questioned Nellie Ransom as she walked homeward with Gracie Howard, Dora Johnson, and Laura Middleton. "No, she did not," said Laura. "Fanny don't tell tales or say unkind things about people, but it was quite plain she does not think so very much of Hattie Leroy." "I know the reason why," said Gracie. "What is it?" asked Laura. "Fanny said something very hateful about me," answered Gracie, "and Hattie told me of it; and just for that Fanny was mad at Hattie." "Well, I should think Fanny might be mad," said Laura. "Hattie had no right to tell you if Fanny didn't mean her to, and I don't believe she did." "No," said Gracie, "I don't suppose Fanny did want me to know it; but then she had no business to say it." "Hattie had no business to repeat it," said Dora indignantly; "if she is that kind of a girl I don't wonder Fanny don't like her, and I wish she was not coming to our school." "What did Fanny say?" asked Laura, who had her full share of curiosity. "She said--she-er--she-er--I'm not going to tell you what she said," answered Gracie, who was really ashamed to confess what slight cause for offence Fanny had given, and that it was her own wounded self-love which made it appear so "hateful." But although Gracie would not tell her schoolmates, I shall tell you, for I know all about it. The mighty trouble was just this. Hattie Leroy had but lately come to live in the city, and just when her parents were looking around for a good school to send her to, Fanny's papa and mamma made up their minds to take her abroad. This left her place vacant in Miss Ashton's class, and, as you have heard, it was at once secured for her little cousin. Meanwhile Gracie and Hattie, who had met at Fanny's house, had struck up a violent _intimate friendship_ and were now much together. As may be supposed, Hattie was very curious respecting her future teacher and classmates, and asked both Fanny and Gracie many questions about them. But, although the accounts given by the two children agreed in most points, yet, in some way, the story told by Gracie left a very different impression from that of Fanny. The latter thought her teacher and classmates very nearly, if not quite, perfect, and bestowed her praise freely and without stint. Well, and if you had heard Gracie's report you might have said that she did the same; but whenever Gracie said one good word for another she said a dozen for herself. One girl was a very bright scholar, but she stood second to Gracie; another was always punctual and steady, but Gracie had still a higher number of marks for these two virtues--or at least if she did not _have_ them, she _deserved_ them, and it was the fault of some one else that they had not fallen to her share. Nellie Ransom wrote such fine compositions; but then, they were by no means to be compared to Gracie's own,--oh, dear, no! So it was with each and every one; whatever merit any child in the class possessed, Gracie's went beyond it. So at last Hattie quite naturally asked Fanny if Gracie were really the best child, the finest scholar, and the most admired and praised of all her classmates. "Why, no," answered Fanny; "Gracie is a very good scholar, and 'most always knows her lessons perfectly; but Nellie is even better than she is, and has kept the head of the spelling and history classes ever so long. And she generally writes the best compositions; but Gracie don't think so, and always says Miss Ashton is unjust if she gives Nellie the highest marks. But Gracie _is_ very smart, and can learn quicker than any of the rest of us; and she 'most always behaves well in school too." "Better than any one else?" asked Hattie. "No," said Fanny, rather indignantly; "there's lots of the children that are just as good as she is. She's not the best one in the school at all. She's good enough, but not so wonderful." "She thinks she is," said Hattie. "That's nothing," answered Fanny; "people's thinking they are a thing don't make them that thing, you know." "Then you think Gracie is conceited and thinks a great deal of herself, do you?" asked Hattie. "Why, yes," answered Fanny, though half reluctantly; "no one could help thinking that, you know." Fanny expressed herself in this manner more as a way of _excusing_ her own opinion of Gracie than as accusing her little playmate. "Who do you think _is_ the best child in all the school?" asked Hattie. "Well," answered Fanny, after a moment's reflection, "I b'lieve Belle Powers is. At least I think it is the best in her to be as good as she is, for she has to try pretty hard sometimes." "Why?" asked inquisitive Hattie again. "Because she has no mother, and she has always been a good deal spoiled by her papa and her old nurse. But I never saw any child who wanted to be good more than Belle, and she tries very much; and we are all very fond of her, and Miss Ashton excuses her things sometimes because she is sorry for her." "Don't that make you mad?" said Hattie. "No," answered Fanny with much energy; "we'd be real mean if we were mad when Belle has no mother. No, indeed; no one could bear to have Belle scolded; we all love her too much." Now this was seemingly a most innocent conversation; was it not? and one could hardly have supposed that it would have made trouble for poor Fanny as it did. Gracie and Fanny lived within a few doors of one another, the latter a little nearer to Miss Ashton's house than the former; and Gracie was in the habit of stopping for Fanny on her way to school that they might walk there together. But one morning a day or two after this, Fanny, standing by the window and watching for her young friend as usual, saw her go by with her maid without so much as turning her head or casting her eye up at the window where she must know Fanny awaited her. "It is the queerest thing I ever knew," said Fanny to her father as she walked along by his side a few moments later; "it 'most seems as if Gracie was offended with me to do so; but then she can't be, for I have not done a thing to her. I shall ask her right away, as soon as I am at school." But Fanny was only just in time to take off her hat and cloak and go to her seat before the bell rang, and so had no opportunity before school to inquire into the cause of Gracie's strange behavior. There was no need of words, however, to show that Gracie was indeed offended with her, for averted looks and scornful tossings of the head showed that plainly enough. Poor Fanny was hurt and uncomfortable, and vainly tried to imagine what she could have done that offended Gracie so much. She ran to her as soon as recess gave her liberty to speak. "Why, Gracie! what is the matter?" she asked. "Why did you not stop for me this morning?" "'Cause I did not choose to," answered Gracie shortly. "Are you mad with me?" asked Fanny, putting a very unnecessary question, for it was quite plain to all beholders that this was Gracie's state of mind. "Yes, I am; and I have a good right to be too," answered Gracie, her eyes flashing at Fanny. "What _have_ I done?" asked the innocent Fanny. "You need not pretend you don't know, Miss Hateful," replied Gracie, "nor pretend you haven't a guilty conscience. I've found you out! I'll never be friends with you again." "You ought to tell Fanny what it is, and let her make it up," said Belle. "She can't make it up. I've found her out before it was too late. She is a false, treacherous friend," said Gracie, waxing magnificent and severe in her reproaches, as she imagined. Poor Fanny, a tender-hearted, sensitive little thing, was overwhelmed by these upbraidings, which she was not conscious of deserving; but neither her entreaties nor those of the other children could draw more than this from Gracie, who turned away from them with an air of great offence, and holding her head very high with insulted dignity. "Augh!" said Lily Norris, who generally took up the cudgels in defence of any one whom she considered oppressed or injured, and who generally contrived to be quite as cutting and severe in her remarks as the offender had been; "you had better take care, Gracie; some day that nose of yours won't come down again, it is growing so used to sticking itself up at people. If when you're grown up people call you 'stuck-up-nose Miss Howard,' you won't feel very complimented; but you can just remember it is the consequence of your being such a proudy when you was young." Gracie made no reply, except by raising both nose and head higher still, which expressive motion Lily answered by saying,-- "Oh, _don't_ I feel like giving you a good slap!" with which she walked away, fearing perhaps that she might be too strongly tempted to put her desire into execution. Fanny was a good deal distressed, and the other children all felt much sympathy for her, for, as you will doubtless do, they thought Gracie's behavior not only unkind but also unjust. For, although such scenes as this were becoming quite too frequent in consequence of Gracie's ever increasing vanity and conceit, she generally was ready enough to proclaim the cause of offence; but now she was not only "hateful," as Lily called it, but "mysterious" also, and would give Fanny no opportunity of explaining the supposed grievance. Fanny went home both unhappy and vexed,--Gracie still carrying matters with a high hand and refusing even to walk on the same side of the street with her--and finding her cousin there, as was quite natural, she told her of the trouble with Gracie. Had Fanny not been too much disturbed to pay much attention to Hattie's manner, she might have seen that she looked uncomfortable when she told her story, fidgeting and coloring and having so little to say that Fanny thought her wanting in sympathy. But it was not until the next day that she discovered that Hattie was really the cause of the difficulty with Gracie. By that time she had heard that she was to sail for Europe in a few days, and this made her more unwilling than ever to be on bad terms with her young friend. Meeting Gracie in the street, the poor little grieved heart overflowed, and rushing up to her, Fanny exclaimed, "Oh, Gracie! don't be cross with me any more, for I'm going to Europe, and I expect I'll be drowned in the steamer, and then you'll be sorry you did not make up with me." This affecting prospect somewhat mollified Gracie's vexation; but still she answered in a tone of strong resentment,-- "Well, then; and why did you say hateful things about me to Hattie?" "I didn't," said Fanny, who had so little intention of making unkind remarks about Gracie that she had really forgotten her conversation with Hattie. "I didn't. I never said a thing about you." "Hattie said you did," answered Gracie; "she says you told her I thought myself very wonderful, but I was not; and that 'most all the girls were better scholars than me." "I didn't," said Fanny indignantly. "And she says," continued Gracie, "that you said 'cause I thought myself good did not make me good, and that Nellie wrote better compositions than I did. And she says"--this was plainly the first and worst count in Gracie's eyes--"she says you said no one could help knowing I was conceited and stuck up." This last speech suddenly recalled to Fanny's mind what she _had_ said, and she was dismayed; nor could she see how she was to explain it to Gracie. She was fond of Gracie, who, when her self-conceit did not come in her way, was really a pleasant and lovable child; and, oh! how she did wish she had never allowed Hattie to lead her into that conversation about her schoolmates. She colored violently and exclaimed,-- "Well, I did say that, but I did not say it in that way, Gracie. I don't quite know how it was, but it did not seem so bad as that when I said it. And Hattie asked me, so I couldn't help saying what I thought; but it wasn't of my own accord and--and--well, you know, Gracie, most all of us do think you think a good deal of yourself--but--oh, dear! it was too mean for Hattie to go and tell you; and somehow I suppose she's made you think it was worse than it was. 'Cause I didn't mean to say any thing hateful about you; but Hattie asked such a lot of questions, and I never thought she'd go and tell; and I'm going away, and I expect I'll never come back, and, oh, dear, it's too mean!" All this Fanny poured forth in a very distressed and excited manner, finishing by a burst of tears. Yes, it was indeed "too mean," and Gracie felt that Fanny had been shabbily treated. She had listened to Hattie's tell-tale report with a half-ashamed feeling, knowing that Fanny could never have thought that her words would be repeated; and, although anger and mortification had taken a strong hold upon her heart, she could not help seeing that Fanny had more cause of complaint than she had. So she put her arm about Fanny's neck, and, with what she considered magnanimous forgiveness, told her not to cry any more and she would "stop being mad." And when they talked the matter over and Fanny recalled what she _had_ said, both of Gracie and of the other children in the class, it could not but be seen that Hattie had exaggerated as well as "told tales," so making mischief and bringing discord between the two little friends. And had Fanny been revengeful, or too proud to overlook Gracie's unkindness and beg her to tell her what had come between them the trouble might have been lasting, and they have parted for a long time with bitterness and resentment rankling in their breasts. But now there was peace between them once more, though Gracie did still secretly feel some vexation at Fanny for even allowing that she could be wrong, and took great credit to herself for being so forgiving and generous. And now you will not wonder that Fanny did not feel disposed to think Hattie "so very nice," although she, far more generous and charitable than her cousin, would not tell tales and prejudice the minds of her future schoolmates against her. But Gracie hardly thought the less of Hattie for what she had learned of her; for she always liked any one who admired her, and this Hattie professed to do; perhaps she really did so, for, as I have said, Gracie was a pleasant child, and very clever in many things. [Illustration] [Illustration] II. _AN EXCURSION._ A large omnibus stood before the door of Miss Ashton's house, and had been waiting there some minutes. This was on a street where a line of omnibuses ran, and every now and then some would-be passenger made for the door of this one, when the driver would turn and say something which plainly disappointed him of his ride, at least in this particular stage. If such an individual chanced to glance up at the windows of Miss Ashton's house, he saw there a row of little faces in each of the parlor windows; and these same faces brimming over with smiles and dimples at the sight of his discomfiture, and the consciousness that this omnibus had been chartered for their especial pleasure and convenience, and that no mere passer-by had any right or title therein. Some people smiled in return to the happy little group, and nodded good-naturedly, as if to say,-- "Oh, yes! it is all right, and we are glad you are going to enjoy yourselves, and hope you will have a very pleasant time;" but one or two looked cross, frowning and shaking their heads or shoulders in a displeased manner, and as if they had no sympathy with any simple pleasure or frolic. Upon each and all of these did the little observers pass remarks, according to what they believed to be their deserts. "Look at that man," said Belle Powers, "how very displeased he looks. Just as cross as any thing, because the driver wouldn't let him go in our stage." "I don't believe he likes children," said Bessie Bradford. "No," said her sister Maggie, "I think he cannot be one of the happy kind the Bible speaks about, that have their 'quivers full of them,' for which he is to be pitied, and we need not be very severe with him." "But can't people like children and be glad they are going to have a nice time, even if they don't have any in their own homes?" asked Carrie Ransom. "Yes, of course," said Maggie, always ready to find excuses for others; "but then probably that gentleman never had nice times himself when he was a child, and so he does not know how to appreciate them." Maggie's long words and elegant sentences always settled any doubtful point, and the "cross gentleman," who still stood upon the sidewalk waiting for the next passing omnibus, was now regarded with eyes of sympathy and pity, which were quite lost upon him as he scolded and grumbled at the "fuss that was made nowadays about children's pleasures." "Chartered for a troop of youngsters," he growled forth to another gentleman, who coming up also opened the door of the omnibus, and would have jumped in. Upon which the new-comer drew back, looked up smilingly at the windows of the house, nodded and waved his hand, receiving in return blushes and smiles for himself, with an answering nod or two from some of the least shy of the group. "He's glad," said Lily; "he is a nice gentleman, and I expect he has lots of little children who love him dearly, and that he tries to give them a good time." "And so is made happy himself," said Maggie. "There comes Patrick with the shawls and wraps." And now came Miss Ashton and a couple of lady friends, who had volunteered to go with her and help take care of the little party, bound for an excursion and ramble in the Central Park; and the signal being given for the merry group to take their places in the stage, forth they all fluttered, like so many birds; and amid much laughing and chattering stowed themselves away in the roomy conveyance. They were all seated, and Patrick, Mrs. Bradford's man, who had been _lent_ for the occasion, was mounting to his seat beside the driver, when another gentleman, coming up with a quick step, pulled open the door of the omnibus, and popped in. He was plainly shortsighted, and did not see how matters stood until he was fairly inside and looking about for a seat. Perhaps, indeed, his hearing taught him first, for he might almost have thought himself in a nest of sparrows with all that chirping and fluttering. A smothered laugh or two also broke forth as he entered, and he speedily saw that he had no right to a place there. "Ah! private, I see. Beg your pardon, ladies," he said good-naturedly, and jumped out again, turning with a bow, and "I wish you a pleasant time." Then, as he caught sight of a roguish face and a pair of dancing eyes watching him with a look of recognition, he said,-- "Why, Lily, my dear! Glad to see you. Bound for a frolic? I hope you may enjoy yourself; and your schoolmates as well. A merry day to you, birdies." With which he banged the door and watched them off. "Who's that gentleman, Lily?" asked more than one voice. "He is Kitty Raymond's father. His name is Mr. Raymond," answered Lily. "He is a nice, pleasant gentleman, is he not?" asked Bessie. "Well, yes, he is very pleasant," said Lily, "but then he is an awful liar." "Oh-h-h! ah! ah!" broke from one and another of the children at Lily's very plain speaking; and Miss Ashton said reprovingly,-- "Lily, my child! what a very improper expression for you to use, and of one so much older than yourself, too." "I don't care," said Lily, "it is true, Miss Ashton. I know he tells the most dreadful untrue stories, and that does make him a liar, I know. If children say what is very untrue, people say it is a lie; and when grown-ups say what is not true to children I don't see why they are not liars all the same. And Mr. Raymond don't tell little stories what you would call _fibs_, either, but real big, true _lies_, what Tom calls whoppers. So, though he is pleasant and good-natured, I don't think he is so very nice; and I'm glad he is not my papa." Miss Ashton hardly knew what to say, for if Lily's accusations were true,--and the child was not apt to accuse any one wrongfully,--her reasoning was quite just, and it was plainly to be seen that in some way her sense of right and truth had been grievously offended. But still she did not wish to have her speak in such an improper way, and she was about to say so again, when Lily broke forth once more with,-- "Miss Ashton, I'll tell you, and you can just judge for yourself. The other day I was spending the afternoon with Kitty, and her little brother wanted to go down stairs with us, and his papa did not want him to go; so he told him that the big black man in the closet in the hall would catch him and put him up the chimney. And it _was a lie_! I say it was a real, true lie," persisted Lily, who was apt to be emphatic in her choice of words, "for Mr. Raymond knew there was no black man there, and he just made it up." "Was the little boy frightened?" asked Belle. "Yes, as frightened as any thing, and he really believes there is a black man in that closet; and Willie Raymond, who is six years old, will not go past that closet without some big person. And I did feel not very brave myself when I went past it," confessed Lily, "for all I knew there was no black man there--and if there was, he wouldn't hurt me, the poor, old fellow--and knew it was just a--well, if Miss Ashton says so, I'll call it a _fib_, but I shall _think_ it was a lie." Miss Ashton and the other ladies could hardly help smiling at Lily's tone; and the former felt that the child was so far right that she could scarcely reprove her again for her indignant attack upon this too common form of deceit. "And Mr. Raymond went and winked at me, just as if he thought _I_ thought it was funny," pursued Lily; "but I thought it was only horrid, and I didn't smile a bit, but looked back at him very solemn. No, I don't like him, and I'm not going to." "You don't like him because you can't respect him," said Bessie with solemn gravity. "No, I just don't," answered Lily; "and I'm not going to go and have a respect for a person who tells--who says what is not true, not if they are as big and as old as a mountain." Lily's resolution was received with general approval; but now, at her suggestion, the subject was changed. There was enough to talk about without taking any unpleasant thing; and how those little tongues did go! It was a mild, lovely day in the early spring, uncommonly warm for the season,--just the day for an excursion. Modest crocuses, lovely hyacinths and gay tulips were in bloom; the willows were just clothing themselves in their first tender green, and every stream and spring rippled and sparkled and sang as if it were rejoicing in its new life and liberty. The park was fairly alive with children, who, like our little party, seemed determined to enjoy this bright, spring day to the utmost; but perhaps none were so gleeful and merry as our young friends. The windows of the omnibus were open, and the little girls had all scrambled upon their knees that they might the better see what was without; and many a grave countenance was won to smiles by the sight of the bright, joyous faces as they rolled past, and the merry peals of laughter which every now and then broke forth from the cumbrous vehicle. And they scattered not only smiles and bright looks wherever they went, but other good things also. Mabel Walton, who considered it almost impossible to enjoy oneself without a quantity of candies and sugar-plums on hand, had been furnished by her over-indulgent mother with a large supply of these delicacies; nor were most of the others without their share; so that Miss Ashton looked with some dismay upon the treasures which were displayed by one and another, fearing that her little flock might surfeit themselves with too many sweets before the day was over. However, her mind was soon relieved, at least in a measure. For Mabel having doled out a handful of sugar-plums to each of her companions, Bessie Bradford called out as the carriage rolled slowly up a hilly part of the road,-- "Oh! see that little girl; what a nice face she has. But she looks so pale and sorry. I wish I had some pennies for her; but I will give her some of my sugar-plums. Perhaps she don't have many." Poor child! she looked as if she had not many loaves of bread, as she ran by the side of the omnibus, holding up her thin hand. A pale, sorrowful little face it was that looked up into those, so rosy and happy, above it; pinched, careworn, and old above its years, with that look so often seen in the faces of the children of the poor. Yet, in spite of her extreme poverty, she was not very ragged or very dirty; and as little Bessie had said, she had "a nice face," an open, straightforward look, a gentle expression, and a clear, honest eye. As she saw Bessie's hand outstretched, her face brightened, and as the little girl dropped two or three sugar-plums, she stooped hastily to pick them up; but when she raised her head again, the old weary look had come back, deepened now by disappointment. Just then the driver whipped up his horses and the omnibus rolled on faster, leaving the child looking sadly after it, and making no attempt to pick up the sugar-plums now thrown out freely by all the little girls. "Why! she looks as if she didn't like sugar-plums," said Belle. "Impossible!" said Maggie. "There never could be a person so wanting in sense as not to like sugar-plums." "Maybe that man who lived in a tub did not," said Lily. "Maggie, I was very much interested in that man when you wrote to me about him, and I meant to ask you a little more about him, but I did not think he could be a _wise_ man. What was his name?" "Mr. Diogenes," said Maggie; "and the reason they called the old cross-patch a wise man was because wise men were very scarce in those days. They only had seven in all that country; but when you are as far as I am in Parley's History you will learn all about them." "I wonder what did make that little girl look so sorry," said Bessie, unable to forget the look of disappointment so plainly visible on the child's face. "I think, darling," said Miss Ashton, "that she expected pennies when she saw you were about to throw something out, and so was not satisfied with the candies. There was something interesting and sweet in her face." "Here are some more poor children," said Bessie; "let's drop some sugar-plums to them and see if they care about them." There could be no doubt as to the approbation of these new recipients of the bounty of our little friends. At first it was difficult to tell whether the pleasure was most enjoyed by those within the omnibus who scattered with liberal hand, or by the outsiders who gathered the harvest; but as the enthusiasm of these last drew new claimants, and all waxed more and more clamorous, it soon became an annoyance, and Miss Ashton was obliged to put a stop to the shower, which had already received a check, as some of the younger children were becoming frightened. But Patrick and the driver were forced to threaten the obstreperous crowd, and even to call for the aid of a policeman before they could be scattered, so that this diversion did not end so agreeably. There was one thing gained, however, in Miss Ashton's opinion; and this was that the greater part of the sugar-plums had been disposed of, without hurt to her young charge. Not that she objected to sugar-plums altogether. Do not think, my little readers, that she was, as Maggie would have said, so "wanting in sense," as that; but she had been rather appalled by the sight of the numerous tempting looking parcels that were produced, to say nothing of Mabel's over-abundant supply. Our gay party made the round of the park, stopping for a while at any place of interest, and now and then alighting if they were so inclined. They hung for some time about the paddock where the deer are kept, putting their little hands through the palings and trying to tempt the pretty, gentle creatures to come nearer. But the deer were not to be persuaded and although they watched the children with their mild, soft eyes in a very amiable manner, they held aloof and would not condescend to a closer acquaintance. The swans were less timid, and, as the children flocked down to the border of the lake with their hands full of crackers and bread, came swimming up, arching their graceful necks, and looking eagerly for the bits with which they were speedily treated. It was enchanting to see them so friendly, and to have them feed from one's very hand. The old gray arsenal, with its collection of wild animals, was not to be visited until after they had taken their lunch. As they passed the Casino on their way up through the park, Patrick had been left there to make all ready for them; and now they drove back and alighted. Pleasant and mild though the day was, the ground was still too cold and the air too fresh to permit of lunching out of doors; and, although the children entreated that they might be permitted to do so, Miss Ashton was too wise to yield. The lunch was not quite ready when they reached the Casino, and the children were permitted to wander around and amuse themselves as they pleased for a few moments, provided they did not lose sight of the house, or go beyond call. Bessie, Lily, and Belle had strolled a short distance away together, and had disappeared from the view of Maggie, Nellie, and Dora, who stood at the head of a short flight of stone steps leading up to the Casino. They had but gone around the other side of the hedge, however, and could not be far off. Suddenly Lily and Belle came flying back with frightened faces, and rushed breathless and panting to where the other children stood. Then Belle turned, and exclaimed,-- "Where's Bessie? Didn't Bessie come?" No Bessie was to be seen, certainly; and Maggie, noticing the startled faces of the other children, took alarm at once for her little sister, and started forward, crying,-- "Where is she? What has happened? Where's my Bessie?" Before Belle or Lily could speak, Hattie darted from behind the hedge, laughing and mischievous; and, pointing her finger at the crimson faces of the two little ones, cried triumphantly,-- "Oh! didn't I take you in? Didn't I give you a fright, though?" "What is it? Where's Bessie?" said Maggie again. Hattie sat down upon the lower step, and doubling herself over and rocking back and forth, said between paroxysms of laughter,-- "Oh, dear! Bessie is round there talking to the old fellow. She's all right. Didn't I play you two geese a nice trick, though? How you did run! I didn't think you could be so taken in. Oh, what fun!" "What!" exclaimed Lily, indignation taking the place of her alarm, "were you tricking us? Didn't he try to take your hair? Hattie, Hattie! you mean, mean girl! And you told us a real wicked story, too. How dare you do it?" And Lily stamped her foot at Hattie, in a real passion at the trick which had been played upon her. The effect was different upon Belle. She was a sensitive little thing, easily overcome by any undue excitement; and, throwing herself upon Maggie, she burst into a violent fit of sobbing and crying. Miss Ashton and her friends heard and came to inquire into the trouble; and Hattie was now rather frightened herself as she saw the effect of her foolish deceit. Lily indignantly told the story, which amounted to this. It was a well-known fact, and had unfortunately come to the ears of our little girls, that some man had lately attacked several children, and suddenly severed the hair from their heads, making off as fast as possible after he had done so. He did this for the sake of the hair, which he probably sold; but he was, of course, a bad man and a thief, and the children all felt much dread of him. So when Hattie had come flying up to Bessie, Belle, and Lily, without any hat, and seemingly in a state of the wildest excitement, and had told them, with every appearance of truth and of being herself excessively frightened, that "that old man there" had snatched off her hat and tried to cut her hair, they had readily believed her--as an old man was really there--and had turned about and run away in great alarm. They had been terrified half out of their senses; and now here was Hattie confessing--yes, glorying, till Miss Ashton came--that she had "tricked" them, that she was "only in fun," it was all "a joke." But her triumph was speedily brought to an end, when Miss Ashton saw Belle's state, and heard how it had been brought about. She sternly reprimanded Hattie, and bade her go into the house, and remain there. But where was Bessie? The other children declared that "an old man was really there;" and, in spite of Hattie's confession that she had only been joking, Maggie's mind was filled with visions of her little sister's sunny curls in the hands of a ruffian; and away she flew in search of her, quite regardless of any supposed risk to her own wealth of dark, waving ringlets. [Illustration] [Illustration] III. _JESSIE AND HER GRANDFATHER._ Where was Bessie? When Lily and Belle turned to run from the figure which Hattie pointed out as that of the man who attacked her, she started with them, quite as much alarmed as the other two; and, if they thought about it at all, they imagined she was close behind them. But she had gone only a few steps when she heard a voice, a weak voice, calling after herself and her companions, and saying,-- "Don't be afraid, little girls; don't run away, little ladies. Couldn't ye stop a minute to help an old man?" Something in the tones touched the tender little heart of Bessie; and she checked her steps, ready to start again, however, on the shortest notice, and looked back at the old man. A very old man he seemed, and a very feeble old man, scarcely able, if he had the will, to run after active little girls, or to do them any harm. His hair was very white, and his face pinched and thin; but he looked kind and gentle, as Bessie saw, even from the distance at which she stood; and her fears died away as she looked at him. The old man sat upon a bank; and Bessie stood hesitating and watching him, trying to make up her mind to go and ask if he was in trouble. She saw that he had dropped his stick, which had rolled away, and lay on the ground just beyond his reach. "Would you do an old man a kindness, and give him his stick, little Miss?" he called to her, pointing at the same time to the cane. "Why did ye all run that way? I wouldn't hurt a hair of your heads, more than I would of my own Jessie's." This reference to the "hair on their heads" was rather unfortunate, for it startled Bessie again, and brought back the cause for alarm. Was the old man really in trouble, and unable to reach his stick? she thought, or was this only a trap to catch her, and deprive her of her curls? So she stood still, hesitating; and the old man, as if in despair of receiving any help from her, tried to raise himself a little, and stretched out his trembling hand towards the stick. But it was useless; it lay too far; he could not rise without its aid, and he sank back again, looking more helpless and feeble than before. This was too much for Bessie. She could not bear to see suffering and not try to relieve it; and it seemed to her that it would be cruel and wicked not to lend a helping hand to this poor old creature. "Please, dear Father in heaven, not to let him hurt me," she whispered softly to herself; and then walked slowly towards the old man, her little heart beating painfully, it must be confessed, in spite of her petition, and the trust that it would be heard. Keeping at as great a distance as it would allow, she stooped for the stick, and held it out at arm's length to the owner. "Now may He that blesses the cup of cold water given in His name reward you," said the old man, as he took it from the timid little hand; "but why are you frightened at me, dear, and why did the other little ones run as if they were scared half out of their lives? When you passed all in the big stage, laughing and so gay, it put a warmth into my heart that hasn't been there for many a day, and I b'lieve it was your own loving, little face that smiled back at me as I waved my hat to you for a blessing on your joy. Why, I wouldn't hurt a living thing; least of all, little girls that always mind me of my Jessie. Though it's different enough that you are from her, my poor lamb," he added in a lower tone, which Bessie could not have heard had she not now drawn nearer to him. For with the first words of the old man's speech, all fear had vanished from her mind. He had called down a blessing on her in a name which she knew and loved, and she could not be afraid of him longer. Besides, now that she looked at him more closely and with unprejudiced eyes, she recognized him, and remembered how, as he said, when the stage had passed him with its merry load, he had taken off his hat and feebly cheered and waved to them as they went by. "Don't you try to cut off little girls' hair?" she could not help asking, in spite of her new confidence. "I?" answered the old man surprised; "and why would I do that? Ah! I see. Did you take me for _that_ fellow? My little lady, they have him fast in jail, as he deserves; but how did you ever think I would do a thing like that?" "A little girl said you tried to cut hers," answered the child. "Then that little girl slandered an old man who had never harmed her," he said gravely. "I understand; she's frightened you for her own fun, or whatever it may be. Well, I'm up now,"--he had slowly and painfully raised himself by the help of his cane,--"and I'd better be moving away, or the sight of me after that may spoil your pleasure. It was hard in her to turn you against one who would never have harmed you; but you're a sensible little lady, and a kind, and you'll never be the worse for doing a good turn to an old man." "Don't go away," said Bessie, "the other children won't be afraid of you when I tell them Hattie--was--was--mistaken." Bessie feared that Hattie's tale was more than a mistake, but she would not accuse her until she was sure. "They won't want you to go away, poor, lame man." "Jessie stays so long," he answered, looking about him helplessly. "She sat me here to rest a while, and I think she can't know how long she's been gone." Before Bessie could speak again, around the hedge came Maggie, who stopped short in amazement at seeing her sister standing talking sociably to the dreaded old man. And with her curls all safe! Maggie could hardly believe her own eyes. She went forward more slowly, till Bessie called to her,-- "O Maggie, dear! this old man wouldn't hurt us, or cut our hair for any thing. He likes little girls, and it made him feel badly because we ran away from him, and he is going away now 'cause he thinks we don't like him. Come and tell him not to." Timid Maggie, feeling very doubtful, but determined to share her sister's risk, whatever that might be--she had almost forgotten that Hattie had confessed she only wanted to trick them all--drew still nearer, and taking Bessie's hand, gazed up at the old man with eyes in which pity and sympathy began to struggle with her former fear. He looked so poor and feeble and helpless, so little like doing harm to any one. And now came Dora and Gracie, who had followed Maggie in search of Bessie; and as the little group gathered about the old man, Bessie said,-- "Where is your Jessie? Can we call her to you?" "I can't tell, little Miss," he answered. "I've been sitting here more than an hour, I take it. Jessie was so eager about her parrot that she has maybe forgotten how long she's been away. Ah! there she comes now." As he spoke, a child came running towards them, but seeing the group about her grandfather, paused in amazement at a short distance. It was the very same little girl to whom they had thrown sugar-plums but an hour since, and who had looked so disappointed. The children recognized her immediately. "Why! that's the little girl who was not pleased with our sugar-plums," said Bessie. "Is that your Jessie?" The old man beckoned to her, and she came forward. "This is my Jessie, Miss," he answered, "and a good girl she is too. I don't know what her old grandfather would do without her. She's given up the dearest thing she had for me, bless her!" Jessie was now standing beside her grandfather, blushing and hanging her head at the notice thus drawn upon her. "What was that?" asked Dora. "Her parrot, Miss. A splendid parrot that her father, who's now dead and gone, brought her from beyond the seas. You'd think he was a human creature 'most, to hear him talk, and she loved him next to her old grandfather; but she parted with him for my sake." "Didn't you like him?" asked Bessie. "Yes, indeed, Miss. I was 'most as fond of the bird as she was herself; but it wasn't to be helped. You see I was sick so long, and the doctor bid me take a medicine that cost a deal of money, to drive the pain out of my bones; and how were we to get it when we'd not enough to buy bread from day to day, or to pay the rent that was due? So she sold her bird, for I can't do a hand's turn of work just yet." "That was good of her," said Gracie; "did she get all the money she wanted for him?" "More than we expected, Miss, for the man that keeps the house here," pointing to the Casino, "gave her ten dollars for him. And he lets her see him every day, and says when the summer is over she may have him back for eight dollars if she can raise it. For Poll draws people to the refreshment place, you see, with his funny ways, and his wonderful talk, and the keeper thinks he'll get two dollars worth out of him before the summer is over. But, Jessie 'll never raise all that money, though I have put by my pride, and let her ask charity here of the folks in the Park." "And I don't feel that I ought to take it for that, either," said Jessie, as soon as the talkative old man paused for breath, and let her have a chance to speak, "'cause grandfather needs so many things, and the rent will be falling due before long again, so I must save up for straws and ribbon." "For what?" asked Bessie, while at the same moment Dora said,-- "Why don't you find some work and earn money that way?" "For straws and ribbon, Miss," said Jessie, answering Bessie's question first; then turning to Dora, she added,-- "I would work, Miss, and I do, when I have the things. I make little baskets and catchalls, and allumette holders of ribbon and straw and beads, and I sell them wherever I can; but the stock was all gone long ago, and I've no more to begin on." "But," said Dora, "if people give you money, why don't you take that to buy your materials?" Jessie shook her head sadly. "It has taken every cent that's been given to me to buy just bread enough for me and grandfather to eat, Miss," she said; "there was nothing to spare for any thing else, and any way it is an uncertain thing, the selling of the baskets, till the weather is pleasant and warm, and people like to stop. Now, you see, is the time for me to be making them ready; but there's no use in thinking about it, and as for Poll,"-- Jessie's sigh and filling eyes told of the despair with which she thought of the recovery of her pet. "I have some money in my charity-box at home," said Maggie eagerly; "I'll give you some to buy straws and ribbon. I have no money with me, but Miss Ashton will lend me some for such a good purpose, I know, and I'll pay her as soon as we go home. I'll run and ask her." But there was no need, for there was Miss Ashton come in search of her stray lambs, and in two minutes she had heard the story. Heard it, but scarcely understood it, for that was difficult with one and another putting in a word, patching it out in various bits; to say nothing of the circumstance that our little girls themselves scarcely understood what they were talking about. Jessie and her grandfather--who had nothing to say now that the lady had come, and who stood close to one another, the old man holding his hat in his hand and leaning on his stick--were somewhat confused themselves by the chatter and flutter of the eager little talkers; and when Miss Ashton turned to the latter and began to inquire into his story, his usual flow of words seemed to have failed him. Miss Ashton spoke to Jessie. "Grandfather was just telling the little ladies about my Polly, ma'am," she said modestly. "If they'd like to see him he's in the house there. And if you'd like to have him show off he'll talk better for me than for any one else, and I'll go and coax him." "Oh! can we go and see him?" said Bessie; and Jessie once more saying, yes, and that she would go with them, the little girls ran off, while Miss Ashton remained to hear the old man's story. It was a sad, but by no means an uncommon one. Jessie's mother had died when she was a baby. Her father, who was mate on a sailing-vessel, had been drowned at sea about two years ago. Until his death, his wages, together with what the old man made at stone-cutting, had supported them all in comfort. And even after that, the grandfather and the child had continued to keep along on what the former earned. Jessie, who was twelve years old, had been to school pretty steadily till a year ago, could "read and write and do up sums," and had also learned to sew. But about that time the grandfather had taken a heavy cold, from being thoroughly wet with rain while at his work; and, neglecting to change his clothes, it had settled in all his joints, and a long and painful rheumatic illness followed. All the last summer he had lain bound hand and foot, the pretty trifles which Jessie had learned to make the sole support of the two. But with the winter the sale of her little wares had fallen off, poverty and suffering had increased upon them, and they had gone from bad to worse, till, as he had told the little girls, Jessie had been forced to sell her beloved parrot to keep a roof above their heads, and to buy the medicine so much needed for her grandfather. They had some help from the church at which they attended, but that was little. And now that it was warmer weather, and Jessie could begin to sell her wares, she had no money to buy materials, and he had consented that she should ask charity of passers-by, and so gain a few shillings to begin her trade. They lived over there in a sad, tumble-down place, the old man said, "and he never thought to bring his Jessie to that; but the Lord had His own ways, and when He saw fit, He could take them out of this trouble." The story was told with a straightforward simplicity, and a natural pathos which went far to convince Miss Ashton that it must be true; but she took down the name and address of the clergyman of whom the old man spoke. This gentleman lived in one of the streets bordering on the Park, and Miss Ashton resolved to see him and hear his report before she left for home. If these poor people were really in such need, and deserving of help, she could not let them suffer longer than was necessary. She told old Malcolm--for that he said was his name--that he did not do well to rest upon the bank. The ground, she said, was not yet warm enough for his aching bones. But he answered that it was far better than the damp, cold shanty where he and Jessie had lived for the last two months, for here on a bright day he had the sunshine, and the fresh, clear air, and little of either of these ever found their way into the miserable cabin. Malcolm's language and manner, as well as those of his grand-daughter, showed that he had indeed been used to "better days;" and he seemed so patient and uncomplaining that Miss Ashton felt much interested in him, and anxious to do something for his relief. She bade him come farther on, and find a seat upon a pleasant, sunny bench, where she would furnish him and Jessie with some food; but when she said this, he told her some of the little ones of her party were afraid of him, and he did not wish to trouble them. He looked troubled himself when he said this; and Miss Ashton had to tell him that one of her young scholars had been so foolish and wrong as to tell a falsehood--she could call it nothing less--to frighten the others; but that they all knew the truth now, and would be afraid of him no longer. [Illustration] [Illustration] IV. _THE PARROT._ Meanwhile the children were amusing themselves with the parrot. The whole flock had followed Jessie to make his acquaintance, Maggie having called the others to join them; and even the still sobbing Belle forgot her troubles in this new object of interest. The bird proved to be in a most amiable and sociable humor; and, to the great delight of his former little mistress, exhibited himself in a most gratifying manner. His cage was placed before a little stand just outside of a window opening upon the verandah; and when the children first saw him he was swinging head downwards from one of the bars, hanging by one claw, and appearing to take no notice of any thing until Jessie called to him. Then he put out the other claw, and swung himself upright; immediately commencing a kind of dance upon his perch, as if in an ecstacy, and calling out,-- "Jessie! Jessie! pretty Jessie, good Jessie." "Good Polly," said Jessie, while the children gathered around in great delight. "How are you, Polly?" "Polly pretty well; Polly all right," answered the bird. The little girls were astonished, as indeed were the ladies who had accompanied them. Not one among the group but had often seen parrots who would repeat certain set phrases, but this bird actually answered questions, and as if he understood them too. "What does Polly want?" asked Jessie, delighted at the sensation her pet was producing. "Polly want a bit of sugar," answered the bird. Jessie put her hand into her pocket, and produced one of the sugar-plums the children had thrown to her, and held it up before the parrot's greedy eyes. "Dance a jig then, and sing a song, Polly," she said. Polly forthwith commenced a kind of seesaw on his perch, swaying his body back and forth, balancing himself first on one foot, then on the other, in a measured sort of way which he probably supposed to be dancing. At any rate, his audience were contented to accept it as such, and he met with continued applause, until suddenly bringing his gyrations to a close he screamed in a loud, discordant voice,-- "Sugar!" "Sing then," said Jessie. In a sharp, cracked, but very distinct voice, and with some resemblance to a tune, the parrot began,-- "Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that"-- Here he came to an abrupt close, eying the sugar-plum wistfully. "Sing it," said Jessie; and he began again. "Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Mary went, The lamb--sugar--sugar--sugar," screamed the creature, amid peals of laughter from the children, who now begged that he might have the coveted reward, which Jessie accordingly gave him. "He knows it all," she said; "but I can hardly ever make him sing it through." Poll took the sugar-plum gingerly in one claw, and sat nibbling at it till it was all gone, while the children crowded around him, admiring his gay, bright-colored feathers, and expressing their wonder at his accomplishments and sense. "Now you must show off some more," said Jessie, when the bird had disposed of his feast. "Polly, where is the naughty child?" To the intense delight of the children, Poll began to scream and cry exactly like a passionate child, after which he laughed and chuckled with satisfaction at his own performances, then crowed like a rooster, baa-ed like a nanny-goat, barked like a dog, and mewed like a cat. After all this he took up intelligent conversation again. "Polly's a pr-r-r-etty bird; Polly's a good bird; Polly's a wise bird," he screamed, in all of which his little hearers entirely agreed. "Who do you love, Polly?" asked Jessie. "Polly love Jessie; Jessie a good girl," was the answer. "Where's your master, Polly?" "Bob Malcolm gone to sea. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye," screamed the parrot. "Sing a song of"--began Jessie, and the parrot took up the strain. "Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye"-- Here he came to a stop, nor could he be coaxed to finish the couplet, though Jessie assured the audience that he could, if he chose, sing the first four lines of the old song all through. However, he condescended to repeat some of his former performances. But it would take too long to tell all the feats of this remarkable bird; and you must not think that these I have related are quite impossible, for I have seen a parrot who could do all that is here described, and more too. The children were so interested and amused that they could scarcely be persuaded to leave him when Patrick announced that their lunch was ready; and Jessie, who was bidden by Miss Ashton to join her grandfather and share the meal provided for him, was begged to keep within call, so that they might return to the entertainment when they had finished their lunch. While this was going on, Miss Ashton told the story she had heard from old Malcolm, and said that she was so much interested in him and his grandchild, that she would go after lunch and see the clergyman, while the little girls amused themselves for a while under the care of the other ladies. She carried out this purpose, and went on her kind errand, followed by many a hope that she would find the story all correct. But when the children went back to the parrot they were disappointed, for he proved cross or tired or in a less sociable mood than he had been before, and he very rudely turned his back upon them, and would utter no words save,-- "Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue!" every time any one spoke to him. So, finding this neither polite nor amusing, the company left him and scattered themselves in search of other entertainment. "How sober you look, Maggie; what are you thinking about?" asked Hattie Leroy, coming up to where Maggie Bradford stood leaning upon a stone railing. Maggie looked thoughtful, it may be, but hardly sober, for her thoughts seemed pleasant ones, to judge by the light in her eye, and the half smile upon her lip. "I have an idea," said Maggie, "and I think it's a nice one, at least if we are allowed to do it." "What is it?" asked Hattie. "Well," said Maggie, "I don't care to have it talked about very much till we know if we can do it; but I was thinking it would be so nice if we could have a little fair, just ourselves, you know, the school-children and Bessie and me. I know some children who had a fair in their own house, and they made money enough to pay for a bed in St. Luke's Hospital for a poor, lame child; and I thought perhaps we could make enough to buy back Jessie's parrot for her; and to make a more comfortable home for them. We could make things for the fair, and ask our friends to help us. Mamma would make some for us, I know, and so will Aunt Annie, and, I think, Aunt Bessie and Aunt May." "Where could we have it?" asked Hattie, who seemed much interested. "In one of our own houses," said Maggie, "or,--that was another thought I had,--perhaps Miss Ashton would be so very good as to let us have it at her house. The piazza would be lovely for it; and she generally lets us have some party-ish kind of a thing when school breaks up. Last year we had a giving of prizes; and at Christmas we had a Christmas festival, and a queen both times." "Yes," said Hattie, "and Gracie said it was shameful that you were queen both times. She thinks it was very selfish in you." Maggie colored violently. "The queen was chosen," she said, "and the girls chose me. I did not make myself queen." "Well, Gracie did not like it one bit," said Hattie, "and she thinks you had no right to be queen when you did not go to the school the last time." Maggie was silent, but the gladness was gone from her face. "Wouldn't it be too cold to have the fair on the piazza?" asked Hattie. "Not by the time we are ready," said Maggie. "You know it will take a good while to make enough things, and Miss Ashton does not close the school till the first of June. I heard her tell mamma so the other day. And by that time it will be quite warm and pleasant, and there will be plenty of flowers. I was thinking we could dress the piazza with wreaths and festoons and flags; and we could make some kind of a throne and canopy at one end. And there we could have the flower-table and the queen behind it, with some maids of honor to sell flowers." If Maggie imagined that Hattie would express any admiration or approval of her plan, she was mistaken. Hattie seemed interested, and asked a great many questions, as to how Maggie would arrange such and such matters, but she did not act as if she thought the "idea" very fine after all, and this was rather different from the way in which Maggie was accustomed to have her plans received. But she did not care for that; she was not a vain child, constantly seeking for admiration, and she was too full of her subject to pay much heed to Hattie's cool way of hearing this one. "I'm not going to say much about it till I see if mamma approves," she said. "Then I'll ask Miss Ashton and tell all the children about it. There are Bessie and Lily beckoning to me; let us go and see what they want." And away she ran, intending to tell her sister and Belle and Lily of her plan on the first convenient opportunity; but not willing, as she had said, to make it public till she learned if it could be carried out. She did not yet feel as if she knew Hattie very well, and she was rather astonished at herself for having talked so freely to her; but the truth was, that Hattie had come upon her rather unawares, and asked her what she was thinking of, at the moment when she was turning her "idea" over in her mind, and she had told her almost without reflection. Still she did not exactly regret having done so, and, after what she had said, never supposed that Hattie would mention what she had told her. Upright, honorable Maggie judged others by herself, and was entirely unsuspicious of evil. It would take too much space in this little book, and you would not care to have a particular description of all the various points of interest visited by our party throughout the day,--the Arsenal with its collection of wild beasts and monkeys; the great reservoir with its blue water, looking like a lake within walls, as indeed it is; the lovely Ramble through which they wandered for a long time, and many another pleasant spot. They are all familiar to many of you, and those to whom they are not, may make acquaintance with them some day. You may be sure that Miss Ashton did not leave old Malcolm and his grand-daughter without some remembrance of this day, for she was not only very sorry for them and felt that they were really in need of assistance, but she also knew that Jessie and her wonderful bird had added much to the entertainment of her little flock. She gave Jessie money enough to furnish herself with materials to begin her little trade again, and, leaving her address with her, bade her bring some of her pretty toys to her house when they should be made. They were all in the omnibus once more, and had started on their homeward way, all rather tired and quiet with the day's ramble, when what was Maggie's astonishment to hear Hattie say,-- "Miss Ashton, Maggie and I have such a very nice plan. We thought we might have a fair, just us children, and ask our friends to help us; and then we could sell the things we made, or that were given to us, and so earn a good deal of money to help Jessie and her grandfather, and to buy back the parrot for her. And we might have it when the weather is warm and pleasant, just before school closes, so that we could have it out of doors; and perhaps, Miss Ashton, you would not mind letting us hold it on your piazza and in the garden. And Jessie might make some of her pretty baskets and things for it, and we could sell them for her. We thought we could raise a good deal of money that way, for almost all our friends would be glad to come." It would be hard to tell whether indignation or surprise was uppermost in Maggie's mind, as she sat utterly speechless and confounded, while Hattie ran on thus, disclosing in this public manner the plans which she had said were to be kept secret until her own mamma and Miss Ashton had heard and approved of them. Yes, here was Hattie not only doing this, but speaking as if she had been the inventor of the cherished "idea," and as if Maggie had only fallen in with it, perhaps helped it out a little. Maggie was too shy to speak out as many children would have done, and to say,-- "That was my plan, Miss Ashton. I was the first one to think of that;" and she sat with her color changing, and her eyes fixed wonderingly and reproachfully on Hattie as she spoke, feeling somehow as if she had been wronged, and yet not exactly seeing the way to right herself. "Oh! that would be delightful," said Gracie. "Miss Ashton, do you think you could let us do it?" "Well, I might," said Miss Ashton. "That is not a bad idea, Hattie. I will talk to my mother about it and see what she thinks, and you may all tell your friends at home, and learn if they approve." "If we could have the fair on your piazza," continued Hattie eagerly, "we could dress it up very prettily with wreaths and flowers, and we could make a kind of a bower at one end, and choose one of the girls for a queen, and let it be her throne-room, and there we could have the flower-table. Some of the children told me you always let them have a festival before vacation, Miss Ashton; and we might put it off till a little later, so that it would be warm and pleasant, and we should have plenty of flowers." There was not one of the children who did not raise her voice in favor of the new plan except Nellie Ransom, who sat opposite to Maggie, and who watched her changing face, and looked from her to Hattie with inquiring and rather suspicious looks. Lily clapped her hands, and almost sprang from her seat. "I'll begin to work for the fair this very evening!" she said. "No more of your putting off for me. I'll bring down mamma's ribbon-box and worsted-box, if she'll let me, and ask her what I can have, and to-morrow I'll ask her to let me make something." "And we'll ask mamma and Aunt Annie, won't we, Maggie?" said Bessie; "and Belle, we'll ask them for some things for you too." Bessie received no answer from Maggie, who, feeling as if the whole matter had been taken out of her hands, poor child, and as if she had been robbed of her property, dared not speak, lest she should burst into tears. "I have a whole lot of money saved up," said Lily, "and I'll take some of it to buy what I want to make pretty things, and keep the rest to spend at the fair." "Haven't you to pay your missionary money to our box yet?" asked Bessie. "Well, I haven't paid it yet," said Lily, "but I don't know if I will give a dollar this year. I've supported the heathen for two years now, and I think I'd like a little change of charity. Wouldn't you, Maggie?" Maggie only nodded assent, scarce knowing what question she was replying to. "Maggie," said Belle, "you don't seem very interested; why don't you talk about the fair and give us new ideas, as you 'most always do?" "Does something provoke you or trouble you, Maggie, dear?" asked Bessie, looking into her sister's perplexed face. "Hattie," said Nellie suddenly, fixing her eyes searchingly on the little girl she addressed, "what put that idea of the fair into your head?" "Oh!" answered Hattie in some confusion, "I--that is, we, Maggie and I, just thought it would be nice, and so we talked about it a little, and made up our minds to ask Miss Ashton about it." Quick-witted Lily caught Nellie's suspicion, and so did Bessie; and the former, who had worn an air of displeasure with Hattie ever since the affair of the morning, asked promptly,-- "Who was the _first_ to make up that idea,--the fair and the queen in the flower bower, and dressing the piazza and all? Who was it, I say?" "Well," answered Hattie reluctantly, "Maggie was the first to think about it, and we talked it over together and arranged it all." "I knew it!" cried Lily triumphantly; "I just knew it was Maggie. It sounds just like her making up. Hattie," she added reproachfully, "you tried to make us think it was yours." "I didn't," said Hattie. "I never said so." "You didn't just _say_ so," said Bessie solemnly, "but you tried to give that _depression_." "I didn't," pouted Hattie again; "and we did talk about it together, didn't we, Maggie?" Maggie only gave a faint smile by way of answer, for she felt that she could not honestly allow that Hattie had suggested one single idea; and still she was too generous to wish to blame her more than she could avoid. And for the second time that day was Hattie made to feel that her want of strict truthfulness had lowered her in the eyes of her young companions. "Umph!" said Lily severely; "appears to me, Miss Hattie"-- But she was not allowed to finish the intended reproach, for Miss Ashton, seeing symptoms of a quarrel, hastened to avert it, and gently bade Lily be quiet. Lily obeyed; but her eye still rested sternly upon Hattie, and the latter was forced to bear more than one disapproving gaze during the remainder of the drive home. "I am afraid," said Miss Ashton to her mother that evening, "that Hattie Leroy is by no means a truthful child;" and she told of the occurrences of the day, adding that it was not the first time she had noticed a want of openness and uprightness, little acted deceits, a keeping back of the whole truth, and even, now and then a deliberate falsehood; and more than all, a manner of repeating a thing which gave it a very different meaning from what the speaker intended, so often making mischief and discomfort. "That is bad, very bad," said Mrs. Ashton; "it may affect the other children." "I would rather hope that they may have a good influence on her," answered her daughter. "The standard of truth is so high in our school, thanks, I believe, to dear little Bessie Bradford, Maggie, Belle, and one or two others, that any departure from it is considered a very serious offence. Lily, with all her thoughtlessness and love of mischief, is strictly truthful; so are Dora and Nellie. Gracie is the only one for whom I fear, for, although I think she would be shocked at the idea of telling a deliberate untruth, her conceit and wish to be first are so great that they often lead her to exaggerate and give a false coloring to what she says of herself as compared with others." [Illustration] [Illustration] V. _GRANDMAMMA HOWARD._ The proposal for the fair met with a pretty general approval from the parents and friends of the little girls, and they received many promises of help. "Aunt Annie" undertook to show Maggie, Bessie, and Belle how to make any pretty articles they might wish to undertake. Lily's mamma did the same for her, and none of the children were left entirely without assistance. When Jessie came to Miss Ashton with her pretty little wares, she was told what was proposed, and bidden to have as large a supply as possible, so that they might be offered for sale with the other articles; and the lady and some of her friends kindly bought so many of those already on hand that Jessie was furnished with the means of procuring her materials at once. The older class in Mrs. Ashton's room also entered with spirit into the affair, promising all the assistance that they could give, so that there was good prospect it would be a success. The time fixed was the first day of June, if the weather should be pleasant; if not, the first fair day after that. One morning Gracie Howard came to school in a state of great excitement. "My grandmamma," she said to the other children, "takes the greatest interest in our fair, and she is going to give us ever so many things for it. She told me to invite you all to come to her house this afternoon, and she has a whole lot of pieces of silk and ribbons, and worsteds and beads, and ever so many lovely things to divide among us. And what is better still, she says she would like each child to make some article expressly for her, and she will buy it." "Oh, delightful!" "How kind! how nice!" "What a great help!" came from one and another of her little hearers. "And," continued Gracie, warming with her subject, "she wants some particular things. Two toilet sets of lace and muslin, one lined and trimmed with blue, the other with pink; and two mats for flower vases, to be exactly alike. I am going to do one of the mats, and grandmamma says she thinks the other one and both the toilet sets had better be made by some of us older children, because she thinks the little ones can scarcely do them. And she will give ten dollars for the mat that is worked the most nicely and evenly, and nine for the other; eight for the best toilet set, and seven for the second; and she will give us all the materials. Just think of that! Why, whoever has the best mat will earn more than the price of Jessie's parrot! I wanted grandmamma to say that one might have the buying of the parrot for her own part; but she said that would not be just to the rest who had a share in the fair; and that she had no right to say so, either. I don't see why, and I think she might have let me." "Why, you don't know that you will have the nicest mat," said Lily. "See if I don't then," said Gracie. "I can work much better than any of you, I know." "If I didn't live in such a very glass house myself, I'd say _petticoat_ to you," said Lily, who had lately shown a fancy for the use of proverbs, after the manner of Maggie Bradford. Gracie tossed her head, and put on the expression which children call, "turning up their noses." She knew very well what Lily meant, how not long since she had boasted of herself, and been so very sure that she would outdo all others, and how she had miserably failed in the end. But, in spite of this consciousness, she was not at all taken down by Lily's reminder, for she felt herself a person of more than usual consideration and importance that morning; not without more than ordinary reason, was thought by most of her companions, for it was really a fine thing to have such a munificent grandmamma, who was ready to do so much for the grand object at present in the minds of each and every one. It was true also, and well known in the school that Gracie did worsted work remarkably well and evenly for a little girl, and that there was more reason than common for her belief that she should outshine all the others. Still her constant boasting was never agreeable, and Lily always would set herself to combat it with all her might. "Are not Maggie and Bessie to try with us too?" she asked. "Of course," answered Gracie; "they are just as much in the fair as we are; and Maggie works so nicely." "Should think she did," said Lily; "better than _a-ny--child--in--the--whole--world_." The extreme deliberation with which this was said, made it very forcible, and gave the remark all the point which was intended. Woe to the person who, in Lily's hearing, ventured to deny that her particular friends, Maggie and Bessie Bradford, were not all that was wisest, best, and prettiest. "Besides," said Belle, "Bessie was the first to find out Jessie and her grandfather, so it seems as if it was very much her charity and Maggie's. Good-morning, dear Miss Ashton;" and little Belle flew to meet her teacher, whom she dearly loved, and began to tell her of this new and delightful arrangement. But she had hardly commenced when she checked herself, and saying,-- "But it is Gracie's to tell about, and I expect she would like to," turned to her schoolmate, and allowed her, nothing loath, to take up the tale. Miss Ashton approved, and readily consented to what was proposed; but she was sorry to see that, as usual, Gracie took the chief credit, and claimed the first place for herself in the new plan; seeming, as before, not to have the slightest doubt that her work would be the best, and bring the highest premium. However, she would say nothing now to damp the general pleasure and enthusiasm, but called her young flock to the business of the day without reproof or remonstrance. On the way home from school, Gracie called to invite Maggie and Bessie to her grandmamma's house that afternoon; and at the appointed hour the whole "committee," as Maggie called it, were assembled in the drawing-room of the kind old lady. "Now," said Mrs. Howard, "we will settle first who among you are to take these pieces of work. Gracie seemed to think that all who were able to work nicely would prefer worsted work, so I have here two pairs of mats, as well as the toilet sets; and you may decide for yourselves which you will take. As for the younger ones, I will leave it to them to choose the things they will make for me, as each one knows what she is best able to do." Gracie looked dismayed and displeased at the first part of her grandmother's speech; and, not daring to object aloud, she whispered to Hattie, who stood next her,-- "It's too bad! There grandmamma goes and gives three chances against me." "Never mind, you'll have the first," answered Hattie; "you know you work better than any of the others." "How many of you," continued the old lady, "are able to do worsted work nicely?" "I can, grandmamma, _very_ nicely," said Gracie promptly, while the others, more modest and shy, looked from one to another. "Maggie Bradford works very nicely, ma'am," said Nellie Ransom. "And so do you too, my dear, if I'm not mistaken," said Mrs. Howard. "Would you like to do one of the mats?" "If you please, ma'am," said Nellie, and stepping up, Mrs. Howard gave her her choice among the mats. "Ah! you have made the same choice as Gracie," said the old lady. "Well, we shall see who will do the best. Gracie, take the mat, my dear. Now for the other pair. Maggie, will you have one?" But Maggie held back a little; and at length, with many blushes said, that she would prefer to take one of the toilet sets, because Bessie was anxious to help her, and she could do some of the easy sewing on the ruffles, but she could not do worsted work evenly enough to go with her own. Dora took one of the second pair of mats; and Hattie, who was next in age, and who knew very little about embroidering, chose the other toilet set, as she believed she could do that better than the mat. Maggie looked wishfully at this, and Mrs. Howard saw the look. "Would you like to take this also, Maggie, dear?" she said. "You deserve some reward for being so unselfish, and if it is not too much for you to undertake, you are quite welcome to try it." "Oh no, ma'am!" said Maggie with brightening eyes; "we have nearly seven weeks, you know, and with Bessie's help, and Aunt Annie to arrange all the work for me, I think I could do both. But I don't care for a reward, Mrs. Howard, for you know if Jessie and her grandfather have the money, it does not make much difference who does the most." "No, truly," said Mrs. Howard; "and it is not that you may strive to outdo one another that I make these offers, but only that you may all try your best to have the work well done. I am an old-fashioned woman, my dears, and I like to see every little girl brought up to use her needle properly, and to keep her things in order; so I say that it is not so much the beauty of the work, as the care and neatness with which it is done that I shall look at. Keep it from spot or stain, or from being frayed or rubbed; this you can all do with proper care." Then Mrs. Howard repeated how much she would give for each article, promising also once more to buy some pretty trifle from each of the younger children; and they all felt as if a large sum was already secure for Jessie and her grandfather. After this, the treasures of lace, muslin, ribbons, flowers, beads, and worsteds of all colors were displayed to their delighted eyes, and divided with as much fairness as was possible. Not a child but carried home with her a most precious package, already in the eyes of the little ones transformed into many an article of use and beauty for the benefit of old Malcolm and his grandchild. The fair was now the all-absorbing subject of thought and conversation among Miss Ashton's young scholars and their little friends, Maggie and Bessie Bradford; and a fit of uncommon industry had seized upon each and every one. But, one morning, only two days after the meeting of the young people at her house, Mrs. Howard was surprised to hear that Maggie Bradford wanted to see her; and ordering her to be shown in, the little girl entered, followed by her sister and nurse. [Illustration] Maggie looked flushed and uncomfortable, and held a small parcel in her hand; but, after she had said good-morning to Mrs. Howard a fit of shyness came over her, and she could not tell her errand. So Bessie spoke for her. "Mrs. Howard," said the little girl, who was herself rather confused, but who felt bound to help Maggie out of her trouble, "Maggie has come to bring you back the mat. She thinks it is rather better for her not to do it." "Did you find you had undertaken too much, Maggie, my dear?" asked the old lady encouragingly. "N-n-no, ma'am," whispered Maggie, plucking up a few crumbs of courage as she heard the kind tone, "no, it was not that; but we thought I'd better bring it back to you." "But you must have some reason," said Mrs. Howard. "Can you not tell me what it is? Has Gracie been saying any thing unkind to you?" "Gracie has not said any thing to me about it, ma'am," said Maggie rather evasively. "Please don't ask us, Mrs. Howard," said Bessie gravely. "Maggie and I overturned our minds about it, and thought we'd better bring back the mat; but we do not want to tell tales." "Then I shall not ask," said Mrs. Howard; but from the very fact that Bessie had innocently begged that they might not be pressed to "tell tales," she felt that her suspicions were tolerably correct. Gracie's desire to be _first_, and the fear that others should excel, or even equal her, were becoming so great that they often blinded her to what was just and kind. "There are plenty of pretty things that we can make, Mrs. Howard," said Maggie, "and I would rather not do any thing that any one might think was not my share." "Very well, dear, as you please," answered the old lady; "but since you do not choose to make this I shall not give it to any one else." When Maggie and Bessie had gone, the old lady put on her bonnet and went around to her son's house, where she found her little grand-daughter at home. "Gracie," she said, after a little talk, "Maggie Bradford came to see me just now, bringing back the mat which she was to have worked for the fair. Do you know any reason why she should have done so?" "Why, no, grandmamma!" answered Gracie, turning her eyes upon her grandmother in unfeigned and unmistakable surprise, which left no doubt of the perfect truth of her answer. "Think," said the old lady, believing that she might have forgotten. "You know you were not pleased that I should give Maggie the two things to make for me; have you said any thing that could hurt her feelings, and show her that you were displeased?" "I never said one word to Maggie about the mat, grandmamma," said Gracie, "and I can't see how"--she paused, as if struck by some sudden thought, and coloring, added uneasily--"I did talk to Hattie about it, and I was rather provoked, because I did not see why Maggie should have a better chance than the rest to make so much for the fair. And--and--perhaps Hattie went and told Maggie; but it was real mean of her if she did; and besides there was nothing for Maggie to be so mad at, and make such a fuss about." "Maggie was not 'mad,' as you call it, Gracie; so far from it that she would say nothing to throw blame upon you or any one else," said her grandmother; "but it was plain that she had been vexed and hurt." "Gracie," said her mother who sat by, "it would be a sad thing if _you_ should show yourself so wanting in feeling and gratitude as to say unkind things of Maggie, or to injure her in any way, especially in such a matter as this." "Well, mamma, and I'm sure I wouldn't," said Gracie, with a little pout. "I am very fond of Maggie, and I wouldn't do a thing to her; but I did feel rather provoked about the mat, only I did not mean her to know it. I'm just going to ask Hattie if she told her what I said." Gracie was really uncomfortable. She remembered that she had in a moment of pettishness, made one or two remarks to Hattie which she would not have cared to make in Maggie's hearing; but she would not willingly have offended the latter. She knew very well to what her mother referred when she spoke of Maggie. How a year ago when a prize had been offered for composition by Miss Ashton's uncle, she and Maggie had been believed to stand far ahead of the rest; how her own composition, all ready for presentation, had been lost, and that through her own inordinate vanity; how Maggie and Bessie had found it, and like the honorable little girls they were, had brought it at once to her, although they believed that by so doing Maggie was deprived of all chance of the much wished-for prize. It was true that neither she nor Maggie had gained it, for it had fallen to Nellie Ransom; but that did not lessen, or should not have lessened, Gracie's gratitude to her little friend; and as her mother said, it ill became her to nurse any feeling of jealousy towards Maggie. "Gracie," said her mother, "can you remember exactly what you said about Maggie?" "No, mamma," answered the child, looking thoughtful and a little troubled; "but it was not much, I think." "I am afraid," said Mrs. Howard, "that a very little sometimes becomes much in Hattie's keeping. I do not know that she really wishes to make mischief, but her love of talking and her want of strict truthfulness lead her to exaggerate, and also, I fear, to repeat many a thing with a very different meaning from that which the speaker intended. The more I see of her, the plainer does this become to me; and I fear, Gracie, that she is not a safe friend for you." "Mamma," said Gracie, in a tone of some offence, "you'd never think that Hattie could make _me_ learn to tell stories, do you? Why, I never told a falsehood in my life, and I'm sure I'd never think of doing such a thing." "I am sure I hope not, my child," said her mother, "but I fear temptation for you, Gracie; and I think Hattie encourages you in your great fault, your self-conceit and desire for admiration. And, although I do not think that you ever mean to be untruthful, my daughter, your idea of your own merits often leads you into exaggeration of these, and makes you unwilling to see them in others." Gracie pouted, and put on the expression she always wore if she were found fault with. "Mamma," she said, "I think that is a very horrid character to give any one; and I am sure you need not think I ever could tell a falsehood or do any thing mean to any one." "I do not say you would, Gracie. I only want you to beware of temptation." "I shan't fall into temptation, no fear of that," said Gracie almost scornfully; not scorn of her mother, but of the idea that she was not quite able to take care of herself, and that she could be led into wrong-doing. "And I shall be obliged to say," continued Mrs. Howard, "that I do not think it best for you to be so much with Hattie. She is doing you no good. I cannot keep you apart altogether, but you must not ask me to let you have her here so often, nor can I allow you to go to her house as much as you have done. When I see you have a more gentle and humble spirit, Gracie, and learning to stand by another strength than your own, I may not so much fear evil companionship for you; but this very belief that you cannot fall makes you all the more ready to do so." Gracie flounced out of the room in high displeasure, muttering to herself as she went upstairs that her mother always thought "every one better than me," and "it was very unjust," and "just as if I could fall into the temptation of telling a story." Mrs. Howard sighed, and looked troubled, as she well might; and so did grandmamma, as they talked together on this subject, and considered what was best to be done with Gracie. Her overwhelming desire for admiration; her wish to be first in every thing; her self-conceit and impatience of reproof were day by day growing stronger and stronger, and overrunning all that was fair and lovely in her character. It was, as the mother had said, difficult to break off all intercourse between her and Hattie, although it was certain that the latter was exercising no good influence on Gracie; for the two families were intimate, and it was impossible, without giving offence, to keep the two children entirely apart. Moreover, they were schoolmates, and had grown really fond of one another, although Gracie was losing confidence in Hattie, as she could not but perceive that she had by no means a strict regard for truth. But little did Gracie dream that Hattie's influence or example could ever lead her astray in this way. [Illustration] [Illustration] VI. _JEALOUSY._ Days went by, and all was progressing famously for the fair; at least so thought the little workers. New offers of help came in; new articles were promised, and some even sent, early as it was, and these were committed to Miss Ashton's keeping until the appointed day--the first of June--should arrive. Mrs. Bradford promised all the ice-cream that should be needed for the refreshment table; Mrs. Howard the strawberries; another mamma offered jelly; two or three cake; Mr. Powers promised a quantity of French bonbons; and from all sides came offers of flowers. Mr. Stanton, the little Bradfords' "Uncle Ruthven," said he would furnish flags and banners enough to deck the piazza; and mammas, grandmammas, aunts, and cousins were coaxed and wheedled out of so many bright ribbons for the same purpose, that it might have been supposed that they were expected to go in grave colors for the remainder of their days. And if you had seen the doll that Miss Annie Stanton and her sister-in-law were dressing as a baby! If you had but seen that doll! With a face so sweet, and so like a "real live baby" that it almost startled one to come upon it unawares in some place where the real live baby could not have been found! such hands and feet! and oh, such a fitting out! Day by day the progress of that doll's wardrobe was watched with eager, delighted eyes by Maggie, Bessie, Belle, and Lily, who had more opportunities for this than the rest of the children. These last were, however, invited in every now and then, to see the wonder as it grew; and that doll became the great object of interest, in comparison with which the remainder of the fair arrangements were as nothing. Every thing that was dainty and pretty and cunning was furnished for the baby doll; not only clothes without number, but also a tasteful cradle lined and trimmed with blue silk, white muslin, and lace; and a baby basket, furnished completely with all that the most exacting infant could require. In short, this was plainly to be the grand attraction of the fair, at least in the eyes of the younger portion of its patrons, for the fame of the doll spread far and wide, and great was the curiosity of those who had never had the opportunity of witnessing its beauties. And the question arose and was eagerly discussed, who was to be the munificent purchaser? who, oh! who, the fortunate possessor? Papas and mammas were besieged with petitions and coaxings, but wisely declined making positive promises till the price of the wonderful prize should be fixed, and the doll herself put up for sale. Money-jugs were broken, and "savings banks" emptied, that the contents might be counted over and over to ascertain if there was any possibility that they might reach the sum which would probably be required; allowances were saved up in the same hope. The only trouble about it was, that as Maggie Bradford said, "only one could have the doll, and so all the rest were doomed to disappointment, which made it a case in which it would be well if one man's meat were every other man's poison." Jessie and her grandfather were cared for in the meanwhile. Miss Ashton had interested several of her friends in them; the children had done the same with their parents; and Mr. Bradford, Mr. Norris, and one or two other gentlemen had been to see old Malcolm, and finding that there was little or no probability of his cure while he remained in the cold, damp shanty, where he had been living for the last few months, had furnished him with more comfortable lodging. Jessie's wares were also finding a good market, and every week she came down into the city with a number. Some of these she sold to such purchasers as came in her way, and whatever were left over she carried to Miss Ashton, and put in her hands for the fair. She was also making some particularly choice articles which she kept back for exhibition and sale on that occasion; and among them were half a dozen boxes of straw and bright-colored ribbons, with an initial letter woven in beads upon the top of each. There had been but four of them at first, bearing respectively an M, a B, a G, and a D, standing for Maggie, Bessie, Gracie, and Dora; for Jessie looked upon these as her first friends, because they had first become interested in her story. But Bessie having mentioned that Belle and Lily were "just like ourselves, and my sister and I would be pleased to buy boxes for them at the fair," Jessie completed two more with an L for Lily, and a B for Belle. There was a delightful amount of mystery respecting these boxes, for each one of the six knew what had been done for the other five; Jessie telling her in confidence, and leaving her with the suspicion that the same pleasure was in store for her. Not on any account would any one of them have spoken of this suspicion; oh dear, no! but was quite prepared to be very much surprised if a box bearing her initial should turn up at the fair. Maggie and Bessie owned a pretty little pony, the gift of their Uncle Ruthven; at least Fred said it was "Uncle Ruthven's present," but Mr. Stanton said it was Fred's. For, having offered Fred the choice of a present for himself as a reward for the pains he had taken to break himself of some troublesome faults, the generous brother asked for a pony for his little sisters. He and his brother Harry each owned one, and he wished Maggie and Bessie to enjoy the same pleasure. So Uncle Ruthven had bought the pony and equipped him, but he declared it was Fred's gift to the little girls, and I think he was about right. However that was, the pony had given no small amount of pleasure, and this was still farther increased when Belle's papa gave her one. It was a pretty sight to see two of the little girls on these ponies, escorted by Harry and Fred, and the whole party under the care of one of the papas, or Uncle Ruthven, or sometimes of old James, the coachman. Belle and Bessie rode as yet with a leading string to the pony's rein, but Maggie had grown to be a fearless little rider, and had no idea of being led. Lily would have been welcome to a ride now and then if she had chosen, but "the one thing in the world" which Lily feared was a horse, and she declined the most pressing offers of this nature. Now that the days were becoming so mild and pleasant, these rides took place quite frequently, and they were hardly looked forward to more eagerly by the children than they were by old Malcolm and Jessie, who delighted to see the little girls on horseback, and were always on the watch to meet them and receive a kind word. "I know who I think will have the best piece of work," said Lily, one day after school, when the little girls were discussing the arrangements for the fair as they prepared to go home. "Who?" asked Gracie quickly. "Maggie, I s'pose. You always think Maggie and Bessie do every thing better than anybody else." "Well, and so they do," answered Lily, unwilling to allow that her favorite playmates could be outdone in any thing by another,--"so they do; but it's not Maggie this time." "Who then?" asked Dora. "Nellie Ransom," said Lily. "Have you seen her mat?" No: none of the others had seen Nellie's mat; but now curiosity was all on tiptoe, and a general desire to see her work took possession of the class. "Bring all your works to-morrow, and let's see which is the best," said Lily. "Gracie's is, I know," said Hattie. "If you have not seen the others you _don't_ know," said Lily. Hattie whispered something to Gracie and laughed; but Gracie still wore the displeased look she had put on when Lily declared Nellie's work must be the best. For, during the whole of the last year, Gracie had been nourishing an intense and bitter jealousy of Nellie Ransom. As has been said before, Nellie was by no means as quick and brilliant a child as Gracie, but she was more persevering and industrious, and so made up for the lack of natural talent. She was the only child in the school who could keep up with Gracie in several studies, such as composition and arithmetic; and in all they learned these two generally stood in advance of the rest. And to outstrip Nellie, to be always the _first_, the _very first_ was Gracie's great ambition. She believed herself to be by far the wiser and cleverer of the two, but she was anxious that every one else should acknowledge it also. A year ago, when Miss Ashton's uncle had offered a prize for the best composition,--the occasion to which Mrs. Howard had referred when warning her little daughter against jealousy of Maggie Bradford,--the chances had seemed to lie between Maggie and herself; but to the astonishment of every one, Nellie's composition had proved the most deserving, and taken the much-coveted prize. Since that time Gracie's wish to excel Nellie in all things had known no bounds, and it is really to be feared that she was rejoiced at heart when her painstaking and industrious little schoolmate missed in her lessons, or failed in any work she undertook. So now the fear that Nellie's mat should prove to be more neatly worked than her own took complete possession of her, for it was not only the desire to be first, but the desire to outstrip Nellie especially, that filled her heart and made her envious and jealous. It was agreed that Nellie, Gracie, and Dora should each bring her mat to school the next morning, so as to compare their work and see which was likely to bring the highest price. Accordingly this was done, and the children all gathered early, anxious to decide on the respective merits of the three pieces of embroidery. All were well done, neatly and evenly worked; but there could be no doubt of it, even to Gracie's unwilling eyes,--Nellie Ransom's was somewhat the best. It was really astonishing for a child of her age. She was naturally handy with her needle, and had taken so much pains with this mat that it would have done credit to a much older person. The simple pattern was straight and even, and the stitches of the filling in lay in neat, regular rows, the worsted smooth and unfrayed, and not a speck or spot of any description to be seen upon the whole piece. Gracie's was very nearly a match for it; indeed, had the two pieces been looked at separately it might have seemed that there was nothing to choose between them; but laid side by side and closely compared, Nellie's would certainly bear off the palm. "Why, Nellie," said Dora, whose own work was by no means despicable, "how beautifully you have done it. I don't believe a grown-up lady could have worked it better. I know Mrs. Howard will say it's the best." Quiet Nellie colored and dimpled with pleasure. Praise was pleasant to her, as it is to all; but, although she would have been glad to have her work pronounced the best, it was with no overwhelming desire to outdo her companions. Nellie did her very best, but when another did better, she could be content with the feeling that it was not her own fault that she was excelled, and was ready to sympathize with her more fortunate classmate. "That will be priced ten dollars for certain and positive," said Lily, holding up the mat and regarding it with admiration. "It is lovely, Nellie. They are all very nice, 'specially Gracie's, but yours is the best." "It's not a bit better than Gracie's," said Hattie. "Don't you encourage Gracie more than she deserves," said Lily admonishingly. "She's pretty nice, but don't you puff her up too much." "I know something about you," said Hattie teasingly. "Well, know away," answered Lily scornfully. "You're always knowing something about somebody; and you want me to ask you what you know about me; but I don't want to know, and I'm not going to have you say some of the girls said hateful things of me. Besides--oh! I forgot; I b'lieve I was rather _anti-politing_;" and Lily, who was about to say that Hattie always made things seem worse than they were, put a check upon her saucy little tongue and turned once more to Nellie. One might have thought that Lily had worked the mat herself to see her pride and satisfaction in it. "Dora has done more on hers than Nellie and Gracie," said Belle. "Their two are pretty nearly the same. Let's see; Gracie has only two more rows done than Nellie; no, Nellie has two more done than Gracie--oh!--why--this is Gracie's, isn't it? I can hardly tell them apart, they are both so very nice." For, handing the mats about from one to another, the same mistake occurred more than once, Gracie's being taken for Nellie's or Nellie's for Gracie's, and they had to be held side by side before they could be distinguished. The children laughed and thought this rather funny; and it gave Gracie some hope that hers might be judged to be the best, after all. She would take more pains than ever. The thought of the mats and of outdoing Nellie was so busy with her that she did not give her usual attention to her lessons that morning; and, as the consequence, lost her place in the spelling-class, and was in a peevish humor for the rest of the day. Fresh cause of displeasure befell her at the close of school, when Miss Ashton said she thought it as well that the May Queen should be chosen soon. "Oh! we want Maggie, of course," said Lily. "Maggie again?" said Miss Ashton, smiling. "Yes'm," said Belle. "Maggie is used to it, and she makes the prettiest queen, so we'd rather have her; wouldn't we, girls?" There was a general murmur of assent, save from two voices. "Why don't we make some one else May Queen this year?" asked Hattie. "We might have Gracie." "Hattie," said Lily, endeavoring to make her voice of reproof one of extreme mildness, "as you have not been so very long in the school, it would be better if you let the old inhabitants be the judges." "Well, anyhow, I don't see why Maggie always has to be May Queen, and when she don't go to the school either," said Gracie pouting, and leaning back against her desk with a discontented air, till, catching Miss Ashton's eye fixed sadly and reproachfully upon her, she hung her head and looked ashamed. "Be-cause," said Lily with emphasis, "she's the prettiest child of our acquaintance. Not all the prettiness of all the rest of us make up one-half Maggie's prettiness, and she's not one bit vain or stuck-up about it either; and if she and Bessie don't just belong to the school, they belong to us, and so it's just the same. Whoever wants Maggie, hold up their hand." Up went every hand at once, save those of Gracie and Hattie, and presently Gracie's followed the example of the others, though half unwillingly. "Now," said Lily triumphantly, "that's voted, and for ever after let him hold his peace." The last allusion was perhaps not exactly clear either to Lily or her hearers; but it was thought extremely fine, and as having clinched the matter without farther argument. Miss Ashton laughed, and asked if Lily and Belle would undertake to let Maggie know that she was elected May Queen, which they readily promised to do. But the next morning these two little friends returned to school, and told their astonished and disappointed classmates that Maggie positively refused to be May Queen. Why they could not say, but all their persuasions had proved of no avail. Maggie was not to be "coaxed," and would give no reason for her refusal, though she had "seemed to feel awfully about it," Lily said, and had "cried about it" before they left. Bessie had been as much mystified as they were, and even Maggie's mamma, when appealed to, said that she knew of no reason why Maggie should decline the offered honor. Maggie, however, had said she would "tell mamma and Bessie," but she could tell no one else. Miss Ashton, when informed of Maggie's refusal, said that she would call on her and see what could be done, and until then the matter might rest. "Hattie," said Gracie, drawing her "intimate friend" into a corner during recess, "did you tell Maggie Bradford what I said about her being Queen twice?" "Well--no," said Hattie, hesitating at first, but then uttering her denial boldly as she saw the frown gathering upon Gracie's brow. Gracie looked at her as if she only half believed her, for she was learning to doubt Hattie's word, and although she was greedy of her flattery, she could not help feeling that her chosen friend was not sincere. "You know you've told a good many things I did not mean you to," said Gracie, "and I wouldn't like not to be friends with Maggie, or to let her think I'm hateful." And Hattie declared over and over again that she had never said one word to Maggie on the subject. "I do feel badly about it," said Gracie remorsefully. "I wish I had never said I thought Maggie ought not to be May Queen. Maggie's been my friend this ever so long, since I was quite little; and I believe I had rather the girls chose her. I've a good mind to write her a note, and tell her I wish she would be Queen." All the other children had left the school-room to go down and play on the piazza, and Gracie and Hattie were alone together. "I wouldn't," said Hattie; "you are the one who ought to be May Queen, 'cause you are the smartest child in the school." Gracie believed this, and thought Hattie gave her no more than her due; still, although she liked to hear Hattie say it, the compliment did not turn her from her purpose. [Illustration] [Illustration] VII. _A MISFORTUNE._ As the two children talked, Gracie had been putting a few stitches in her mat. "I b'lieve I'll do it," she said. "I'll tell Maggie we _all_ want her to be May Queen." "Then she'll know you've said something about it," said Hattie anxiously, feeling that this proceeding was likely to bring her into trouble. "No, she needn't," said Gracie; "perhaps she does think I don't want her to be, 'cause at Christmas she knew I was mad about it." "Are you going to beg her pardon?" asked Hattie. "No," said Gracie, with one of her scornful tosses of her head. "I think I see myself doing such a thing! But I can write her a little note, and tell her we are all sorry because she won't be May Queen, and beg her to change her mind. I might do as much as that for Maggie," she added to herself. Hattie tried to dissuade her no longer, and Gracie laid the mat down upon her desk, opened the lid, and took out a slip of paper and a pen. She dipped the pen in the ink, wrote, "My dear Maggie," at the top of the sheet, and then paused, biting the top of her pen. "I can't think what to say, or how to begin it," she said. "My dear Maggie, I am very sorry--no. I had better say _we_--we are very sorry that you--that you--oh, pshaw! I've a great mind not to do it"--here she dipped her pen in the ink again, and so carelessly that it came forth quite too full. "Oh, bother!" she exclaimed with increasing ill-humor; "look at this hateful pen;" and, forgetting the precious piece of work which lay so near at hand, she gave a careless fillip to the pen which spattered forth the ink. Gracie gave another impatient exclamation, and pushed away the paper, saying,-- "I shan't do it; if Maggie likes to be so foolish about nothing, she just can;" but she did not see the extent of the mischief she had done till Hattie said in a tone of great dismay,-- "O Gracie! just see what you've done!" And there upon her beautiful mat was a great spot of ink. Gracie gave a horrified little cry, and, snatching up the mat, thoughtlessly sopped up the spot with her handkerchief, thereby spreading and smearing it till it grew to the size of a two-cent piece, and left an ugly blotch on the bright blue worsted. "What shall I do? oh! what shall I do? It's spoiled; it's quite spoiled!" she said despairingly. "I don't believe it is; maybe it can be taken out," said Hattie, though she was almost as much startled as her little companion. "I'll bring some water, and we'll try to take it out." "No, no," said Gracie; "I wish I had not touched it at all. We'll only make it worse; and I'll ask mamma to try as soon as I go home. Oh, dear, dear, dear! what shall I do? Grandmamma will surely say Nellie's is the best now. That hateful girl!" "It's a great shame if she does," said Hattie. "Nellie is always trying to get ahead of you; and she don't deserve it, and I don't think your grandmamma is fair to you. She ought to think her own grandchild's work is the best." "I suppose Nellie will just be glad when she sees what has happened to me," said Gracie, whose jealous eyes could now see nothing that was good or fair in Nellie's conduct. Innocent, kind-hearted Nellie, who would not willingly harbor an unkind or unjust thought of another! "I shan't let her see it," she continued, hastily rolling up the mat and putting it into her desk, as she heard the other children coming. "Don't say a word about it, Hattie, not to any one." Hattie promised, really grieving herself for Gracie's misfortune, for she truly loved her, and was anxious that she should be the first. This was to be a black day for Gracie; but all through her own jealousy and pride. Her mind was so taken up with the remembrance of the defaced mat that she could not keep her thoughts upon her lessons; and, although she had known her history very well, her attention wandered so much that she answered incorrectly more than once. Seeing, however, that something had disturbed her, Miss Ashton made allowances, and gave her one or two opportunities to correct herself and bring her thoughts back to the task before her. But it was all in vain; Gracie had already lost her place in the spelling-class, and gone down below Dora Johnson and Laura Middleton; and now the fear of a fresh mortification, and of giving Nellie her place at the head of the history class added to her confusion, and she floundered more and more hopelessly. Nellie begged too that she might have still another chance, when at last Miss Ashton passed the question to her; but again Gracie failed and was obliged to yield her place. Angry, mortified, and jealous, Gracie showed such determined ill-temper towards her generous little classmate, that Miss Ashton was obliged to reprove her, but without effect. Again she called Gracie to order, and this time more severely. The angry and wilful child hesitated for one moment, then pride and passion burst all bounds, and she answered Miss Ashton with such insolence, such ungoverned and unjustifiable impertinence that the whole class stood aghast. There was a moment's perfect stillness. Miss Ashton turned very pale, and laying her book down upon the table, covered her face with her hand, while the children looked from her to Gracie and back again, in utter dismay and astonishment. Then the stillness was broken by a piteous, "Oh, dear!" from poor little Belle, who finished with a burst of tears, and her example was followed by more than one of the others. Miss Ashton raised her head. "Go into the cloak-room, Grace," she said quietly. Gracie was herself frightened at what she had done; but her pride and temper were still farther roused by the shocked and disapproving looks of her schoolmates, and she stood for an instant with determined stubbornness, while the words, "I won't," formed themselves upon her lips. But they were not uttered, for there was something in Miss Ashton's face which checked her; something which not one of the little flock had ever seen before; and when the lady repeated her words in the same calm tone,-- "Go into the cloak-room," Gracie turned away and obeyed. It was with head held high, and scornful look, however, that she passed out, although bitter shame and regret were burning in the poor, foolish little heart. But she called up all her pride and jealousy to stifle the better feeling which urged her to run to her teacher, and, in the face of the whole school, confess her fault, and beg Miss Ashton's pardon for the insulting words she had spoken. "What will she do, I wonder," she said to herself; "will she tell mamma? What will mamma say, and papa too?" and, as the recollection of her parents' oft-repeated warnings against the pride and vanity which were her besetting sins came back to her mind, she could not but feel that this was the consequence of allowing them to gain such a hold upon her. She _felt_ it, for conscience would make itself heard; but she would not acknowledge it even to herself, and drowned the reproving whisper with such thoughts as,-- "Well, then, why is Miss Ashton so unjust? She is always trying to make me miss and lose my place. She is always glad when any one goes above me. She never praises me as much as I deserve;" and such unjust and untrue accusations. It might be that Miss Ashton did not always bestow upon Gracie all the praise she would have given to another for a perfect lesson or good composition, for she did not think much praise good for her, as it only seemed to minister to Gracie's over-weening vanity. But only eyes that were wilfully blind and suspicious could find the slightest injustice or unkindness in her treatment of any one of her little scholars, and her gentleness and patience might have won gratitude from the most stubborn young heart. But Gracie would not listen to the promptings of her better spirit; and the recollection of the dismayed and averted looks of her schoolmates added fuel to the flame of her angry pride. Even the ever admiring Hattie had looked shocked at her outburst. "I don't care," she said again to herself. "It's only 'cause they know I am so much cleverer than any of them, and they are jealous of me. That hateful Nellie! She was so proud to go above me." Wretched and unhappy, she spent the time in her solitude till the close of school, when the other children came into the cloak-room for their hats. No one said a word to her, for they had been forbidden to do so; and if they had occasion to speak to one another they did so in whispers, as if something terrible had happened, and a great awe had fallen upon them. She sat in a corner, sullen and defiant, trying to put on an appearance of the utmost indifference, but succeeding very poorly. She even tried to hum a tune, but something rose in her throat and choked her. She scarcely knew what to do; whether or no to rise, and take her hat, and go down as usual to find the nurse, who was probably waiting for her below; and while she sat hesitating, one and another of her young companions passed out, as if glad to hurry from her presence, and she was left once more alone. She had just taken down her hat, when Miss Ashton came in, and, handing her a note, said gravely,-- "Give this to your mother, Gracie," and left her again. Ashamed and alarmed at the thought of what might follow when she should reach home, but with her pride and anger not one whit abated, Gracie went slowly on, giving short and snappish answers to the inquiries of her nurse, who plainly saw that something was wrong. But she dared not face her mother when she should hear of her misconduct; and when they entered the house, she thrust the note into the hand of the maid, bidding her give it to Mrs. Howard, and ran quickly up to her own little room. There she stayed, wondering and waiting. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, half an hour passed away, and still her mamma did not come. Was it possible? could she really hope that the note had not been one of complaint of her conduct? No, that could never be; there was the bell for the children's early dinner. Well, she would go down and act as if nothing had happened. But could she with this uncertainty of how much or how little mamma knew? But there was mamma's step, and now Mrs. Howard entered the room. One half glance at her face and Gracie's eyes fell. It was enough to show her that her mother knew all. "Mean old thing!" she said to herself, meaning Miss Ashton. "She's gone and told, and now I s'pose I'll be punished." "Gracie," said her mother, "I suppose you scarcely need to be told what is in this note which Miss Ashton has sent me." Gracie stood with head erect, pouting lip, and defiant eyes, idly tossing back and forth the tassel of the window curtain with as much indifference as she could assume. "Has it come to this, my child," continued Mrs. Howard sorrowfully, "that you have allowed conceit and self-will to gain such a hold upon you, that you could wilfully and deliberately insult your teacher? I have been sure that you would fall into trouble, Gracie, for I knew that such foolish pride must sooner or later have a fall, but I could not have believed that you would be guilty of this. What did you say to Miss Ashton?" "I don't care," said Gracie passionately, without directly answering her mother's question. "It was all true, every word of it. She's as hateful as she can be, and unjust and mean;" and Gracie went on, pouring forth a torrent of invective and reproach against Miss Ashton and Nellie Ransom, without paying the slightest heed to her mother's commands to be silent. It was the long pent-up feeling of jealousy and ill-will and pride, that she had been nourishing for months past, and which now burst all bounds and swept every thing before it. Respect, and even obedience towards her mother, reason, justice, and truth itself were totally lost sight of, as she poured forth accusation after accusation against the offenders, and upheld her own conduct in all she had done and said. "And you have said all this to Miss Ashton, perhaps?" said her mother sternly, when the angry child at last came to a pause. "It is true enough if I did," muttered Gracie again, though her passion was by this time beginning to cool down in a measure. "I'm sure I wish I never went to her hateful old school." "It is more than probable that Miss Ashton wishes so now; but I shall leave you to think over what you have said to me and to Miss Ashton, and to find out how much of it is true. One thing Miss Ashton desires,--that you do not return to her school till you are ready to acknowledge your fault, and to apologize for your impertinence. And until this is the case, you must remain in your room. Your meals will be sent to you, and I shall not allow your brothers and sisters to have any intercourse with you till you are ready to make such amends as you can. You may send for me when you have any thing to say to me. Oh, Gracie, Gracie!" With which words, spoken in a sad, despondent tone, Mrs. Howard went away, closing the door upon her stubborn, rebellious little daughter. Gracie stood where her mother had left her, not one whit softened or humbled; for now her angry pride began to accuse her mother also of injustice and partiality and unkindness. "Everybody in the world takes part against me," she said to herself; "but I don't care. Indeed, I won't beg Miss Ashton's pardon, not if I stay here a year. Mamma makes such a fuss about her being so kind and patient and all that. She's paid for teaching me, so it's nothing so wonderfully good. I hope I never will go back to the school where that hateful Nellie is." Soon the door opened, and the nurse appeared, bearing a tray on which was Gracie's dinner. She set it upon a table, placed a chair, and went away without a word to her. "I don't care," said Gracie once more, "no one need talk to me if they don't want to. I'm just as good as they are, and I'd just as lief stay here by myself." She sat down before the dinner-tray, trying to believe that she would "just as lief eat her dinner alone;" but she found it was not so agreeable after all. She wondered what they were doing downstairs; if the children were chattering as merrily as usual, or if her absence made any difference in the family enjoyment. She had little appetite, as may be supposed, and left the nicely served meal scarcely touched. But it must not be thought that she had any idea of yielding or acknowledging herself in the wrong. By and by she heard her brothers and sisters coming upstairs, then their voices in the nursery as they prattled to one another; and she knew that they were being made ready for their afternoon airing. Then tiny feet pattered along the hall, and little May's voice sounded through her closed door,-- "Am oo dood now, Dacie? We'm doin out, Dacie; am oo most dood? Pease don't be naughty dirl, Dacie," and the soft little hand tapped upon the panel as the baby voice pleaded. "Come away, darling. Gracie may come out when she is good and says she is sorry," said mamma's voice; and Gracie knew that her mother had led the little pet away. But all this only seemed to harden her. May was such a darling, the sweetest and dearest of all her brothers and sisters, Gracie thought; and, although the sweet, coaxing voice had touched her, she only found in her mother's interference fresh cause of offence. "Mamma tries to set even May against me, and I s'pose she's been telling all the children what I did," she thought; "but I don't care. I believe they'll grow tired of having me away before I am tired of staying here. There's plenty for me to do. I can read, and I'll work on my mat." But here it suddenly flashed upon her that she had not brought her mat home with her. Being sent away in disgrace and not returning to the school-room before leaving, she had quite forgotten it, and it still lay there in her desk. And that stain upon it, too, which she had intended to ask her mother to take out if possible. Mamma would not feel like doing it for her now, and she could ask no favors from her. Not unless she repented and--and--apologized to Miss Ashton. And this last she would not do; no, never, never. She heard the children going downstairs, stood at the window and watched them get into the carriage and drive away with mamma, and began to wish that she were there too. And such a lovely afternoon, it was too bad to be shut up here. But still she never blamed herself for her imprisonment; no, mamma, Miss Ashton, Nellie, any one was in the wrong, but not her own wilful, stubborn little self. What was to be the end of this she did not know, but Gracie had no thought of yielding. She whiled away the afternoon as she best could; but every thing seemed to have lost its zest. Her prettiest story-books had no interest; her dolls were "stupid" and poor company; even her stock of pretty materials for articles for the fair seemed less attractive than usual as she turned them over, and her work "would not go." This was the first time in her life that Gracie had ever been punished in such a manner; and apart from the disgrace, which she was determined not to feel, she was a child who was fond of society and did not know how to bear being deprived of it. [Illustration] [Illustration] VIII. "_THE SPIDER AND THE FLY._" If Mrs. Howard had perhaps hoped that little May's pleading would have any softening effect on Gracie, she was mistaken. The message she had expected to receive on reaching home did not come to her. Nor did she hear a word from Gracie through the evening until the little girl's bed-time came. Then she sent word that the hour had come, still hoping and believing that the stubborn heart must relent, and that Gracie would feel that she could not go to rest unforgiven and without her mother's good-night kiss. But she was mistaken. Gracie received the message in sullen silence, but obeyed and went to bed without one word of sorrow or repentance. It was the same in the morning. Gracie rose and was dressed; her breakfast was brought and eaten in solitude, as her dinner and supper had been yesterday; and still the nurse who waited upon her passed in and out, as it was necessary, and brought no word to comfort the sorrowing heart of her mother. School-time came, and Gracie knew that the children in her class would believe that her absence was caused by her misconduct of the previous day, as was indeed too true; but this only made her feel more and more proud and obstinate. The long, weary morning wore away, the solitary dinner was once more over, and again the house seemed so still and lonely, for mamma and the children had gone out again, and the servants were all downstairs. By and by Gracie heard a light, quick foot running up the stairs and coming towards her own door. The latch was turned and the door softly opened,--Mrs. Howard had not locked her in, for she believed that she could trust Gracie and that she would not disobey so far as to leave the room she had been bidden to keep,--and Hattie's face peeped in. Gracie started, partly in astonishment, partly in dismay; for what must she do now? Mamma would not have allowed her to see Hattie, she knew, if she had been at home; and must she send her away? She was so glad to see some one, to be able to speak to some one. Hattie came in, closed the door behind her, and, running to Gracie, put her arm about her neck and kissed her, saying with much energy,-- "It's too mean, Gracie! it's the meanest thing I ever knew! It's a great shame!" There could be no doubt of her sympathy, of her belief that Gracie was in the right, or at least that she was not so very much to blame, and was undeservedly punished. For Hattie was really and truly very fond of Gracie, admired her and considered her very clever; and, although even she had been dismayed by Gracie's outburst yesterday, she was now disposed to treat it lightly, and to say that Gracie had been provoked. There was another reason, too, which induced Hattie to take part against Nellie Ransom, and to wish to put her in the wrong. "O Hattie!" said Gracie, "how did you come up here? Mamma wouldn't allow it, I know." Hattie laughed triumphantly. "I knew that," she said, "for I came to the door a little while ago and the servant said you were up in your room, but he thought you could not see any one to-day, and he said every one else was out. But I said I had a message from school for you, and that you must have it this afternoon. So of course he thought it was from Miss Ashton, as I meant he should, and he let me come up." "Mamma will be displeased," said Gracie; "you ought not, Hattie. I'm very glad to see you, but I must not let you stay." "I'll only stay a few minutes," said Hattie, taking the seat which Gracie had not ventured to offer her. "I've something perfectly splendid to tell you." "Was everybody saying ugly things about me to-day, and talking as if I was as wicked as a murderer?" asked Gracie, more interested in the opinion others might hold of her than in Hattie's promised news. There had really been very little said on the matter; the offence was too serious and too shocking to Gracie's young companions to make it an agreeable subject of conversation; and, although there had been some wondering as to whether Gracie would ever be allowed to return to the school, but few unkind remarks had been made, and these were more in sorrow than in censure. And Hattie was too full of her errand and of the fear of being found on forbidden ground to make as good a story of that little as she might have chosen to do at another time. "Well, no, not much," she answered. "I suppose that old Nellie, hateful thing, was glad enough." "Did she say so?" questioned Gracie. "No," said Hattie; "she did not speak about it. Gracie, did Miss Ashton send word to your mother and ask her to punish you?" "She wrote to her about it, and I suppose mamma punished me of her own accord," answered Gracie. "How long is she going to keep you up here?" asked Hattie. "Till--till--I beg Miss Ashton's pardon," said Gracie, her angry pride rising again at the thought; "and I _never_ will do it, no, _never_, not if I stay here a year!" "But the fair," said Hattie; "you know the fair is in two weeks, and if you don't come out before that you'll miss all the fun." Now, apart from the interest which all the little girls took in the fair, Gracie had a strong desire, as usual, to play some very prominent part therein. As we know, she had wished to be Queen, and had been vexed because Maggie Bradford had been chosen again; but, although she could not have this coveted honor, she still hoped and intended to make herself very conspicuous there. It was true that the thought of the fair and all that concerned it had been much in her mind, even during her imprisonment; but it had not occurred to her that her resolution of never, never apologizing to Miss Ashton, "even if she stayed shut up for a whole year," would scarcely agree with her appearance at the festival. She sat as if confounded at Hattie's words. "I'd do it if I were you," continued the latter, seeing the effect she had produced. "It's a great shame that you have to, but then you _will_ have to, you know; and I'd do it and have it over. If you're going to fret and fuss here about it, you'll feel a great deal worse at last when you come to do it." Hattie's advice on this subject was certainly good in itself, though she did not put it before Gracie in a right light. "Miss Ashton is so unjust and so awfully partial to Nellie," pouted Gracie, although her resolution was beginning to waver a little for the first time. "I know it," said Hattie; "but she can't make other people think Nellie is the smartest child. Every one knows you are, Gracie, even if they won't say so." "I can learn three lessons while Nellie learns one; but Miss Ashton is always praising her and never praises me," was Gracie's answer. "I know it," said Hattie again. "Nellie--oh, I can't bear that girl!--sets up to be so wonderfully good, and Miss Ashton always believes whatever she says, and makes such a fuss about her; but you can just _say_ you beg Miss Ashton's pardon, and have it over. The rest of the class will have every thing their own way if you don't come out pretty soon and have your word about the fair; and there's your mat, too, you know, Gracie." "I forgot my mat yesterday when I came away," said Gracie. "I wish you had known it and then you could have brought it to me." Again Hattie gave a triumphant little laugh, and putting her hand into her pocket drew out the mat,--that is, _a_ mat. Gracie seized it eagerly, gave Hattie a kiss, saying, "Oh, you dear thing! I'm so glad." Then she looked for the stain, but there was no stain to be seen. "Where's that ink-spot? Oh, Hattie, did you take it out? There's not a sign of it." "No," said Hattie, "I did not take it out." "Why!" exclaimed Gracie, turning the mat over. "Why, it is--it is--it's not mine. It's Nellie's mat!" "I'm going to tell you," said Hattie. "This morning Miss Ashton handed me your history, which I believe you left in the cloak-room yesterday, and told me to put it in your desk. So when I opened the desk, the first thing I saw was the mat, and I knew you must have forgotten it. Nellie, the mean thing, she had brought her mat to school to-day again, and said she was going to work on it in recess; but when recess came the other children coaxed her to go out in the garden 'cause it was so pleasant, and she went. So while they were all down there, I saw the way to play Miss Nellie a good trick and to help you, dear; and I ran up to the school-room, changed Nellie's mat for yours, put hers back just as she had left it, and she'll never know the difference and think that somehow that ink-spot has come on her mat. And do you know, Gracie, it was the most fortunate thing that Nellie had just worked those two rows more that made her work even with yours; so she never can know. You remember yesterday we could scarcely tell them apart, and now they look almost exactly alike." "But what then?" said Gracie, almost frightened at the thought of Hattie's probable meaning. "Why, don't you see?" said Hattie, who told her story as if she thought she had done something very clever and praiseworthy; "you can just finish this mat as if it was your own, and need not bother yourself about the ink-stain." "But--but--Hattie--this one is Nellie's," said Gracie in a shocked voice. "What of that? we'll keep the secret, and no one will ever know but us two," said Hattie. "Nellie has the other one, and that's good enough for her. She has no right to expect the most money from your grandmamma. Take a great deal of pains with this, Gracie, and make the work look just like Nellie's." "But, I can't, I can't," said Gracie. "It seems to me almost like--stealing." "Stealing!" repeated Hattie. "I'd like to know who has been stealing! I only changed the mats, and you have the best right to the nicest one. I was not going to have Nellie get every thing away from you. She just thinks she's going to make herself the head of the school and beat you in every thing." Now as I have said, and as you will readily believe, there was more at the bottom of Hattie's desire to thwart Nellie than her wish to see Gracie stand first, although she was really very fond of the latter, and it was this. It had so happened that Nellie's rather blunt truthfulness and clear-sighted honesty had more than once detected Hattie's want of straightforwardness, and even defeated some object she had in view, and for this Hattie bore her a grudge. She was particularly displeased with her at the present time because of a reprimand from Miss Ashton which she chose to consider she owed to Nellie. Coming to school rather early one morning, a day or two since, Nellie found Belle Powers and Hattie there before her. Belle sat upon the lower step of the upper flight of stairs, in a state of utter woe, with the saddest of little faces, and wiping the tears from her eyes. Hattie, grasping the banister with one hand, was swinging herself back and forth, saying, "I wouldn't care if I were you. 'Tis nothing to cry about;" but she looked ashamed and rather caught when she saw Nellie coming up the stairs. "What is the matter, Belle?" asked Nellie, sitting down beside the school pet and darling, and putting her arm around her neck. "Fanny Leroy said things about me," sobbed Belle. "What things?" questioned Nellie with a searching look at Hattie. "She said I was so bad and spoiled I could hardly ever be good, even when I wanted to," answered Belle piteously; "and she said Miss Ashton had to be excusing me all the time for the naughty things I did in school. And I loved Fanny, and I wouldn't have said such bad things about her; and, oh, dear! I thought she loved me too. She came to Aunt Margaret's when I was there the day before she went away, to say good-bye to Maggie and Bessie and me; and she gave us each a nutmeg to remember her by and to keep for ever an' ever an' ever for a keepsake, and she kissed me ever so many times. And all the time she had been saying bad things about me, and so I'm going to throw away the nutmeg, 'cause I don't want a keepsake of a girl who made b'lieve she liked me when she didn't." "I don't believe it," said Nellie with far more energy than was usual with her, and still regarding Hattie with searching looks. "But Hattie says she did," repeated Belle. Hattie's _saying_ a thing made it by no means sure in Nellie's eyes, and although she was not apt to interfere or meddle where she had no right to do so, she would not let this pass without further questioning. She was fond of the absent Fanny and loved Belle dearly; and believing that both were now wronged, she set herself to right them if possible. "I don't believe it," she said again. "Well, you just can believe it," said Hattie resentfully. "Don't I know what Fanny said to me? It's nothing to make such a fuss about, anyhow." "Belle has very easily hurt feelings," said Nellie; "and besides, it _is_ something to make a fuss about. And Fanny hardly ever would say unkind things of other people; the girls used to think she was 'most too particular about it. And, Hattie Leroy, I don't believe she ever said such things about Belle; anyhow, not in that way." "She did, too, I tell you," persisted Hattie, secure in Fanny's absence, and determined not to acknowledge that she had misrepresented her innocent words, from the mere love of talking and exaggeration, too; for she had not intended to hurt Belle so much, and was now really sorry to see her so grieved. "She did, too, I tell you. How do you know what Fanny said to me?" "I don't know what she did say, but I am sure she never said that," repeated Nellie. Both little girls had raised their voices as they contradicted one another, and as the tones of neither were very amicable by this time, they drew the attention of Miss Ashton. "What is this, my little girls; what is the trouble?" she asked, coming up the stairs to them; then, seeing Belle's still distressed and tear-stained face she inquired, "Belle, darling, what is wrong?" Nellie and Hattie were both rather abashed, especially the latter, who knew herself to be in the wrong; but Belle answered, "Hattie thinks Fanny Leroy said something, and Nellie thinks she didn't. I don't know," she added with a mournful shake of her head, "but somehow somebody must be rather 'deceitful and _despicably_ wicked.'" Desperately, Belle meant, and she quoted her words in no spirit of irreverence, but because she thought them suited to the, to her, solemnity of the occasion. Miss Ashton, too, feared that there was some deceitfulness, or at least exaggeration; and seeing that little Belle was in real trouble she questioned further, and Nellie told her what Hattie had said. This was not the first time, by any means, that Miss Ashton had known mischief to arise from Hattie's thoughtless way, to call it by no worse name, of repeating things; and she reproved her pretty sharply, telling her that such speeches were not at all like her gentle, amiable cousin Fanny, and she could not believe her guilty of them; and even had she said them she, Hattie, had no right to repeat them and make needless sorrow and trouble for Belle. Then she soothed Belle and encouraged her to think that Fanny had not so wronged her; and after school she kept Hattie for a few moments, and spoke to her very seriously but kindly on her idle, foolish habit of telling tales with exaggeration and untruthfulness. But Hattie, in repeating this, had said that "Miss Ashton kept her in and gave her an awful scolding just because she had said something that cry-baby Belle did not like, and Nellie went and told her and so put her in a scrape;" nor did she see that it had been her own blame in the first instance. And ever since she had been vexed with Nellie, and this added strength to her wish to have Gracie outstrip Nellie. It was not altogether this, let us do her justice, for she really loved Gracie better than any other child in the school, and was anxious to have her win for her own sake. But we must go back to these two little girls as they sat together in Gracie's room. "Yes, so she does," echoed Gracie; "and I suppose now Miss Ashton will take away my conduct marks, and being away to-day, I'll lose my place in all the classes too. Not that I could not get ahead of her again easily enough," she added contemptuously. "But she can't have the best mat now," said Hattie. "I don't see how I _could_ do that," said Gracie. "It is her's, you know, Hattie, and I can't, really I can't." "But you'll have to now," said Hattie. "You know Nellie has found the ink-spot on the other mat by this time, and there's no way to give her this one back." Yes, there was one way, but that did not enter Hattie's thoughts. "I couldn't," said Gracie again, shrinking at the idea of doing what she knew to be so dishonest and deceitful. "I must have my own mat, Hattie; but I do wish this was mine and the other Nellie's." "But we can't put it back now, and I took it for you," said Hattie complainingly. "Gracie, you must keep it now. I shall get into an awful scrape if you don't; and it's real mean of you." It would take too long to tell you of all the arguments and persuasions Hattie used. How she pleaded and reproached; how she insisted that there was no way of undoing what she had done; how she excited and increased Gracie's jealous pride and desire to outdo Nellie; and this last she found by far the most effectual argument. And--Gracie yielded. Persuading herself that she had the best right to receive the highest premium because her own grandmamma had offered it; putting from her the thought of the only way in which justice could now be done to Nellie, on the plea that Hattie would be disgraced, and she would be "too mean" to bring this upon her; rousing up all her own naughty and envious feelings against innocent Nellie, she gave way at last and fell before temptation. Fell into the very sin, or even worse, from which she felt herself so very secure,--deceit and theft, for it was no less. "Now I'll go, dear," said Hattie, jumping up as soon as Gracie had yielded, perhaps afraid that she might repent and insist that she could not keep the mat, "and no one but us two will ever know the secret. And, Gracie, make up your mind to ask Miss Ashton's pardon, so you won't lose all the fun." [Illustration] [Illustration] IX. _A GUILTY CONSCIENCE._ If Gracie had been an unhappy and miserable child before, what was she now with all this load upon her conscience? For even pride and self-conceit could not attempt to justify such a deed. Jealousy had a good deal to say; and she tried to listen to that, and to believe also that she was not really to blame: she had been forced into it; she could not betray Hattie, who had done this from love to her. But she was more wretched than it would be easy to tell; and she was beginning to feel such a contempt for her chosen friend that this also was a sore spot in her heart. Day by day she was learning that there was nothing true or honorable or upright about Hattie. She hardly even seemed to think it much harm to tell a falsehood, or appeared ashamed when she was found out; and for some days she had had a growing feeling that it was not pleasant to have a friend with the character of a "story-teller," which Hattie now bore among her school-fellows. And Gracie; was she not just as bad, perhaps even worse? For Gracie had been taught all the value and beauty of truth, and had never till now wilfully fallen away from it; but she knew that the worth of that jewel was not much considered in Hattie's home, and so it had lost its preciousness in her eyes. Miss Ashton, too, knew this; and so she was less severe with Hattie than she might have been with another child who had a better example and more encouragement to do right in this particular. Lily, in her plain speaking, would probably have called Mr. and Mrs. Leroy by the same uncomplimentary name she had given to Mr. Raymond; for the same foolish system of management was carried on in their family. Probably they would have been much shocked to hear it said that they taught the lesson of deceit; but was it to be expected that Hattie could have much regard for the truth when she heard herself and her brothers and sisters threatened with punishments, which were not, perhaps could not be carried out; when promises were made to them which were not kept; when they were frightened by tales of bears, wolves, and old black men, and such things which had no existence? "Willie, your mamma said she would send you to bed if you went there," was said to little Willie Leroy one day. "Oh, I'm not afraid," answered Willie, contemptuously. "Mamma never does what she says;" and off he ran to the forbidden spot, his words proving quite true, although his mamma heard that he had disobeyed her so deliberately. "Is your mother going to make you something for the fair?" Hattie was asked by one of her schoolmates. "She says so; but I don't know if she will," was the answer. Hattie's was not the simple faith of "Mamma says so," so sweet in little children. Mamma might or might not do as she had said she would, according to the convenience of the moment. So it was no marvel that Hattie thought it no great harm to escape punishment or gain some fancied good by stretching the truth, or even telling a deliberate falsehood; or that, having a great love of talking, a story should outgrow its true dimensions in her hands; or that she did not see what was honest and upright as well as some children. But with Gracie Howard it was very different. Truth, and truth before all things, was the motto in her home, the lesson which from her babyhood had been taught to her by precept and by example; and the conscience which, in Hattie, was so easily put to sleep, would not let her rest. In vain did jealousy and ambition try to reconcile her to the act of dishonesty and meanness into which she had allowed herself to be drawn; in vain did she argue with herself that "it was all Hattie's fault;" she could not betray Hattie when she had done this just for her; or "there was no way of putting the mat back now; she could not help herself." Gracie sinned with her eyes open, and her conscience all alive to the wickedness of which she was guilty. But her stubborn pride was beginning to give way in one point; for she had no mind to "lose the fun of the fair," as Hattie said,--though even the fair had lost some of its attraction with this weight upon her conscience,--and she resolved to send for her mother, and tell her she would ask Miss Ashton's pardon. So when the long, weary afternoon had worn away, and Mrs. Howard came home, Gracie rang the bell, and sent a message begging her mother to come to her. Mamma came thankfully; but one look at her little daughter's face was enough to convince her that she was in no softened mood, in no gentle and humbled spirit. It was with a sullen and still half-defiant manner that Gracie offered to do what was required of her; and her mother saw that it was fear of farther punishment, and not real sorrow and repentance, which moved her. "I suppose I ought not to have spoken so, mamma," she answered, when her mother asked her if she did not see how very naughty she had been; "but Miss Ashton is so unjust, and Nellie provokes me so." "How is Miss Ashton unjust?" asked Mrs. Howard. Gracie fidgeted and pouted, knowing that her mother would not be willing to accept the charges she was ready to bring. "She's always praising Nellie for every thing she does, mamma; and in these days she never gives me one word of praise, even when every one has to see that I do the best. And--and--I b'lieve she tries to make me miss, so Nellie can go above me in the classes." "Gracie," said her mother, "you know that that last accusation is untrue. As for the first, if Miss Ashton is sparing of her praise, my daughter, it is because she knows it is hurtful to you. Nellie is a timid child, trying to do her best, but with little confidence in her own powers; and praise, while it encourages and helps her to persevere, does not make her vain or conceited. But Miss Ashton sees that that which is needful for Nellie is hurtful to you; for it only increases your foolish vanity and self-esteem, and it is for your own good that she gives you a smaller share. You have, unhappily, so good an opinion of yourself, Gracie, that praise not only makes you disagreeable, but disposes you to take less trouble to improve yourself. Let me hear no more of Miss Ashton's injustice. When you deserve it, or it does not hurt you, Miss Ashton is as ready to give praise to you as she is to another. You say you are willing to ask her pardon for your impertinence; but I fear that you do not really see your fault." "Are you not going to let me come out, then, mamma?" "Yes, since you promise to do as I say; but I fear you are in no proper spirit, Gracie, and that you will fall into further trouble unless you become more submissive and modest." "Hattie was here this afternoon, mamma," said Gracie, as she followed her mother from the room. "So I understood," said Mrs. Howard, who had been waiting for the confession, having been informed of the circumstance by the servant. "I left my mat in school yesterday," said Gracie, "and she thought I would want it, and came to bring it back." She spoke in a low tone and with downcast eyes; for Gracie was so unused to deceit that she could not carry it out boldly, as a more practised child might have done. Something in her manner struck her mother, who turned and looked at her. "Did Hattie bring you any message from Miss Ashton?" she asked. "No, mamma: she only came about the mat; and she begged me to ask Miss Ashton's pardon," answered Gracie with the same hesitation. But her mother only thought that the averted face and drooping look were due to the shame which she felt at meeting the rest of the family after her late punishment and disgrace. "I told Hattie you would not wish her to stay with me, mamma; but she would not go right away, but I would not let her stay very long." "I am glad you were so honest, dear," said Mrs Howard. Honest! Gracie knew how little she deserved such a character, and her mother's praise made her feel more guilty than ever. She was received with open arms by the other children; for Gracie was the eldest of the flock, and, in spite of her self-conceit, she was a kind little sister, and the younger ones quite shared her own opinion, thinking no child so good and wise as their Gracie. And they had missed her very much; so now they all treated her as if she had been ill or absent, and made much of her. But for once Gracie could not enjoy this, and it only seemed to make her feel more ashamed and guilty. What would mamma say, what would all say if they only knew? Mrs. Howard had told Gracie that she might either go to school early in the morning and make her apology to Miss Ashton before the other scholars came, or she might write to her this evening, and send the note to her teacher. Gracie had chosen to do the last; but when the younger children had gone to bed, and she tried to write the note, she found she could not bring her mind to it. Her conscience was so troubled, and her thoughts so full of her guilty secret, that the words she needed would not come to her; and as her mother saw her sitting with her elbows upon the table, biting the end of her pencil or scrawling idly over her blotter and seeming to make no progress at all, she believed, and with reason, that Gracie was not truly repentant for what she had done, and had only promised to beg Miss Ashton's pardon in order that she might be released from the imprisonment of which she had tired. Gracie was not usually at a loss for ideas or words where she had any thing to write. "I can't do it," she said pettishly at last, pushing paper and pencil from her. "I s'pose I'll have to go to Miss Ashton in the morning, and I b'lieve I'll go to bed now. Good-night, mamma." And Gracie went to her room, wishing to escape from her own thoughts, and bring this miserable day to a close as soon as possible. But the next morning it was no better; and now it seemed harder to go to Miss Ashton and speak than it would be to write. But it was too late now: she had no time to compose a note, "make it up" as she would have said, and to copy it before school, and she must abide by her choice of the previous night. She started early for school, according to her mother's desire, with many charges from her to remember how grievously she had offended Miss Ashton, and to put away pride and self-conceit and make her apology in a proper spirit. Had there not been that guilty secret fretting at Gracie's heart, she might have been induced to be more submissive; but, as it was, she felt so unhappy that it only increased her reluctance to make amends to Miss Ashton and acknowledge how wrong she had been. She asked for her teacher at once when she reached the house, anxious to "have it over;" and, when the young lady appeared, blurted out, "I beg your pardon, Miss Ashton." Miss Ashton sat down, and, taking Gracie's half-reluctant hand, drew her kindly towards her. "It is freely granted, my dear," she said. "And are you truly sorry, Gracie?" Gracie fidgeted and wriggled uneasily; but we who know what she had done can readily believe that it was more pride than a strict love of the truth which led her to say to herself that she was "not sorry," and "she could not tell a story by saying so." "I beg your pardon, ma'am, and I won't do so again," she repeated, seeing that Miss Ashton waited for her answer. Miss Ashton did not wish to force her to say that which she did not feel, and she saw that it was of no use to argue with her in her present stubborn mood; but she talked quietly and kindly to her, setting before her the folly and the wrong of the self-love and vanity which were ruling her conduct, and day by day spoiling all that was good and fair in her character. "See what trouble they have brought you into now, Gracie," she said; "and unless you check them in time, my child, they will lead you deeper into sin. I scarcely know you for the same little girl who first came to me, so much have these faults grown upon you; and they are fast destroying all the affection and confidence of your school-fellows. Why, Gracie, I have heard one little girl say that 'Gracie thought so much of herself that it sometimes made her forget to be very true.'" Gracie started. Was this the character her self-love was earning for her? she who desired to stand so high in all points with the world. Ah! but it was for the praise of man, and not for the honor and glory of God that Gracie strove to outshine all others; and she walked by her own strength, and the poor, weak prop must fail her and would lay her low. "Forget to be very true!" How far she had done this, even Miss Ashton did not dream; but it seemed to Gracie that she had chosen her words to give her the deepest thrust, and she bowed her head in shame and fear. But Miss Ashton, knowing nothing of what was passing in that guilty young heart, was glad to see this, and believed that her words were at last making some impression on Gracie, and that she was taking her counsel and reproof in a different spirit from that in which she generally received them. Strange to say, in all the miserable and remorseful thoughts which had made her wretched since yesterday afternoon, it had not once entered her mind how she was to face Nellie when the poor child should make known the misfortune which had befallen her. One by one the children came in, and how awkward Gracie felt in meeting them may readily be imagined by any one who has suffered from some similar and well-merited disgrace. Still she tried, as she whispered to Hattie she should do, to "behave as if nothing had happened;" and when little Belle, after looking at her wistfully for a moment as if undecided how to act, came up and kissed her, saying, "I'm glad to see you, Gracie," she answered rather ungraciously, "I'm sure it's not so very long since you saw me," and sent the dear little girl away feeling very much rebuffed. And yet she really felt Belle's innocent friendliness, and her sweet attempt to make her welcome and at her ease; but pride would not let her show it. Nellie was one of the last to arrive, and her troubled and woe-begone face startled Gracie and smote her to the heart. "Such a dreadful thing has happened to me," said Nellie, when she was questioned by the other children; and the tears started to her eyes afresh as she spoke. "What is it? What is it?" asked a number of eager voices. "I don't know how it can have happened," said Nellie, hardly able to speak for the sobs she vainly tried to keep back. "I have been so, so careful; but there is an ugly spot like ink or something on my mat. I can't think how it ever came there, for I put it in my desk very carefully when school began yesterday, and did not take it out till I got home, and I did not know there was any ink near it. But when I unrolled it last evening the stain was there, and mamma thinks it is ink, and she cannot get it out. And I've taken such pains to keep the mat clean and nice." And here poor Nellie's voice broke down entirely, while Gracie, feeling as if her self-command, too, must give way, opened her desk and put her head therein, with a horrible choking feeling in her throat. "We'll all tell Mrs. Howard it came somehow through not any fault of yours," said Lily. "Never mind, Nellie, yours is the best mat, anyhow: we all know it;" and Lily cast a defiant and provoking glance at Gracie, which was quite lost upon the latter. Lily had suggested on the day before, that when Gracie came back to school they should "all behave just as if nothing had happened," just what Gracie intended to do; but generous Lily had said it in quite a different spirit from that in which Gracie proposed it to herself. But Gracie's rebuff to Belle, and the seeming indifference with which she treated Nellie's misfortune, roused Lily's indignation once more; for she thought, as did many of the other children, that Gracie did not feel sorry for Nellie's trouble, since it gave her the greater chance of having her own work pronounced the best. [Illustration] "Yes, we will tell Mrs. Howard," said Dora Johnson: "yours was really the best mat of all, though Gracie's was almost as nice; and we will tell her something happened to it that you could not help, and perhaps she will not mind it." "Perhaps a vase standing on it would cover the spot," said Laura Middleton. Nellie shook her head. "No," she said, "that would not make it any better. Mrs. Howard said that the best and neatest mat must take the highest premium, and mine is not the neatest now. I wouldn't feel comfortable to do any thing that was not quite fair, even if you all said I might." "That was not quite fair!" More and more ashamed, and feeling how far behind Nellie left her in honesty and fairness, Gracie still sat fumbling in her desk, looking for nothing. "Well," said Dora, "we'll speak to Mrs. Howard about it, and see what she says: won't we, Gracie?" Gracie muttered something which might mean either yes or no. "Augh!" said Lily, "what do you talk to that proudy about it for? She don't care a bit. I b'lieve she's just glad and wouldn't help Nellie if she could." Gracie made no answer: she was too miserable for words or to think of answering Lily's taunts, and she would have given up all thought of having any thing to do with the fair to have had Nellie's mat safely in her possession once more. Oh, if she had never yielded to temptation or to Hattie's persuasions! "How you do act!" whispered Hattie to Gracie. "If you don't take care they will suspect something." "I can't help it," returned Gracie in the same tone: "it is such an awful story that we have told." "It is not a story," said Hattie; "we've neither of us said one word about the mat." This was a new view of the matter; but it brought no comfort to Gracie's conscience She knew that the acted deceit was as bad as the spoken one, perhaps in this case even worse. She felt as if she could not bear this any longer, as if she must tell, must confess what she had done; and yet--how? How could she lower herself so in the eyes of her schoolmates? she who had always held herself so high, been so scornful over the least meanness, equivocation, or approach to falsehood! A more wretched little girl than Gracie was that morning it would have been hard to find; but her teacher and schoolmates thought her want of spirit arose from the recollection of her late naughtiness and the feeling of shame, and took as little notice of it as possible. And Lily, repenting of her resentment when she saw how dull and miserable Gracie seemed, threw her arms about her neck as they were leaving school, and said, "Please forgive me my provokingness this morning, Gracie. I ought to be ashamed, and I am." But Gracie could not return, scarcely suffer, the caress, and dared not trust herself to speak, as she thought how furious Lily's indignation would be if she but knew the truth. [Illustration] [Illustration] X. _A GAME OF CHARACTERS._ At home or at school, studying, working or playing--for the latter she had little heart now--Gracie could not shake off the weight that was upon her mind and spirits. Even her work for the fair had lost its interest; and as for the mat, Nellie's mat, she could not bear the sight of it. She went to sleep at night thinking of it, and trying to contrive some way out of her difficulty, though she would not listen to the voice of her conscience which whispered that there was but one way; and she woke in the morning with the feeling that something dreadful had happened. Appetite and spirits failed; she grew fretful and irritable, and her mother imagined that she must be ill, though Gracie resolutely persisted that there was nothing the matter with her, and that she felt quite well. "Gracie," said Mrs. Howard one morning after three or four days had passed, "it appears to me that you are not doing much on your mat. How is that?" "I don't care," answered Gracie, fretfully. "I don't believe I'll finish it. I'm tired of the old thing." "That will not do, my child," said her mother. "You have undertaken to do this for your grandmamma and for the fair, and I cannot have you stop it now without some good reason. Bring the mat to me." Gracie went for the mat very unwillingly, though she dared not refuse nor even show her reluctance. "It really does you credit," said Mrs. Howard, taking it from her hands: "it is so smooth and even, and you have kept it so neat. But you must be more industrious, dear, if you are to have it finished in time. And see, Gracie," she continued, looking at it more closely, "these last few lines look not _quite_ as nicely as the rest. There is a difference in the work, and you will have to take more pains than you have done here. It looks almost as if another person had worked it. You have not let any one help you with it, have you?" "No, mamma," replied Gracie in a low tone and with a frightened feeling. Was there really such a difference between her work and Nellie's that it was so easily detected? It had not occurred either to her or to Hattie, perhaps they did not know, that the work of two different hands seldom or never matches well upon embroidery in worsted, and that it is almost sure to be perceived. She was dismayed at the thought that her mother had noticed this, and now every stitch that she took seemed to make the difference more plain, take what pains she might. She began to feel angry and indignant at Hattie for leading her into this sin, shutting her eyes to the fact that, if she had not allowed proud and jealous thoughts to creep into her heart, temptation would not have had so much influence over her. She no longer took any pleasure in the society of her little friend, and shrank from her in a way that Hattie perceived, and by which she was hurt; for she was disposed in her own mind to throw all the blame upon Hattie, forgetting that she was really the most to blame, since she had been better taught, and saw more clearly the difference between right and wrong. As for Nellie, poor, innocent, injured Nellie, Gracie felt as if she could not bear the sight of her; and when she saw in what a gentle, patient spirit she took her great misfortune,--for so all the children considered it,--she grew more and more ashamed and lowered in her own sight. Pride and self-esteem could not now blind her to the fact that Nellie was better, far better, than herself. Meanwhile the change in Gracie was exciting the wonder of all, the pity of some, of her young friends and schoolmates. Only Hattie held the clew to it; and she was surprised that such "a trifle," as she considered it, should have such an effect upon Gracie and make her so unhappy. But Gracie was not a really bad or deceitful child, although she had suffered herself to be led so far astray. She was not naturally more unkind or selfish than most of us who have not the love and fear of God before us; indeed she was what children call "generous" in giving or sharing what she had, and she was always glad to do a helpful or obliging act for another. But she had always trusted to her own strength, and believed she could not fall, and now she was learning that her high thoughts of herself, and her carelessness of what she considered little faults, had made her an easy prey to temptation and the indulgence of a foolish pride and jealousy had led her into this great sin into which she had not imagined she could fall. But although she saw this now, she was not truly repentant; for she would not take the only right and true way to make amends; and spent her time wishing vain wishes, and trying to contrive some way out of her difficulty without bringing disgrace upon herself or losing her character for honor and truthfulness among her young companions. It troubled Gracie far less to think how she already stood in the eyes of God, than it did to imagine how she might appear in the sight of her earthly friends if this thing were known. There was a small children's party at Mrs. Bradford's. Gracie did not care to go; indeed she would much rather not have done so: but her mother had accepted for her, and she had no good excuse for staying away. She was more restless and miserable than usual that afternoon: she set up her opinion against that of all the rest, found fault with her playmates in every game that was begun, was more than usually sure that she knew every thing and could do better than any one else, and, not having her wits and thoughts about her, miserably failed in all the plays in which she meant to shine. "What shall we play now?" asked Bessie at length, when they had all tired of some romping game. "Let's take a little rest, and play 'Characters,'" said Gracie, who was very good in this, having no match among her present playmates save Maggie. "Well," said Maggie, willing to please her if possible, although she saw some objections to the game just now; "we'll play it; but it is rather hard for the younger ones, so we must take easy characters. Who'll go out?" "I will," said Lily; "but mind you do take an easy one. Somebody we know very well, not any history or jography character. I don't want to bother my head about lesson people when I'm playing." "Very well," said Maggie; and Lily went out, singing loudly in the hall that she might "be sure and not hear." "Let's take Cromwell," said Gracie, always anxious, no matter what her frame of mind, to display her knowledge. "No," said Maggie, "that's too hard for Lily; and she wants us to take some one we know." "I should think any goose might know about Cromwell," said Gracie. "We did not know about him till a few weeks ago," said Dora Johnson. "We've only just had him in our history, and I don't b'lieve Lily knows much about him." "Then take Lafayette," said Gracie. "Lily means some of the people we have in our own lives," said Bessie. "Make haste: she'll be tired." This was seconded by Lily's voice calling from without, "Why don't you make haste? I should think you were choosing a hundred people." "Let's take Flossey," said Belle, looking at the dog, who had jumped upon a chair beside Maggie, where he sat with a wise and sedate air as if he were listening to all that passed, and ready to take his share in the game. This was agreed upon by all but Gracie, who declared that it was "ridiculous to choose a dog," and she had "a great mind not to play the game in such an absurd way." Lily was called in and proceeded to ask her questions. "Male or female?" was the first, beginning at Dora. "Male," answered Dora. "Black or white?" asked Lily. "Neither," said Belle, who was next in turn, "least he's not black at all; but he's some white." Lily looked rather puzzled at this. "And what color besides is he?" "Brown," answered Bessie. "A brown and white man," said Lily. "Oh! I know. It's old black Peter." "No, no, no," echoed around the circle. "Not one scrap of Peter is white," said Mamie Stone. "He's the blackest old man I ever saw." "Part of his eyes are white and his teeth too," said Lily, who was generally pretty sure of her ground when she stated a fact. "Where does he live?" "In this country," said Nellie. "In this city?" "Yes," answered Maggie. "Is he good or bad?" "Good, most generally," answered Mabel; "only sometimes pretty mischievous." "Oh," said Lily, light beginning to break upon her. "Can he talk?" "He tan't talt, but he tan bart pretty well," said Frankie, to whom the question fell. "Oh! oh! that's too plain," cried one and another laughing; and Maggie, thinking Frankie did not understand the game well enough to be allowed to go out, gave a hint to Lily, but not wishing to hurt her little brother's feelings took refuge in the French language, and said:-- "Ne _guessez_ pas a lui." Frankie, however, was too sharp for her; there was not much that escaped him, and he exclaimed in a very aggrieved tone that it was "not fair," and that Lily should guess at him. So Lily said "Flossey" was the character; and, amid much laughter, the young gentleman betook himself to the hall with a pompous air, telling the little girls to make haste. "Let's take himself," said Bessie, which being agreed upon, Frankie was called back almost before he was well out of the room. "Is he blat or white?" he asked, following Lily's example, and beginning as she had done at Dora. "He's white," said Dora laughing; and, in obedience to a suggestion from Maggie to help him out, she added,--"white, with brown eyes and red cheeks and brown hair." "Flossey," cried Frankie triumphantly. "No, no; not Flossey again," said the children. "Does he have four feets?" asked the little boy. "No, only two," said Belle. "Does he live in the stable?" asked Frankie. "No, he lives in this house," said Bessie. "Blackie," said Frankie, who was unable to give up the idea that since it was not Flossey it must be the little pony owned by his sisters. "Does he eat hay?" was his next question. "No," answered Nellie, "he eats fruit and meat and bread and milk, and, oh! how he does love sugar and candy!" "Me," cried Frankie, feeling that this description exactly suited himself. The character having been guessed at Nellie she now went out, and Maggie, willing to put Gracie in a good humor if possible, asked her who they should take this time. "Mary, Queen of Scots," answered Gracie promptly. It was not altogether probable that the younger children knew much of this unfortunate lady, but Gracie's choice was acceded to and Nellie called. "Male or female?" was of course the first question. "Female," answered Dora. "Old or young?" "Um--m--m, pretty old," said Belle; "at least she was grown up." "Is she alive now?" "No," answered Bessie. "Where did she live?" "Well," said Lily, "she lived in a good many places. But not in this country. Generally in France or Scotland." "Oh," said Nellie to whom this answer gave an inkling of the truth; but she passed on to the next. "Was she good or bad, Maggie?" "Some think her quite celestial and some think her quite infernal," answered Maggie with grand emphasis; "but on the whole I think she was not either, only rather middling like the most of us." Nellie felt more confident than ever; but not caring to risk one of her three guesses as yet, she passed on. The questions she put to Mabel and Frankie were simple and very easily answered; then came Gracie's turn. "What was she celebrated for?" "For cruelty and persecuting people," answered Gracie confidently; and Nellie's idea was at once put to flight by the reply. "That's a mistake," said Dora. "You are thinking of another character, Gracie." "I'm not, either," said Gracie. "Don't I know history better than any of you?" "You don't know _that_, anyway," said Maggie. "Gracie, you _are_ wrong. _She_ was not the character you are thinking of, and was not celebrated for that." "But she _was_," persisted Gracie. "Nellie," said Maggie, "you need not guess by what Gracie has told you, for she is not right." "I'll put my question another way," said Nellie. "Can I ask Gracie once again?" All agreed and Nellie asked,-- "Was she celebrated for her beauty and her misfortunes?" "I shan't tell you," said Gracie snappishly. "If I do, I shan't be believed, but they'll all go and contradict me. I suppose I know what I know; and any of you might be proud if you knew as much history as I do and had kept the head of the class so long." Gracie had for a moment forgotten how disgracefully she had lost her place at the head of the history class, but the silence that followed her ill-tempered speech brought it back to her and increased her vexation. "You all think you know so much," she said, throwing herself back sullenly in her chair. Bessie had begged Lily to bear with Gracie and not to aggravate her as she seemed so miserable and out of spirits, and Lily had been very forbearing; at least, so she thought. But now her small stock of patience was quite exhausted and she exclaimed vehemently:-- "Gracie, we try to stand you; we do try with all our might and main; but you use up every bit of standing there is in me!" This did not mend matters in Gracie's present state of mind, but led to a pretty severe quarrel between her and Lily which the others vainly tried to heal, Lily being rather provoking, and Gracie obstinately sullen and ill-tempered. It ended in a violent burst of tears from the latter, and a declaration that she would go home at once. But this was impossible, since it was now evening; and the children's supper-time being near at hand, Mrs. Bradford could not just then spare a servant to go home with Gracie. No soothing or coaxing proved of any avail, nor did Lily's repentance; for she was sorry now that she had been provoking, and would readily have kissed and made up if Gracie could have been persuaded to do so. Gracie said that she would not stay where Lily was, and went sulkily upstairs to the room where Maggie and Bessie slept. [Illustration] [Illustration] XI. _CONFESSION._ Gracie expected and wished to be left to herself till it was time to go home; at least she thought she did, and she had quite made up her mind that if any one came and begged her to go down to supper she would steadily refuse. She stood there with all manner of unhappy and wretched feelings, wishing vain and fruitless wishes, as she had so often done since she had fallen into this sin,--that she had never allowed Hattie to tempt her into doing what she knew to be wrong; that grandmamma had never made this plan or offered to put a price on the different pieces of work; that she had never gone to the school, or that Nellie had never belonged to it; but still she did not think of wishing that she had not thought so much of herself or been so very anxious above all things to be first. Poor Gracie! Only those can tell how unhappy she was who have themselves so fallen and so suffered. There was no way out of her trouble but by confessing all the truth, and she could not bring herself to that. She had not closed the door when she came in, and presently she heard a gentle foot-fall, then Bessie's soft voice, saying, "Are you in here, Gracie?" There was no light in the room save the faint glimmer of moonlight which came through the window, and as Gracie stood in the shade, Bessie did not at first see her. "Yes, I'm here, but I don't want any supper, and I'm not coming down till I go home," answered Gracie, not as ungraciously as she had intended to speak, for somehow she could not be disagreeable to dear Bessie. "Supper is not quite ready yet, and you shall have some up here if you had very much rather not come down," said Bessie with a coaxing tone in her voice; "but you'd better come down, Gracie. They're all very sorry for you and don't think you meant to be cross, 'cause Nellie said she was sure something troubled you for a good many days, or you did not feel well, and that often made people impatient, so we ought not to be mad at you." Gracie made no answer, but presently Bessie heard a low sob. "Gracie, dear," she said, coming closer to her little friend and putting her arms about her neck, "something does trouble you, doesn't it? Couldn't you tell me what it is, and let me see if I could comfort you? Sometimes it makes people feel better to tell their troubles and have some one feel sorry for them." The caressing touch, the tender manner, the earnest, pleading voice were too much for Gracie, and, throwing herself down on a chair, she buried her face in her arms and sobbed bitterly. Bessie let her cry for a moment, for the wise little woman knew that tears often do one good for a while, and contented herself with giving soft touches to Gracie's hair and neck to let her know she was still beside her and ready to give her her sympathy. At last Gracie raised her head and said brokenly, "Oh, Bessie, I am so bad! I am so wicked!" "I don't think being rather--rather--well, rather cross, is so very _wicked_," said Bessie, hesitating to give a hard name to Gracie's ill-temper, "and if you are sorry now and will come downstairs, we'll all be very glad to see you." "Oh, it isn't that," sobbed Gracie. "Bessie, if you knew what I've done, you'd hate me. I know you would." "No, I wouldn't," said Bessie. "I'd never hate you, Gracie. I'd only be sorry for you and try to help you." "You can't help me. No one can help me," said Gracie, in a fresh paroxysm of distress. "Can't your mamma? Mammas generally can," said Bessie. "No, not even mamma," answered Gracie. "Oh, Bessie, I do feel as if it would be a kind of relief to tell you; but you'd hate me, you couldn't help it; and so would every one else." "Every one else need not know it because you tell me," said Bessie. "Tell Jesus, and ask Him to help you, Gracie." "Even He can't," said Gracie; "at least--at least--not unless I tell other people who ought to know it." "Do you mean He would want you to tell it?" "Yes, I s'pose so," almost whispered Gracie. Bessie considered a moment. That Gracie was full of a vain, foolish pride and self-conceit, she knew; also that she was not the Gracie of a year or two since; but that she would wrong any one she never dreamed, and she could not imagine any cause for this great distress. "Gracie," she said, "I think by what you say that you must have done something to me. I can't think what it can be; but I promise not to be angry. I will be friends with you all the same." "It was not you; no, it was not you; but, Bessie, it was such a dreadful thing and so mean that you never can bear me after you know it. You are so very true yourself." "Have you told a story?" asked Bessie in a troubled voice. "Not told a story, but I acted one," sobbed Gracie. "O Bessie! sit down here and let me tell you. I can't keep it in any longer. Maybe you'll tell me what to do; but I know what you'll say, and I can't do that." Bessie did as she was requested, and, in as few whispered words as possible, Gracie poured her wretched story into her ears. Bessie sprang to her feet, and her arms which she had clasped about Gracie's neck fell away from it. It was as the latter had feared; this was so much worse than any thing Bessie had expected, she was herself so truthful and upright, that her whole soul was filled with horror and dismay. No wonder that Gracie was distressed. This was indeed dreadful. "I knew it, I knew it," said Gracie, burying her face again. "I knew you never could bear me again. It seemed as if I couldn't help telling you, Bessie; but you never, never will speak to me again. I wish--I wish--oh, I almost wish I was an orphan and had no one to care for me, so I could wish I was dead, only I'm too bad to go to God." Sympathy and pity were regaining their place in Bessie's heart in spite of her horror and indignation at what Gracie had done, and once more she sat down beside her and tried to soothe and comfort. She succeeded in part at least. Gracie's sobs grew less violent, and she let Bessie persuade her to raise her head. Then they sat side by side, Bessie holding her hand. "What would you do, Bessie?" asked Gracie. "I know I ought to tell, but I don't see how I can. It will be such a disgrace, and all the girls will have to know, and I've made such a fuss about myself, and always thought I never could do any thing that was very bad. And now this." And now this! Yes, after all her boasting, after all her self-confidence, her belief that she could not and would not fall into greater sin through her own conceit and vanity. Bessie knew all this; knew how confident Gracie had been in her own strength; knew what a bitter shame and mortification it must be to have this known; knew that it must be long before she could regain the trust and respect of her schoolmates after this thing should once be told. During the last few months Gracie had lost much of the liking and affection of her little friends; but not one among them would have believed her capable of deliberate deceit or of that which was not strictly honest. Ah! it was a great and terrible fall. Bessie felt this as well as Gracie. But she knew also that there was but one thing for Gracie to do; but one way in which she could have any peace or comfort once more. Bessie was not the child for Gracie to put confidence in, if she expected advice that was not plain and straightforward. "What _shall_ I do, Bessie?" she repeated. "I think you'll have to tell, dear," said the pitying little voice beside her. Gracie actually shrank in a kind of terror at the thought; and yet she had known that this was what Bessie would say. "Oh! I can't, I can't; I never can," she moaned. "But, Gracie, dear," said the little monitress, "I don't think you will ever feel happy and comfortable again till you do; and Jesus is displeased with you all the time till you do it. If you told about it and tried to make it up to Nellie, then He would be pleased with you again. And then you could have comfort in that even if people were rather cross to you about it. And, Gracie, Maggie and I will not be offended with you. I know Maggie will not; and we'll coax the other girls not to tease you or be unkind to you about it." "Don't you think it was so very wicked in me then?" asked Gracie. "O Bessie! you are such a good child, I don't believe you ever have wicked thoughts. You don't know how hard it is sometimes not to do wrong when you want to do it very much,--when a very, very great temptation comes, like this." "Yes," said Bessie, "I think I do, Gracie. And you are very much mistaken when you say I never have naughty thoughts. I have them very often, and the only way I can make them go is, to ask Jesus to help me, and to keep asking Him till they do go, and the temptation too. Perhaps, when you had the temptation to do this you did not remember to ask." "No, I did not," said Gracie. "But, Bessie, it never seemed to me that I _could_ do a thing that was not quite true and honest. And I suppose it has come because I thought too much of myself and wanted too much to have my work the best. It was not that I cared about the money, for you know that was for Jessie and her grandfather; but I wanted every one to say mine was the best; and it made me so mad that any one should say Nellie's was better than mine. If I had not cared so very much, Hattie would not have persuaded me, for I _did_ know it was horribly mean. You never had a temptation like this, Bessie." "I don't know," said Bessie slowly. "I think I once had one something like it. Don't you remember, Gracie, that time you lost your prize composition and we found it in the drawer of the hall-table?" "Yes," answered Gracie, "and how cross I was about it, and how hateful to you and Maggie." "Well," said Bessie, "I had a very hard temptation that time. I found the composition first, and I wanted to leave it there and not tell any one, 'cause I wanted Maggie to have the prize so much; and at first it did not seem so very wrong to me, and I tried to think I _ought_ not to tell, because then my own Maggie could have the prize; but I did not feel sure about it, so I asked Jesus to let me see what I ought to do, and then I saw it quite plain, and knew I must take the composition to you. But it was a dreadful temptation, Gracie." "Yes," said Gracie with a sigh, feeling deeply the difference between herself and her dear little playmate who had so bravely resisted temptation. For she knew how very anxious Bessie had been that Maggie should gain the prize. "But you did not _do_ the thing you were tempted to do," she said. "What would you do if you had, Bessie?" "I should go right away and tell my mamma; and perhaps she could find some way to help me out of it," said Bessie. "Anyway, she ought to know, and she will tell you what you ought to do." "Oh, it will make mamma feel dreadfully," said Gracie. "She was always telling me I would fall into trouble some day because I thought too much of myself; but, oh, dear! she never could have believed I would do this. Wouldn't you feel awfully, Bessie, if you had done it?" Yes, indeed. Bessie felt that she should; it almost seemed to her that she should die if she had such a weight on her mind and conscience, and she felt for Gracie most deeply. But still she knew that Gracie would never feel right again till she had made confession, and she once more urged it upon her; confession to God and man; and at last Gracie promised. Promised with many tears and sobs; but that promise once given, she became in haste to have it over and to go home to her mamma at once. "Ask your mamma to let me go home as soon as she can, Bessie," she pleaded. "Tell her I do not feel well, for I do not really. My head aches and I feel all shaky, as if I could not hold still; and I don't want to see any one down stairs again or to have any supper." Bessie was about to leave her to do as she was asked, when Mrs. Bradford came in. "Gracie and Bessie," she said, "are you here? You were so long in coming that I feared something was wrong. Will you not come down and have some supper, Gracie?" Gracie did not speak, but held fast to Bessie's hand. "Mamma," said the little girl, "Gracie does not feel well, and she would like to go home as soon as you could send her. She's quite trembling, mamma. I feel her." Mrs. Bradford took Gracie's hand in hers and found that it was indeed cold and trembling, while her temples were hot and throbbing; for over-excitement and worry had made her really ill, and the lady saw that she was more fit for bed than for the supper-room. She told Gracie she should go home immediately, and putting on her hat led her down stairs, and calling Mr. Bradford, begged him to take the poor little girl home and explain matters to her mamma. Gracie clung to Bessie for a good-night kiss, whispering, "I will do it, Bessie; no matter what comes after, I will do it." Mr. Bradford took her home,--it was not far from his house,--talking cheerfully by the way and trying to keep her amused; but, though Gracie felt he was kind, she hardly knew what he was saying, her mind was so taken up with the thought of the dreadful secret she had to confess. Mrs. Howard was startled, as was only natural, to see her little girl coming home so much before she had expected her; and Mr. Bradford's assurance that he did not think there was much wrong with Gracie, and that she would be well after a good night's sleep, did not quiet her fears, especially when she looked in Gracie's face. She quickly undressed her and put her to bed; but, longing as Gracie was to have her confession over, she could not tell it while the nurse was in the room; and it was not until she was safely in bed, and the woman sent to prepare some medicine, that she gave vent to the tears she had managed to keep back before her. "There, there, my darling," said her mother soothingly. "You will be better soon. Do not be frightened; this is only a little nervousness." "O mamma, mamma!" cried poor Gracie; "you ought not to be so kind to me. You don't know how bad, how very bad I am." "Is there any thing especially wrong just now, Gracie?" asked her mother gently. "Yes, mamma; oh, yes. I have--I have--put your head closer, mamma, and let me whisper;" and then, with her face hidden against her mother's shoulder, came the confession, made with many bitter tears and sobs. Mrs. Howard was greatly shocked; she could hardly speak when she heard all. "Shall you ever be able to forgive me, mamma?" sobbed Gracie. "I know, I know you think me perfectly dreadful, but if you could try me just this once, and see if I ever do such a thing again. Indeed, I don't think I could. I know I am not too good to do it, as I thought I was before; but I have felt so dreadfully ever since I did it, I don't think I could ever punish myself so again." "I can believe that you have been very unhappy, my child," said her mother; "indeed I have seen it, though I did not know the cause. But you have need to ask a higher forgiveness than mine." "I will, mamma," said Gracie; "but--but--I suppose Nellie and the other children must be told?" "I fear so, Gracie," said her mother. "Nellie must be righted and have her own mat again, and I do not see how we are to avoid having the rest of the children hear this terrible thing also. I must see Miss Ashton in the morning and talk it over with her, and we will arrange what is best to be done. But now you must try to be quiet and go to sleep. You are over-excited and will be really ill, so I can allow you to talk no more. But before you sleep, my child, make your peace with your Father in heaven, and ask Him to help you to bear the punishment you have brought upon yourself by your naughty pride and ambition." Gracie obeyed her mother as well as she was able; and, truly repentant, we may hope, at last fell into a troubled sleep. [Illustration] [Illustration] XII. _THE FAIR._ The next day was Saturday, when there was no school, so that Mrs. Howard was able to see Miss Ashton and tell her the sad story, quite early in the morning. Miss Ashton was much grieved and surprised; for, as she told Mrs. Howard, although she had known that Gracie's high thoughts of herself and belief that she was wiser and better than any of her companions often led her into exaggeration, yet she could not have believed her capable of any thing that was really mean and dishonorable. She was distressed, too, at the thought of the exposure and mortification which must follow; for it seemed necessary, for Nellie's sake, that not only Grandmamma Howard, but the whole school should know the truth. She and Mrs. Howard talked it all over for some time, but neither of the two ladies saw any way to avoid this disgrace for Gracie. They would willingly have spared her the punishment, if possible, for she had already suffered severely, and she seemed so truly humble and repentant that her mother did not believe there was much fear she would again fall into this sin. Mrs. Howard had thought last night that perhaps she ought to deprive Gracie of any share in the fair; but that must make her disgrace very well known, and now she hoped that there was no need of further punishment to make her see and feel her great fault. And now Grandmamma Howard must be seen and told the sad story. Mrs. Howard knew that she would be much distressed that her kind plan should turn out so badly. Neither Gracie's mamma nor Miss Ashton had quite approved of that plan; especially on Gracie's account, but they could not well say so and cross the good old lady. It was as they had feared. Grandmamma was very much grieved and disturbed to know that what she had intended to be a help and a kindness, had only proved a source of trouble, and an encouragement to Gracie's besetting sin. There yet remained to Mrs. Howard the still more painful task of telling Nellie how she had been wronged. She would have thought it right to make Gracie do this herself, had it not been that the child was really ill that morning, and in no state for further excitement; and it was not just to Nellie to put off the confession any longer. Nellie was filled with amazement. Much as she had wondered over the unfortunate spot upon the mat she supposed to be hers, she had never dreamed of a thing like this, nor had she the least suspicion of the truth. Indeed, how should she? She was a quiet child, with a more wise and thoughtful little head than those who did not know her well would have given her credit for; but words did not come to her very readily, and, after the first surprise was over, she only said to Mrs. Howard, with the tears in her eyes,-- "Please tell Gracie I am not angry with her, and hope she will be friends with me once more. Let's try not to think about it any more than we can help; will you, Mrs. Howard?" Generous, forgiving Nellie! How ashamed Gracie felt when her mother told her this, and she contrasted Nellie's conduct with her own. She lay upon her little bed that afternoon, feeling wretched both in mind and body, though it was a relief to remember that she had confessed all to mamma, and that she had set her face toward the right way once more, when Mrs. Howard came in bringing Nellie with her. Poor Gracie gave a low sob, and covered her face with her hands in utter shame and distress, feeling as if she could not bear to have Nellie look at her. But in a moment Nellie was beside her, saying,-- "Don't, Gracie; please don't. You needn't feel so very badly about it now. I don't care much, and we'll make it all up." "Oh, Nellie, Nellie! I don't deserve you to be so kind to me," sobbed Gracie. "I was so hateful to you and so jealous, and it seemed as if I could not bear to have you go before me in any thing. I know I've been just too hateful to you." "Well, never mind now," said Nellie. Mrs. Howard had gone out and left the two children together. "I can't help minding," said Gracie; "and, only think, Nellie, all the other girls in the school will have to know, and it will shame me almost to death. I hope, I hope mamma will never make me go back to school, and I mean to stay away from the fair, any way." "That is what I came to see you about," said Nellie. "The girls need not know, Gracie. You see my--your--the mat with the ink-spot on it is nearly finished now, so I have done about as much work on one as on the other. And I don't care so very much about having mine called the best, for the money will do Jessie and her grandfather just as much good, no matter who earns it. So if each of us finishes the one she has now, it will be all the same, and the rest of the children need never know it. I am sure, Gracie, I should feel just as you do, and never want to come back to school again or see any of our class if I had done this, and I know just how badly you must feel. So I thought about it, and it seemed to me it would come right again if we just went on with the work as if this had not been found out; I mean if you had not told. I'd rather no one would know it but just those who know now. Don't you think we could arrange it so, Gracie? Your mother gave me leave to tell you this, and says she would be very glad for you if it can be done, and she thinks Miss Ashton will be willing." To hear the earnest, wistful voice one might have supposed that generous, great-hearted Nellie was pleading for some great boon for herself. But she could not tell all that Gracie felt. No, indeed; she did not know what coals of fire she was heaping on her head; how perfectly humbled and remorseful she felt as she remembered all the hard thoughts she had cherished toward her; the unkind words and unjust actions of which she had been guilty; all forgotten now, it seemed, by Nellie, who was only anxious to make the path of repentance as easy as possible to her, and to avoid all unnecessary shame and exposure to the one who had so greatly injured her. With many sobs and broken words she told Nellie all that was in her heart, beseeching her forgiveness, and thanking her over and over for her consideration and sweet thoughtfulness; not that she put it in just such words, but in those that were very simple and very touching to Nellie. So peace was made between them,--a peace that was sure to be lasting and true where there was such sincere repentance on one side, such good will and hearty forgiveness on the other. Grandmamma Howard was only too glad on Gracie's account to accept Nellie's generous proposal. Miss Ashton also agreed that the matter should go no further, and so it was arranged, and further disgrace to Gracie avoided, although the weight of shame and remorse was not readily lifted from her heart, and she felt as if her schoolmates must know her secret and that she dared scarcely look them in the face. They all wondered at the new humility and modesty which she now began to show; but the change was an agreeable one, and drew forth no unkind remarks. A prettier sight than Miss Ashton's garden and piazza on that lovely June afternoon when the long-talked-of fair took place, would have been hard to find. Kind friends had decked the spot tastefully; flowers were everywhere in abundance; the tables conveniently and becomingly arranged; and the display of articles upon them was not only tempting, but such as had been manufactured by the children did them wonderful credit. Flags, ribbons, wreaths, and festoons, all joined to make the scene gay; and in and out, among and below them flitted the white-robed "little sunbeams," who lent the fairest life and brightness to the scene. "Sunbeams" they all were that day, indeed. No cloud appeared to darken their happiness, no ill-temper, jealousy, or desire to outvie one another was heard or seen. Even Gracie and Hattie, who were each rather oppressed with the sense of past naughtiness, and the feeling of what the others would say and think if they knew all, could not but be bright and gay amid this pleasant companionship. Gracie had told Hattie that she had confessed her sin to her mother, and the latter knew that some share of blame must have fallen to her; so, although she did not look upon it in as serious a light as Gracie did, she had an uncomfortable and conscious feeling. Miss Ashton had talked to her more seriously than she had ever done before, and had also informed her parents of what had taken place, telling them that she did not wish to disgrace Hattie, and so, as it was near the close of school, she would not ask them to remove her now; but that she could not take her back in the fall. Hattie's utter disregard of truth had already brought too much trouble into her little flock for her to risk any further mischief from that source. Hattie's parents had been much mortified and displeased, and the child herself had been severely punished; but I doubt if the punishment had been altogether just; for how was the child who saw equivocation and deceit used at home as a means of family government when convenience demanded it, to learn the value of the jewel thus sullied, or to judge of the line where it was believed that falsehood must stop and truth and uprightness begin? As for generous Nellie, she seemed to have no recollection of what had passed, unless it was in the new and caressing tenderness of her manner toward Gracie; not a patronizing manner, but one full of encouragement and helpfulness. The other children wondered not only at Gracie's new gentleness and modesty, but also at the sudden intimacy which seemed to have sprung up between these two. "Maybe," said Lily privately, "it is because Gracie is learning to think better of herself"--which was just the opposite from what Lily meant--"and Nellie's trying to help her." "Yes," said Maggie; "perhaps Gracie is learning it is 'never too late to mend,' which would make her much more agreeable, and other people would think more of her. I do think she is improved." Maggie had yielded not alone to the persuasions of Miss Ashton, but also to an earnest appeal from Gracie, and accepted once more the title of Queen. And very well she became it, standing in front of her throne--which she could not be persuaded to occupy--within the pretty bower into which one end of the piazza had been turned, according to her ideas. Bessie, Belle, and Lily were her "maids of honor," and helped her to sell the bouquets and baskets of flowers with which she was bountifully supplied; and they drove a thriving trade; for so many sweet smiles, bright looks, and winning words went with the flowers that the stock within the "Queen's Bower" was much in demand. She had her band of music too, for half a dozen canary-birds hung within and around the bower, and, excited by the laughter and chatter about them, seemed to try which could sing the loudest and sweetest. Jessie's parrot was on exhibition, lent by his present owner for the occasion, down in the old summer-house at the end of the garden, where Jessie herself took the ten cents admission fee, and made him display all his accomplishments. And the Doll! She must have a capital letter to do justice to her perfections. Of all the dolls that ever were seen or heard or thought of, that doll surely took the lead. It would be of no use for me to describe her or her toilet, for if you should ever see her, you would surely tell me that I had not told one half. It was nearly the hour at which the fair was "to begin," and the children were all gathered about the table on which she was displayed, when there came a ring at the front door-bell. Away fluttered every little saleswoman to her appointed stand, hoping that this might be the first customer. And so it proved; for it was no less a person than old Mrs. Howard, who had purposely timed her arrival so that she might be there before any other person. "Well, my dears," she said, looking round upon the smiling young faces about her, "this is a pretty sight. And, industrious as I know you have been, and kind as your friends have been, I should hardly have thought it possible that you should have made such a fine show on your tables. But you know I have some especial business with you, and I have come early that we may have it over before the rush begins." This was very encouraging. Mrs. Howard thought it probable they would have "a rush" of customers, and who should know better than she? "You remember I offered six prizes for different articles to be worked for me," continued the old lady, "but there are only four finished, as you know. My little grand-daughter, Gracie, felt that she had not displayed a proper spirit about them, and she decided not to finish hers for the fair, but to leave it and complete it for me afterwards." This had been Gracie's own proposal to her mother and grandmother, and they had allowed her to have her own way, thinking that this willingness to put herself behind the others, and to give up even the show of strife with Nellie, told of a spirit of true repentance, as indeed it did. When the other children had asked with much surprise where her mat was, she had answered quietly that she could not finish it. This had not proved any loss to the fair, because the time she would have devoted to the mat had been given to other articles. "Here, then," continued Mrs. Howard, "are two toilet sets and two mats for me to judge between. Of the latter, the one Nellie Ransom brings is certainly the best in point of work; but it has unfortunately received a bad ink-stain. Now those of us who know Nellie are very sure that this has not come through any neglect or carelessness of her own, and since she did not do it herself it seems hard that she should suffer for it. I should be quite willing to overlook it, for this is really the best piece of work among the four; but I cannot do so unless the others are willing. Those among you who think Nellie ought not to be a loser by this misfortune, raise your hands." Instantly every little hand was raised, and if one were before another it was Gracie's. "Very well; that is satisfactory," said Mrs. Howard. "Nellie, my dear, here are ten dollars for your mat, the first money taken in for your fair. The second sum, I think, must go to Maggie's toilet set--ah! yes, Maggie's and Bessie's, I should have said," as she saw the look which Maggie turned upon her sister, as if wishing that she should have her full share of credit--"the third to Dora's mat, and the fourth to Hattie's toilet set. You are all satisfied, I trust, with this arrangement." There was a murmur of assent, and this part of the business was settled. "And now," said Mrs. Howard, "I want to say that I think I made a mistake in offering these rates of prices, and so exciting you to outvie one another. I meant to give you a motive for trying to improve yourselves, but I believe it was not a good principle to set you thus one against the other, and I know that it has led to some hard feeling and unkindness. But that, I trust, is now all healed, and I shall take care not to put such temptation in your way again." The children all thought they knew what Mrs. Howard meant, and with true courteousness they all avoided looking at Gracie. But this was as much as was ever known by any of them, save the two or three who had been in the secret, of Gracie's temptation and fall. That she had been jealous and unkind to Nellie, they had all seen; that she had gone further and been led into deceit and meanness, they never heard. Hattie, for her own sake, held her peace for once; and penitent Gracie had not to face the scorn and wonder of all her schoolmates. After this Mrs. Howard went about from table to table, purchasing not only one article, but generally two or three, from each little saleswoman; but she said she would not remove them till the fair was over, so that they might still add to the appearance of their tables. They were all marked SOLD in enormous, staring letters, that there might be no possibility of mistake. And now, customer after customer began to flock in, and among the earlier arrivals came Mr. Powers, who was immediately seized upon by Belle, and led to the table where the baby doll lay in her glory. Now it had been announced that whoever offered the highest price for this famous infant was to have her, and it was not to be told till the close of the fair who had done this. The names of would-be purchasers, with the amount each offered, were written down by Miss Annie Stanton, who still held the doll in charge, lest too eager little hands should mar her beauties. "Please offer a whole lot, papa; I do want her so," said Belle. "Isn't she lovely? Did you ever see such a doll?" Mr. Powers expressed all the admiration he thought needful, which did not nearly satisfy Belle, who was only half consoled by what she thought a want of proper interest by Maggie's whispered assurance that men "never did appreciate dolls, and it was quite useless to expect it of them. It did not seem to be born in them." However, Mr. Powers put down his name and the sum he would give, which last remained for the present a secret between him and Miss Annie Stanton. Mamie Stone was as eager about the doll as Belle, and her mamma was called upon also to offer a high price for the treasure. But my "Sunbeam" would lengthen itself far beyond its sister rays if I should tell you all that took place at the fair. Enough to say that it was a great success, and that a sum was taken in that was more than sufficient to purchase Jessie's parrot back and to provide a comfortable home for herself and her grandfather for at least a year to come. That is, with what the little girl might hope to make herself by the further sale of her wares. Evening came, bringing with it the great interest of the day, the announcement of the munificent purchaser of the doll, and every little heart beat high with hope that it might be some friend of her own, who would bestow the coveted prize upon her. It proved to be Grandmamma Howard. Belle stood in an agony of expectation, squeezing her father's hand and scarcely breathing in the hush that came before the name was spoken; and when she heard "Mrs. Howard," a rush of color dyed her face, and a look of blank disappointment overspread it. She looked up and caught her father's gaze fixed anxiously upon her. She dashed her little hand across her eyes to scatter the tears that would well up, and, forcing a smile, said with a trembling lip, "Never mind, papa, you meant me to have it, so it was just as good of you." Her father stooped and kissed her, rejoicing in her sweetness and determined good temper. A little more than a year since, a tempest of tears and sobs would have broken from his over-indulged child; but now she had learned to control herself and to be contented and pleasant even when things did not go quite her own way. She was all smiles and brightness again in a few minutes, nearly consoled for her disappointment by her papa's caress and his few whispered words of blessing. All believed that Gracie or one of her little sisters would be presented with the doll by her grandmother; and great, therefore, was the amazement of the circle of young friends when the next day it was rumored, then made certain, that Mrs. Howard had sent it to Nellie Ransom. Every child wondered "why," and so did more than one grown person; for the Howards and the Ransoms were not, as Maggie said, "very intimate, and it was rather surprising Mrs. Howard should think of giving such a present to Nellie. But she seems to have taken a great fancy to her, and Nellie quite deserves it," she added. "I wonder if she gave it to her because of the mat," said Mamie Stone. "I think it was because she is such a serious child," said Lily. "I find old people like _seriosity_, and Nellie has a great deal of it." So they judged, these little ones. Nellie, gentle, unobtrusive "little sunbeam" that she was, went on her quiet way, shedding light and warmth in many an unsuspected nook and corner, and bringing now and then some hidden seed to blossom in beauty and fragrance. Only one of her schoolmates ever suspected that it was her thoughtful care for Gracie's character and feelings, her sweet forgiving spirit which led her to forget past injuries, which had won for her the gift of the much coveted doll, and given her a high place in the love and admiration of the few who knew all the story. [Illustration] Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 
43134	----	That Girl in Black By Mrs Molesworth Published by Chatto and Windus, Piccadilly, London. This edition dated 1889. That Girl in Black, by Mrs Molesworth. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THAT GIRL IN BLACK, BY MRS MOLESWORTH. CHAPTER ONE. He was spoilt--deplorably, absurdly spoilt. But, so far, that was perhaps the worst that could fairly be said against him. There was genuine manliness still, some chivalry even, yet struggling spasmodically to make itself felt, and--what was practically, perhaps, of more account as a preservative--some small amount of originality in his character. He had still a good deal to learn, and something too to unlearn before he could take rank as past-master in the stupid worldliness of his class and time. For he was neither so _blase_ nor so cynical as he flattered himself, but young enough to affect being both to the extent of believing his own affectations real. He was popular; his position and income were fair enough to have secured this to a considerable extent in these, socially speaking, easy-going days, even had he been without the further advantages of good looks and a certain arrogance, not to say insolence of bearing, which, though nothing can be acquired with greater facility and at less expenditure of brain tissue, appears to be the one not-to-be-disputed hall-mark of the period. Why he went to Mrs Englewood's reception that evening he could scarcely have told, or perhaps he would have vaguely shrunk from owning even to himself the real motives--of sincere though feeble loyalty to old associations, of faintly stirring gratitude for much kindness in the past--which had prompted the effort. For Mrs Englewood was neither very rich, nor very beautiful, nor--worst of "nors"--very fashionable; scarcely, indeed, to be reckoned as of _notre monde_ in any very exclusive sense of the words, though kindly, and fairly refined, irreproachable as wife and mother, and so satisfied with her lot as to be uninterestingly free from social ambition. But her house was commonplace, she herself not specially amusing. "If she'd be content to ask me there when they're alone--I like talking to her herself well enough," thought Despard, as he dressed. In his heart, however, he knew that would not do. He was more or less of a lion from Mrs Englewood's point of view; she was not above a certain pride in knowing that for "old sake's sake" she could count upon him for her one party of the season. And for this, as she retained a real affection for the man she had known as that delightful thing--a bright, intelligent, and unspoilt boy, and as she thought of him still far more highly than he deserved to be thought of, her conscience left her unrebuked. Year after year, it is true, her husband wet-blanketed her innocent pleasure in seeing the young man's name on her invitation list. "That fellow! In your place, my dear Gertrude!" and an expressive raising of the eyebrows said the rest. "But, Harry," she would mildly expostulate, "you forget. I knew him when he was--" "So high--at Whipmore. Oh, yes; I know all about it. Well, well, take your way of it; it doesn't hurt me if you invite people who don't want to come." "But who always _do_ come, you must allow," she would reply triumphantly. "And think themselves mighty condescending for doing so," Mr Englewood put in. "You don't do Despard justice. It's always the way with men, I suppose." "Come now, don't be down upon me about it," he would say good-naturedly. "I don't stop your asking him. It isn't as if we had daughters. In that case--" but the rest was left to the imagination. And this particular year Mrs Englewood had smiled to herself at this point of the discussion. "One can make plans even though one _hasn't_ daughters," she reflected. "If Harry would let me ask him to dinner now--but I know there's no chance of that. And, after all, a good deal may be done at an evening party. I should like to do Despard a good turn, and give him a start before any other. If I could give him a hint! But then there's my promise to her father,--and Despard is sure to be sensitive on those points. I might spoil it all. No; I shall appeal to his kindheartedness; that is the best. How tender he used to be to poor Lily when she was a tiny child! How he used to mount her up on his shoulders when she couldn't see the fireworks! I will tell Maisie that story! It is the sort of thing she will appreciate." It was a hot, close evening. Though only May, there was thunder in the air, people said. Despard's inward dissatisfaction increased. "Upon my soul it's too bad," he ejaculated while examining the flowers in his button-hole. "Why, when one's made up one's mind to do a disagreeable thing, should everything conspire to make it more odious than it need be, I wonder? I have really--more than half a mind--not to--" Poor Gertrude Englewood, at that moment smilingly receiving her guests! She little knew how her great interest in the evening was trembling in the balance! It was late when he arrived. Not that he had specially intended this. He cared too little about it to have considered whether he should be late or early, and, as he slowly made his way through the crowd at the doorway, he was conscious of but one wish--to get himself at once seen by his hostess, and then to make his escape as soon as possible. As to the first part of this little programme there was no difficulty. Scarcely did the first syllables of his name, "Mr Despard Norreys," fall on the ear, before Mrs Englewood's outstretched hand was in his, her pleasant face smiling up at him, her pleasant voice bidding him welcome. Yes, there was something difficult to resist about her; it was refreshing, somehow, and--there lay the secret--it brought back other days, when poor Jack's big sister, Gertrude, had welcomed the orphan schoolboy just as heartily, and when he had glowed with pride and gratification at her notice of him. Despard's resigned, not to say sulky, expression cleared; it was no wonder Mrs Englewood's old liking for him had suffered no diminution; he did show at his best with her. "So pleased you've come, so good of you," she was saying simply. Her words made the young man feel vaguely ashamed of himself. "Good of me!" he repeated, flushing a little, though the same or a much more fervent greeting from infinitely more exalted personages than Gertrude had often failed to disturb his composure. "No, indeed, very much the reverse. I'm sorry," with a glance round, "to be so late, especially as--" "No, no, you're not to begin saying you can't stay long, the very moment you've come. Listen, Despard," and she drew him aside a little; "I want you to do something to please me to-night. I have a little friend here--a Miss Fforde--that I want you to be very good to. Poor little thing, she's quite a stranger, knows nobody, never been out. But she's a nice little thing. Will you ask her to dance? or--" for the shadow of a frown on her favourite's forehead became evident even to Mrs Englewood's partial eyes--"if you don't care to dance, will you talk to her a little? Anything, you know, just to please her." Despard bowed. What else could he do? Gertrude slid her hand through his arm. "There she is," she said. "That girl in black over there by the fireplace. Maisie, my dear," for a step or two had brought them to the indicated spot, "I want to introduce my old friend, Mr Despard Norreys, to you. Mr Norreys--Miss Fforde;" and as she pronounced the names she drew her hand quietly away, and turned back towards her post at the door. Despard bowed and, with the very slightest possible instinct of curiosity, glanced at the girl before him. She was of middle height, rather indeed under than above it; she was neither very fair nor very dark; there was nothing very special or striking in her appearance. She was dressed in black; there was nothing remarkable about her attire, rather, as Despard saw in an instant, an absence of style, of finish, which found its epithet at once in his thoughts--"countrified, of course," he said to himself. But before he had time to decide on his next movement she raised her eyes, and for half an instant his attention deepened. The eyes were strikingly fine; they were very blue, but redeemed from the shallowness of very blue eyes by the depth of the eyelashes, both upper and lower. And just now there was a brightness, an expectancy in the eyes which was by no means their constant expression. For, lashes notwithstanding, Miss Fforde's blue eyes could look cold enough when she chose. "Good eyes," thought Despard. But just as he allowed the words to shape themselves in his brain, he noticed that over the girl's clear, pale face a glow of colour was quickly spreading. "Good gracious!" he ejaculated mentally, "she is blushing! What a bread-and-butter miss she must be--to _blush_ because a man's introduced to her. And I am to draw her out! It is really too bad of Mrs Englewood;" and he half began to turn away with a sensation of indignation and almost of disgust. But positive rudeness where a woman was concerned did not come easy to him. He stopped, and muttered something indistinctly enough about "the pleasure of a dance." The girl had grown pale again by this time, and in her eyes a half startled, almost pained expression was replacing the glad expectancy. As he spoke, however, something of the former look returned to them. "I--I shall be very pleased," she said. "I am not engaged for anything." "I should think not," he said to himself. "I am _quite_ sure you dance atrociously." But aloud he said with the slow, impassive tone in which some of his admirers considered him so to excel that "Despard's drawl" had its school of followers-- "Shall we say the--the tenth waltz? I fear it is the first I can propose." "Thank you," Miss Fforde replied. She looked as if she would have been ready to say more had he in the least encouraged it, but he, feeling that he had done his duty, turned away--the more eagerly as at that moment he caught sight in the crowd of a lady he knew. "Mrs Marrinder! What a godsend!" he exclaimed. He did not see Miss Fforde's face as he left her, and, had he done so, it would have taken far more than his very average modicum of discernment to have rightly interpreted the varying and curiously intermingling expressions which rapidly crossed it, like cloud shadows alternating with dashes of sunshine on an April morning. She stood for a moment or two where she was, then glancing round and seeing a vacant seat in a corner she quietly appropriated it. "The tenth waltz," she repeated to herself with the ghost of a smile. "I wonder--" but that was all. The evening wore on. Miss Fforde had danced once--but only once. It was with a man whom her host himself introduced to her, and, though good-natured and unaffected, he was boyish and commonplace; and she had to put some force on herself to reply with any show of interest to his attempts at conversation. She was engaged for one or two other dances, but it was hot, and the rooms were crowded, and with a scarcely acknowledged reflection--for Miss Fforde was young and inexperienced enough to think it hardly fair to make an engagement even for but a dance, to break it deliberately--that if her partners did _not_ find her it would not much matter, the girl withdrew quietly into a corner, where a friendly curtain all but screened her from observation, and allowed her to enjoy in peace the dangerous but delightful refreshment of an open window hard by. The draught betrayed its source, however. She was scarcely seated when voices approaching caught her ears. "Here you are--there must be a window open, it is ever so much cooler in this corner. Are you afraid of the draught?" said a voice she thought she recognised. "No-o--at least--oh, this corner will do beautifully. The curtain will protect me. What a blessing to get a little air!" replied a second speaker--a lady evidently. "People have no business to cram their rooms so. And these rooms are-- well, not spacious. How in the world did you get Marrinder to come?" The second speaker laughed. "It was quite the other way," she replied. "How did he get me to come? you might ask. He has something or other to do with our host, and made a personal matter of my coming, so, of course, I gave in." "How angelic!" "It is a penance; but we're going immediately." "I shall disappear with you." "You! Why you told me a moment ago that you were obliged to dance with some _protegee_ of Mrs Englewood's--that she had made a point of it. And you haven't danced with her yet, to my certain knowledge," said the woman's voice again. A sort of groan was the reply. "Why, what's the matter?" with a light laugh. "I had forgotten; you might have let me forget and go off with a clear conscience." "What is there so dreadful about it?" "It is that girl in black I have to dance with for my sins. Such a little dowdy. I am convinced she can't waltz. It was truly putting old friendship to the test to expect it of me. And of all things I do detest a bread-and-butter miss. You can see at a glance that this one has never left a country village before. She--" But his further confidences were interrupted by the arrival of Mr Marrinder in search of his wife. "You don't care to stay any longer, I suppose?" said the new-comer. "Oh,--no; I am quite ready. I _was_ engaged for this dance--the tenth, isn't it? But I am tired, and it doesn't matter. My partner, whoever he was, can find some one else. Good-night, Mr Norreys." "Let me go with you to the door at least," he replied. "I'll look about for that girl in black on my way, so that if I don't see her I can honestly feel I have done my duty." Then there came a flutter and rustling, and Miss Fforde knew that her neighbours had taken their departure. She waited an instant, and then came out of her corner. "He is not likely to come back to look for me in this room," she thought; "but in case he possibly should, I--I shall not hide myself." She had had a moment's sharp conflict with herself before arriving at this decision; and her usually pale face was still faintly flushed when, slowly making his way in the direction of the sofa where she had now conspicuously placed herself, she descried Mr Norreys. "Our dance--the tenth--I believe," he said, with an exaggeration of indifference, sounding almost as if he wished to irritate her into making some excuse to escape. In her place nine girls out of ten would have done so, and without troubling themselves to hide their indignation. But Maisie Fforde was not one of those nine. She rose quietly from her seat and took his arm. "Yes," she said, "it is our dance." Something in her voice, or tone, made him glance at her with a shade more attention than he had hitherto condescended to bestow on "Mrs Englewood's _protegee_" She was looking straight before her; her features, which he now discovered to be delicate in outline, and almost faultlessly regular in their proportions, wore an expression of perfect composure; only the slight, very slight, rose-flush on her cheeks would have told to one who knew her well of some inward excitement. "By Jove!" thought Despard, "she's almost pretty--no, pretty's not the word. I never saw a face quite like it before. I suppose I didn't look at her, she's so badly, at least so desperately plainly dressed. I don't, however, suppose she can talk, and I'd bet any money she can't dance." As regarded the first of his predictions, she gave him at present no opportunity of judging. She neither spoke nor looked at him. He hazarded some commonplace remark about the heat of the rooms; she replied by a monosyllable. Despard began to get angry. "_Won't_ talk, whether she _can_ or not," he said to himself, when a second observation had met with no better luck. He glanced round the room; all the other couples were either dancing, or smiling and talking. He became conscious of a curious sensation as disagreeable as novel--he felt as if he were looking ridiculous. He turned again to his partner in a sort of desperation. "Will you dance?" he said, and his tone was almost rough; it had entirely lost its usual calm, half-insolent indifference. "Certainly," she said, while a scarcely perceptible smile faintly curved her lips. "It is, I suppose, what we are standing up here for, is it not?" Despard grew furious. "She is laughing at me," he thought. "Impertinent little nobody. Where in Heaven's name has Gertrude Englewood unearthed her from? Upon my soul, it is the very last time she will see me at her dances!" And somehow his discomfiture was not decreased by a glance, and almost involuntary glance, at Miss Fforde as they began to dance. She was certainly not striking in appearance; she was middle-sized, barely that indeed; her dress was now, he began to perceive, plain with the plainness of intention, not of ignorance or economy. But yet, with it all--no, he could not honestly feel that he was right; she did not look like "a nobody." There was a further discovery in store for him. The girl danced beautifully. Mr Norreys imagined himself to have outlived all enthusiasm on such subjects, but now and then, in spite of the _role_ which was becoming second nature to him, a bit of the old Despard--the hearty, unspoilt boy--cropped out, so to speak, unawares. This happened just now--his surprise had to do with it. "You dance perfectly--exquisitely!" he burst out when at last they stopped. It was his second dance that evening only; neither he nor Miss Fforde was the least tired, and the room was no longer so crowded. She looked up. There was no flush of gratification on her face, only a very slight--the slightest possible--sparkle in the beautiful eyes. "Yes," she said quietly; "I believe I can dance well." Despard bit his lips. For once in his life he felt absolutely at a loss what to say. Yet remain silent he would not, for by so doing it seemed to him as if he would be playing into the girl's hands. "I _will_ make her talk," he vowed internally. It was not often he cared to exert himself, but he could talk, both intelligently and agreeably, when he chose to take the trouble. And gradually, though very gradually only, Miss Fforde began to thaw. She, too, could talk; though her words were never many, they struck him as remarkably well chosen and to the point. Yet more, they incited him to further effort. There was the restraint of power about them; not her words only, but her tone and expression, quick play of her features, the half-veiled glances of her eyes, were full of a curious fascination, seeming to tell how charming, how responsive a companion she might be if she chose. But the fascination reacted as an irritant on Mr Norreys. He could not get rid of a mortifying sensation that he was being sounded, and his measure taken by this presumptuous little girl. Yet he glanced at her. No; "presumptuous" was not the word to apply to her. He grew almost angry at last, to the extent of nearly losing his self-control. "You are drawing me out, Miss Ford," he said, "in hopes of my displaying my ignorance. You know much more about the book in question, and the subject, than I do. If you will be so good as to tell me all about it, I--" She glanced up quickly with, for the first time, a perfectly natural and unconstrained expression on her face. "Indeed--indeed, no," she said. "I am very ignorant. In _some_ ways I have had little opportunity of learning." Despard's face cleared. There was no question of her sincerity. "I thought you were playing me off," he said boyishly. Miss Fforde burst out laughing, but she instantly checked herself. "What a pity," thought Mr Norreys. "I never heard a prettier laugh." "I did, indeed," he repeated, exaggerating his tone in hopes of making her laugh again. But it was no use. Her face had regained the calm, formal composure it had worn at the beginning of the dance. "She is like three girls rolled into one," thought Despard. "The shy, country-bred miss she seemed at first," and a feeling of shame shot through him at the recollection of his stupid judgment, "then this cold, impassive, princess-like damsel, and by fitful glimpses yet another, with nothing in common with either. And, notwithstanding the _role_ she has chosen to play, I--I strongly suspect it is _but_ a _role_," he decided hastily. The riddle interested him. "May I--will you not give me another dance?" he said deferentially. For the tenth waltz had come to an end. "I am sorry I cannot," she replied. The words were simple and girlish, but the tone was regal. "Good-night, Mr Norreys. I congratulate you on your self-sacrifice at the altar of friendship. You may now take your departure with a clear conscience." He stared. She was repeating some of his own words. Miss Fforde bowed coldly, and turned away. And Despard, bewildered, mortified even, though he would not own it, yet strangely attracted, and disgusted with himself for being so, after a passing word or two with his hostess, left the house. An hour or two later Gertrude Englewood was bidding her young guest good-night. "And oh, Maisie!" she exclaimed, "how did you get on with Despard? Is he not delightful?" Miss Fforde smiled quietly. They were standing in her room, for she was to spend a night or two with her friend. "I--to tell you the truth, I would _much_ rather not speak about him," she said. "He is very good looking, and--well, not stupid, I dare say. But I am not used to men, you know, Gertrude--not to men of the day, at least, of which I suppose he is a type. I cannot say that I care to see more of them. I am happier at home with papa." She turned away quickly. Gertrude did not see the tears that rose to the girl's eyes, or the rush of colour that overspread her face at certain recollections of that evening. She was nineteen, but it was her first "real" dance, and she felt as if years had passed since the afternoon only two days ago when she had arrived. Mrs Englewood looked and felt sadly disappointed. She had been so pleased with her own diplomacy. "It will be different when you are a little more in the way of it," she said. "And--I really don't think your father should insist on your dressing _quite_ so plainly. It will do the very thing he wants to avoid--it will make you remarkable." "No, no," said Maisie, shaking her head. "Papa is quite right. You must allow it had not that effect this evening. No one asked to be introduced to me." "There was such a crowd--" Gertrude began, but this time Maisie's smile was quite a hearty one as she interrupted her. "Never mind about that," she said. "But do tell me one thing. I saw Mr Norreys speaking to you for a moment as he went out. You didn't say anything about me to him, I hope?" "No," said Mrs Englewood, "I did not. I would have liked to do so," she added honestly, "but somehow he looked queer--not exactly bored, but not encouraging. So I just let him go." "That's right," said Maisie; "thank you. I am so glad you didn't. I do hope I shall never see him again," she added to herself. CHAPTER TWO. A hope not destined to be fulfilled. For though Maisie wrote home to "papa" the morning after Mrs Englewood's dance, earnestly begging for leave to return to the country at once instead of going on to her next visit, and assuring him that she felt she would never be happy in fashionable society, never be happy _anywhere_, indeed, away from him and everything she cared for, papa was inexorable. It was natural she should be homesick at first, he replied; natural, and indeed unavoidable, that she should feel strange and lonely; and, as she well knew, she could not possibly long more, to be with him again, than he longed to have her; but there were all the reasons she knew full well why she should stay in town as had been arranged; the very reasons which had made him send her now made him say she must remain. Her own good sense would show her the soundness of his motives, and she must behave like his own brave Maisie. And the girl never knew what this letter had cost her invalid father, nor how he shrank from opposing her wishes. "She set off so cheerfully," he said to himself, "and she has only been there three days. And she seemed rather to have enjoyed her first dinner-party and the concert, or whatever it was, that Gertrude Englewood took her to. What can have happened at the evening party? She dances well, I know; and she is not the sort of girl to expect or care much about ball-room admiration." Poor man! it was, so far, a disappointment to him. He would have liked to get a merry, happy letter that morning as he sat at his solitary breakfast. For he had no fear, no shadow of a fear, that his Maisie's head ever could be turned. "I have guarded against any dangers of that kind for her, at least," he said to himself, "provided I have not gone too far and made her too sober-minded. But no; after all, it is erring on the safe side-- considering everything." Three or four evenings after Mrs Englewood's dance Despard found himself at a musical party. He was in his own _milieu_ this time, and proportionately affable--with the cool, condescending affability which was the nearest approach to making himself agreeable that he recognised. He had been smiled at by the beauty of the evening, much enjoying her discomfiture when he did _not_ remain many minutes by her side; he had been all but abjectly entreated by the most important of the dowagers, a very great lady indeed, in every sense of the word, to promise his assistance at her intended theatricals; he had, in short, received the appreciation which was due to him, and was now resting on his oars, comfortably installed in an easy chair, debating within himself whether it was worth while to give Mrs Belmont a fright by engrossing her pretty daughter, and thus causing to retire from her side in the sulks Sir Henry Gayburn, to whom the girl was talking. For Sir Henry was rich, and was known to be looking out for a wife, and Despard had long since been erased from the maternal list of desirable possibilities. "Shall I?" he was saying to himself as he lay back with a smile, when a voice beside him made him look up. It was that of the son of the house, a friend of his own; the young man seemed annoyed and perplexed. "Norreys! oh, do me a good turn, will you? I have to look after the lady who has just been singing, and my mother is fussing about a girl who has been sitting all the evening alone. She's a stranger. Will you be so awfully good as to take her down for an ice or something?" Despard looked round. He could scarcely refuse a request so couched, but he was far from pleased. "Where is she? Who is she?" he asked, beginning languidly to show signs of moving. "There--over by the window--that girl in black," his friend replied. "Who she is I can't say. My mother told me her name was Ford. Come along, and I'll introduce you, that's a good fellow." Despard by this time had risen to his feet. "Upon my soul!" he ejaculated. But Mr Leslie was in too great a hurry to notice the unusual emphasis with which he spoke. And in half a second he found himself standing in front of the girl, who, the last time they met, had aroused in him such unwonted emotions. "Miss Ford," murmured young Leslie, "may I introduce Mr Norreys?" and then Mr Leslie turned on his heel and disappeared. Despard stood there perfectly grave. He would hazard no repulse; he waited for her. She looked up, but there was no smile on her face--only the calm self-composedness which it seemed to him he knew so well. How was it so? Had he met her before in some former existence? Why did all about her seem at once strange and yet familiar? He had never experienced the like before. These thoughts--scarcely thoughts indeed--flickered through his brain as he looked at her. They served one purpose at least, they prevented his feeling or looking awkward, could such a state of things have been conceived possible. Seeing that he was not going to speak, remembering, perhaps, that if _he_ remembered the last words she had honoured him with, he could scarcely be expected to do so, she at last opened her lips. "That," she said quietly, slightly inclining her head in the direction where young Leslie had stood, "was, under the circumstances, unnecessary." "He did not know," said Despard. "I suppose not; though I don't know. Perhaps you told him you had forgotten my name." "No," he replied, "I did not. It would not have been true." She smiled very slightly. "There is no dancing to-night," she said. "May I ask--?" and she hesitated. "Why I ventured to disturb you?" he interrupted. "I was requested to take you downstairs for an ice or whatever you may prefer to that. The farce did not originate with me, I assure you." "Do you mean by that that you will _not_ take me downstairs?" she said, smiling again as she got up from her seat. "I should like an ice very much." Despard bowed without speaking, and offered her his arm. But when he had piloted her through the crowd, and she was standing quietly with her ice, he broke the silence. "Miss Ford," he began, "as the fates have again forced me on your notice, I should like to ask you a question." She raised her eyes inquiringly. No--he had not exaggerated their beauty. "I should like to know the meaning of the strange words you honoured me with as I was leaving Mrs Englewood's the other evening. I do not think you have forgotten them." "No," she replied, "I have not forgotten them, and I meant them, and I still mean them. But I will not talk about them or explain anything I said." There was nothing the least flippant in her tone--only quiet determination. But Despard, watching keenly, saw that her lips quivered a little as she spoke. "As you choose," he said. "Of course, in the face of such a very uncompromising refusal, I can say nothing more." "Then shall we go upstairs again?" proposed Miss Fforde. Mr Norreys acquiesced. But he had laid his plans, and he was a more diplomatic adversary than Miss Fforde was prepared to cope with. "I finished reading the book we were speaking of the other evening," he began in a matter-of-fact voice; "I mean--" and he named the book. "At least, I fancy it was you I was discussing it with. The last volume falls off greatly." "Oh, _do_ you think so?" said the girl in a tone of half-indignant disappointment, falling blindly into the trap. "I, on the contrary, felt that the last volume made amends for all that was unsatisfactory in the others. You see by it what he was driving at all the time, and that the _persiflage_ and apparent cynicism were only means to an end. I do _hate_ cynicism--it is so easy, and such a little makes such a great effect." Something in her tone made Despard feel irritated. "Is she hitting at me again?" he thought. And the idea threw him, in his turn, off his guard. The natural result was that both forgot themselves in the interest of the discussion. And Despard, when he, as it were, awoke to the realisation of this, took care not to throw away the advantage he had gained. He drew her out, he talked as he but seldom exerted himself to do, and when, at the end of half-an-hour or so, an elderly lady, whom he knew by name only, was seen approaching them, and Miss Fforde sprang to her feet, exclaiming,-- "Have you been looking for me? I hope not--" he smiled quietly as he prepared to withdraw--he had succeeded! "Good-night, Mr Norreys," said Maisie simply. "Two evenings ago she would not say good-night at all," he thought. But he made no attempt to do more than bow quietly. "You are very--cold, grim--no, I don't know what to call it, Maisie, dear," said the lady, her cousin and present chaperone, as they drove away, "in your manner to men; and that man in particular--Despard Norreys. It is not often he is so civil to any girl." "I detest all men--all young men," replied Maisie irritably. "But, my dear, you should be commonly civil. And he had been giving himself, for him, unusual trouble to entertain you." "Can he know about her? Oh, no, it is impossible," she added to herself. Miss Fforde closed her lips firmly. But in a moment or two she opened them again. "Cousin Agnes," she said, half smiling, "I am afraid you are quite mistaken. If I had not been what you call `commonly civil,' would he have gone on talking to me? On the contrary, I am sadly afraid I was far too civil." "My dear child," ejaculated her cousin, "what do you mean?" "Oh," said Maisie, "I don't know. Never mind the silly things I say. I like being with you, Cousin Agnes, but I don't like London. I am much happier at home in the country." "But, my dear child, when I saw you at home a few months ago you were looking forward with pleasure to coming. What has changed you? What has disappointed you?" "I am not suited for anything but a quiet country life--that is all," said Miss Fforde. "But, then, Maisie, afterwards, you know, you will _have_ to come to town and have a house of your own and all that sort of thing. It is necessary for you to see something of the world to prepare you for--" "Afterwards isn't _now_, Cousin Agnes. And I am doing my best, as papa wished," said the girl weariedly. "Do let us talk of something else. Really sometimes I do wish I were any one but myself." "Maisie," said her cousin reproachfully, "you know, dear, that isn't right. You must take the cares and responsibilities of a position like yours along with the advantages and privileges of it." "I know," Miss Fforde replied meekly enough; "but, Cousin Agnes, do tell me who was that very funny-looking man with the long fluffy beard whom you were talking to for some time." "Oh, that, my dear, was Count Dalmiati, the celebrated so-and-so," and once launched in her descriptions Cousin Agnes left Maisie in peace. Two days later came the afternoon of Lady Valence's garden-party. It was one of the garden parties to which "everybody" went--Despard Norreys for one, as a matter of course. He had got more gratification and less annoyance out of his second meeting with Miss Fforde; for he flattered himself he knew how to manage her now--"that little girl in black, who thinks herself so wonderfully wise, forsooth!" Yet the sting was there still; the very persistence with which he repeated to himself that he had mastered her showed it. His thoughts recurred to her more than they were in the habit of doing to any one or anything but his own immediate concerns. Out of curiosity, merely, no doubt; curiosity increased by the apparent improbability of satisfying it. For no one seemed to know anything about her. She might have dropped from the skies. He had indeed some difficulty in recalling her personality to the two or three people to whom he applied for information. "A girl in black--at the Leslies' musical party? Why, my dear fellow, there were probably a dozen girls in black there. There usually is a good sprinkling of black frocks at evening parties," said one of the knowers of everybody whom he had selected to honour with his inquiries. "What was there remarkable about her? There must have been something to attract _your_ notice." "No, on the contrary," Despard replied, "she was remarkably unremarkable;" and he laughed lightly. "It was only rather absurd. I have seemed haunted by her once or twice lately, and yet nobody knows anything about her, except that her name is Ford." "Ford," said his companion; "that does _not_ tell much. And not pretty, you say?" "Pretty, oh, yes. No, not exactly pretty," and a vision of Maisie's clear cold profile and--yes, there was no denying it--_most_ lovely eyes, rose before him. "More than pretty," he would have said had he not been afraid of being laughed at. "I don't really know how to describe her, and it is of less than no consequence. I don't suppose I shall ever see her again," and he went on to talk of other matters. He did see her again, however, and it was, as will have already been supposed, at Lady Valence's garden-party that he did so. It was a cold day, of course. The weather, with its usual consideration, had changed that very morning, after having been, for May, really decently mild and agreeable. The wind had veered round to the east, and it seemed not improbable that the rain would look in, an uninvited guest, in the course of the afternoon. Lady Valence declared herself in despair, but as nobody could remember the weather ever being anything but highly detestable the day of her garden-party, it is to be hoped that she in reality took it more philosophically than she allowed, Despard strode about feeling very cold, and wondering why he had come, and why, having come, he stayed. There was a long row of conservatories and ferneries, and glass-houses of every degree of temperature not far from the lawn, where at one end the band was playing, and at the other some deluded beings were eating ices. Despard shivered; the whole was too ghastly. A door in the centre house stood invitingly open, and he turned in. Voices near at hand, female voices, warned him off at one side, for he was not feeling amiable, and he hastened in the opposite direction. By degrees the pleasant warmth, the extreme beauty of the plants and flowers amidst which he found himself, the solitariness, too, soothed and subdued his irritation. "If I could smoke," he began to say to himself, when, looking round with a half-formed idea of so doing, he caught sight amidst the ferns of feminine drapery. Some one was there before him--but a very quiet, mouse-like somebody. A somebody who was standing there motionless, gazing at the tall tropical plants, enjoying, apparently, the warmth and the quiet like himself. "That girl in black, that sphinx of a girl again--by Jove!" murmured Despard under his breath, and as he did so, she turned and saw him. Her first glance was of annoyance; he saw her clearly from where he stood, there was no mistaking the fact. But, so quickly, that it was difficult to believe it had been there, the expression of vexation passed. The sharply contracted brows smoothed; the graceful head bent slightly forward; the lips parted. "How do you do, Mr Norreys?" she said. "We are always running against each other unexpectedly, are we not?" Her tone was perfectly natural, her manner expressed simple pleasure and gratification. She was again the third, the rarest of her three selves--the personality which Despard, in his heart of hearts, believed to be _herself_. He smiled--a slightly amused, _almost_ a slightly condescending smile, but a very pleasant one all the same. He could afford to be pleasant now. Poor silly little girl--she had given in with a good grace, a truce to her nonsense of regal airs and dignity; a truce, too, to the timid self-consciousness of her first introduction. "She understands better now, I see," he thought. "Understands that a little country girl is but--ah, well--but a little country girl. Still, I must allow--" and he hesitated as his glance fell on her; it was the first time he had seen her by daylight, and the words he had mentally used did not quite "fit"--"I must allow that she has brains, and some character of her own." "I can imagine its seeming so to you," he said aloud. "You have, I think you told me, lived always in the country. Of course, in the country one's acquaintances stand out distinctly, and one remembers every day whom one has and has not seen. In town it is quite different. I find myself constantly forgetting people, and doing all sorts of stupid things, imagining I have seen some one last week when it was six months ago, and so on. But people are really very good-natured." She listened attentively. "How difficult it must be to remember all the people you know!" she said, with the greatest apparent simplicity; indeed, with a tone of almost awe-struck reverence. "I simply don't attempt it," he replied. "How--dear me, I hardly know how to say it--how _very_ good and kind of you it is to remember me," she said. Mr Norreys glanced at her sharply. Was she playing him off? For an instant the appalling suggestion all but took his breath away, but it was quickly dismissed. Its utter absurdity was too self-evident; and the expression on her face reassured him. She seemed so innocent as she stood there, her eyes hidden for the moment by their well-fringed lids, for she was looking down. A faint, the very faintest, suspicion of a blush coloured her cheeks, there was a tiny little trembling about the corners of her mouth. But somehow these small evidences of confusion did not irritate him as they had done when he first met her. On the contrary. "Poor little girl," he said to himself. "I see I must be careful. Still, she will live to get over it, and one cannot be positively brutal." For an instant or two he did not speak. Then: "I never pay compliments, Miss Ford," he said, "but what I am going to say may sound to you like one. However, I trust you will not dislike it." And again he unaccountably hesitated--what was the matter with him? He meant to be kindly encouraging to the girl, but as she stood beside him, looking up with a half-curious, half-deprecating expression in her eyes, he was conscious of his face slightly flushing; the words he wanted refused to come, he felt as if he were bewitched. "Won't you tell me what you were going to say?" she said at last. "I should so like to hear it." "It's not worth saying," he blurted out. "Indeed, though I know what I mean, I cannot express it. You--you are quite different from other girls, Miss Ford. It would be impossible to confuse you with the crowd. That's about the sum of what I was thinking, though--I meant to express it differently. Certainly, in the way I have said it, no one by any possibility could take it for a compliment." To his surprise she looked up at him with a bright smile, a smile of pleasure, and--of something else. "On the contrary, I do take it as a compliment, as a very distinct compliment," she said, "considering whom it comes from. Though, after all, it is scarcely _I_ that should accept it. The--the circumstances of my life may have made me different--my having been so little in town, for instance. I suppose there are some advantages in everything, even in apparent disadvantages." Her extreme gentleness and deference put him at his ease again. "Oh, certainly," he said. "For my part, I often wish I had never been anywhere or seen anything! Life would, in such a case, seem so much more interesting. There would be still things left to dream about." He sighed, and there was something genuine in his sigh. "I envy people who have never travelled, sometimes," he added. "Have you travelled much?" she asked. "Oh, dear, yes--been everywhere--the usual round." "But the usual round is just what with me counts for nothing," she said sharply. "Real travelling means living in other countries, leading the life of their peoples, not rushing round the capitals of Europe from one cosmopolitan hotel to another." He smiled a superior smile. "When you have rushed round the capitals of Europe you may give an opinion," his smile seemed to say. "That sort of thing is impossible, except for Bohemians," he said languidly. "I detest talking about travels." "Do you really?" she said, with a very distinct accent of contempt. "Then I suppose you have not read--" and she named a book on everybody's table at the moment. Despard's face lighted up. "Oh, indeed, yes," he said. "That is not an ordinary book of travels;" and he went on to speak of the volume in question in a manner which showed that he had read it intelligently, while Miss Fforde, forgetting herself and her companion in the interest of what he said, responded sympathetically. Half unconsciously, as they talked they strolled up and down the wide open space in front of the ferns. Suddenly voices, apparently approaching them, caught the girl's ear. "Oh, dear," she said, "my friends will be wondering what has become of me! I must go. Good-bye, Mr Norreys," and she held out her hand. There was something simple and perfectly natural in her manner as she did so, which struck him. It was almost as if she were throwing off impulsively a part which she was tired of playing. He held her hand for a quarter of an instant longer than was actually necessary. "I--I hope we may meet again, Miss Ford," he said, simply but cordially--something in her present manner was infectious--"and continue our talk." She glanced up at him. "I hope so, too," she said quickly. But then her brows contracted again a little. "At least--I don't know that it is very probable," she added disconnectedly, as she hastened away in the direction whence came the voices. "Hasn't many invitations, I dare say," he said to himself as he looked after her. "If she had been still with Gertrude Englewood I might, perhaps, have got one or two people to be civil to them. But I daresay it would have been Quixotic, and it's the sort of thing I dislike doing--putting one's self under obligation for no real reason." If he had heard what Maisie Fforde was thinking to herself as she made her way quickly to her cousin! "What a pity!" she thought. "What a real pity that a man who must have had good material in him should have so sunk--to what I can't help thinking vulgarity of _feeling_, if not of externals--to such contemptible self-conceit and affectations! I can understand, however, that he may have been a nice boy once, as Gertrude maintains. Poor Gertrude--how her hero has turned out! I must never let her know how impossible I find it to resist drawing him out--it surely is not wrong? Oh, how I should _love_ to see him thoroughly humbled! The worst of it is, that when he becomes a reasonable being, as he does now and then, he can be so nice--interesting even--and I forget whom I am talking to. But not for long! No, indeed--`Mrs Englewood's dowdy _protegee_,' the `bread-and-butter miss,' for whom the tenth waltz was too much condescension, hasn't such a bad memory. And when I had looked forward to my first dance so, and fancied the world was a good and kind place! _Oh_!" and she clenched her hands as the hot mortification, the scathing _desillusionnement_, of that evening recurred to her in its full force. "Oh, I hope it is not wicked and un-Christian, but I should _love_ to see him humbled! I wonder if I shall meet him again. I hope not--and yet I hope I shall." The "again" came next at a dinner-party, to which she accompanied her cousin. Mrs Maberly was old-fashioned in some of her ideas. Nothing, for instance, would persuade her that it was courteous to be _more_ than twenty minutes later than the dinner-hour named, in consequence of which she not unfrequently found herself the first arrival. This in no way annoyed Maisie, as it might have done a less simple-minded maiden; indeed, on the contrary, it rather added to her enjoyment. She liked to get into a quiet corner and watch the various guests as they came in; she felt amused by, and yet sorry for, the little perturbations she sometimes discerned on the part of the hostess, especially if the latter happened to be young and at all anxious-minded. This was the case on the evening in question, when fully half-an-hour had been spent by Miss Fforde in her corner before dinner was announced. "It is too bad," Maisie overhead the young _chatelaine_ whisper to a friend, "such affectation really amounts to rudeness. But yet it is so awkward to go down--" then followed some words too low for her to understand, succeeded by a joyful exclamation--"Ah, there he is at last," as again the door opened, and "Mr Norreys" was announced. And Maisie's ears must surely have been praeter-naturally sharp, for through the buzz of voices, through the hostess's amiably expressed reproaches, they caught the sound of her own name, and the fatal words "that girl in black." "You must think me a sort of Frankenstein's nightmare," she could not help saying with a smile, as Despard approached to take her down to dinner. But she was scarcely prepared for the rejoinder. "I won't contradict you, Miss Ford, if you like to call yourself names. No, I should have been both surprised and disappointed had you not been here. I have felt sure all day I was going to meet you." Maisie felt herself blush, felt too that his eyes were upon her, and blushed more, in fury at herself. "Fool that I am," she thought. "He is going to play now at making me fall in love with him, is he? How contemptible, how absurd! Does he really imagine he can take me in?" She raised her head proudly and looked at him, to show him that she was not afraid to do so. But the expression on his face surprised her again. It was serious, gentle, and almost deprecating, yet with an honest light in the eyes such as she had never seen there before. "What an actor he would make," she thought. But a little quiver of some curious inexplicable sympathy which shot through her as she caught those eyes, belied the unspoken words. "I am giving far more thought to the man and his moods than he is worth," was the decision she had arrived at by the time they reached the dining-room door. "After all, the wisest philosophy is to take the goods the gods send us and enjoy them. I shall forget it all for the present, and speak to him as to any other pleasant man I happen to meet." And for that evening, and whenever they met, which was not unfrequently in the course of the next few weeks, Maisie Fforde kept to this determination. It was not difficult, for when he chose, Despard Norreys could be more than pleasant. And--"Miss Ford" in her third personality was not hard to be pleasant to; and--another "and"--they were both young, both--in certain directions--deplorably mistaken in their estimates of themselves; and, lastly, human nature is human nature still, through all the changes of philosophies, fashions, and customs. The girl was no longer acting a part; had she been doing so, indeed, she could not so perfectly have carried out the end she had, in the first fire of her indignation, vaguely proposed to herself. For the time being she was, so to speak, "letting herself go" with the pleasant insidious current of circumstances. Yet the memory of that first evening was still there. She had not forgotten. And Despard? CHAPTER THREE. The London season was over. Mr Norreys had been longing for its close; so, at least, he had repeated to his friends, and with even more insistence to himself, a great many, indeed a very great many, times, during the last hot, dusty weeks of the poor season's existence. He wanted to get off to Norway in a friend's yacht for some fishing, he said; he seemed for once really eager about it, so eager as to make more than one of his companions smile, and ask themselves what had come to Norreys, he who always took things with such imperturbable equanimity, what had given him this mania for northern fishing? And now the fishing and the trip were things of the past. They had not turned out as delightful in reality as in anticipation somehow, and yet what had gone wrong Despard, on looking back, found it hard to say. That nothing had gone wrong was the truth of the matter. The weather had been fine and favourable; the party had been well chosen; Lennox-Brown, the yacht's owner, was the perfection of a host. "It was a case of the workman, not of the tools, I suspect," Despard said to himself one morning, when, strolling slowly up and down the smooth bit of gravel path outside the drawing-room windows at Markerslea Vicarage, he allowed his thoughts to wander backwards some little way. "I am sick of it all," he went on, with an impatient shake, testifying to inward discomposure. "I'm a fool after all, no wiser, indeed a very great deal more foolish, than my neighbours. And I've been hard enough upon other fellows in my time. Little I knew! I cannot throw it off, and what to do I know not." He was staying with his sister, his only near relation. She was older than he, had been married for several years, and had but one trouble in life. She was childless. Naturally, therefore, she lavished on Despard an altogether undue amount of sisterly devotion. But she was by no means an entirely foolish woman. She had helped to spoil him, and she was beginning to regret it. "He is terribly, quite terribly _blase_," she was saying to herself as she watched him this morning, herself unobserved. "I have never seen it so plainly as this autumn," and she sighed. "He is changed, too; he is moody and irritable, and that is new. He has always been so sweet-tempered. Surely he has not got into money difficulties--I can scarcely think so. He is too sensible. Though, after all, as Charles often says, perhaps the best thing that could befall the poor boy would be to have to work hard for his living--" a most natural remark on the part of "Charles," seeing that he himself had always enjoyed a thoroughly comfortable sufficiency,--and again Mrs Selby sighed. Her sigh was echoed; she started slightly, then, glancing round, she saw that the glass door by which she stood was ajar, and that her brother had arrested his steps for a moment or two, and was within a couple of yards of her. It was his sigh that she had heard. Her face clouded over still more; it is even probable that a tear or two rose unbidden to her eyes. She was a calm, considering woman as a rule; for once she yielded to impulse, and, stepping out, quickly slipped her hand through Mr Norreys' arm. "My dear Despard," she said, "what a sigh! It sounded as if from the very depths of your heart, if," she went on, trying to speak lightly, "if you have one that is to say, which I have sometimes doubted." But he threw back no joke in return. "I have never given _you_ reason to doubt it, surely, Maddie?" he said half reproachfully. "No, no, dear. I'm in fun, of course. But seriously--" "I'm serious enough." "Yes, that you are--too serious. What's the matter, Despard, for that there is something the matter I am convinced?" He did not attempt to deny it. "Yes, Madeline," he said slowly, "I'm altogether upset. I've been false to all my own theories. I've been a selfish enough brute always, I know, but at least I think I've been consistent. I've chosen my own line, and lived the life, and among the people that suited me, and--" "Been dreadfully, _miserably_ spoilt, Despard." He glanced up at her sharply. No, she was not smiling. His face clouded over still more. "And that's the best even you can say of me?" he asked. Mrs Selby hardly let him finish. "No, no. I am blaming myself more than you," she said quickly. "You are much--much better than you know, Despard. You are not selfish really. Think of what you have done for others; how consistently you have given up those evenings to that night school." "One a week--what's that? And there's no credit in doing a thing one likes. I enjoy those evenings, and it's more than I can say for the average of my days." But his face cleared a very little as he spoke. "Well," she went on, "that shows you are not at heart an altogether selfish brute," and now she smiled a little. "And all the more does it show how much better you might still be if you chose. I am very glad, delighted, Despard, that you _are_ discontented and dissatisfied; I knew it would come sooner or later." Mr Norreys looked rather embarrassed. "Maddie," he began again, "you haven't quite understood me. I didn't finish my sentence. I was going on to say that at least I had done no harm to anyone else; if no one's any better through me, at least no one's the _worse_ for my selfishness--oh, yes, don't interrupt," he went on. "I know what you'd like to say--`No man liveth to himself,' the high-flown sort of thing. I don't go in for that. But _now_--I have not even kept my consistency. You'd never guess what I've gone and done--at least, Maddie, _can_ you guess?" And his at all times sweet voice sweetened and softened as he spoke, and into his eyes stole a look Madeline had never seen there before. "Despard," she exclaimed breathlessly, "have you, can you, have fallen in love?" He nodded. "Oh, dear Despard," she exclaimed, "I am so very glad. It will be the making of you. That's to say, if--but it must be somebody _very_ nice." "Nice enough in herself--nice," he repeated, and he smiled. "Yes, if by nice you mean everything sweet and womanly, and original and delightful, and--oh, you mustn't tempt me to talk about her. But what she is _herself_ is not the only thing, my poor Maddie." Mrs Selby gave a start. "Oh, Despard," she exclaimed, "you don't mean that she's a married woman." "No, no." "Or, or any one very decidedly beneath you?" she continued, with some relief, but anxiously still. Despard hesitated. "That's exactly what I can't quite say," he replied. "She's a lady by birth, that I'm sure of. But she has seen very little. Lived always in a village apparently--she has been in some ways unusually well and carefully educated. But I'm quite positive she's poor, really with nothing of her own, I fancy. I'm not sure--it has struck me once or twice that perhaps she had been intended for a governess." Mrs Selby gasped, but checked herself. "She has friends who are kind to her. I met her at some good houses. It was at Mrs Englewood's first of all, but since then I've seen her at much better places." "But why do you speak so doubtfully--you keep saying `I fancy'--`I suppose.' It must be easy to find out all about her." "No; that's just it. She's curiously, no--not reserved--she's too nice and well-bred for that sort of thing--but, if you can understand, she's _frankly_ backward in speaking of herself. She'll talk of anything but herself. She has an old invalid father whom she adores--and--upon my soul, that's about all she has ever told me." "You can ask Mrs Englewood, surely." Despard frowned. "I can, and I have; at least, I tried it. But it was not easy. She's been rather queer to me lately. She would volunteer no information, and of course--you see--I didn't want to seem interested on the subject. It's only just lately, since I came here in fact, that I've really owned it to myself," and his face flushed. "I went yachting and fishing to put it out of my head, but--it's been no use--I won't laugh at all that sort of thing again as I have done, I can tell you." "He's very much in earnest," thought Mrs Selby. "What--you don't mind telling me--what is her name?" she asked. "Ford--Miss Ford. I fancy her first name is Mary. There's a pet name they call her by," but he did not tell it. "Mary Ford--that does not sound aristocratic," mused Mrs Selby. "Despard, tell me--Mrs Englewood is really fond of you. Do you think she knows anything against the girl, or her family, or anything like that, and that she was afraid of it for you?" "Oh, dear no! Quite the contrary, Mai--Miss Ford is a great pet of hers. Gertrude was angry with me for not being civil to her," and he laughed. "Not being civil to her," she repeated. "And you were falling in love with her? How do you mean?" "That was afterwards. I was brutally uncivil to her at first. That's how it began somehow," he said, disconnectedly. Mrs Selby felt utterly perplexed. Was he being taken in by a designing girl? It all sounded very inconsistent. "Despard," she said after a little silence, "shall I try to find out all about her from Mrs Englewood? She would not refuse any information if it was for your sake." He considered. "Well, yes," he said, "perhaps you'd better." "And--" she went on, "if all is satisfactory--" "Well?" "You will go through with it?" "I--suppose so. Altogether satisfactory it can't be. I'm fairly well off as a bachelor, but that's a very different matter. And--Maddie--I should hate poverty." "You would have no need to call it poverty," she said rather coldly. "Well--well--I'm speaking comparatively of course," he replied, impatiently. "It would be what _I_ call poverty. And I am selfish, I know. The best of me won't come out under those circumstances. I've no right to marry, you see--that's what's been tormenting me." "But if she likes to face it--would not that bring out the best of you?" said Mrs Selby hopefully, though in her heart rather shocked by his way of speaking. "Perhaps--I can't say. But of course if she did--" "And you are sure she would?" asked Madeline, suddenly awaking to the fact that Miss Ford's feelings in the matter had been entirely left out of the question. Despard smiled. "Do you mean am I sure she cares for me?" he said. "Oh, yes--as for that--" "I don't like a girl who--who lets it be seen if she cares for a man," she said. Mr Norreys turned upon her. "Lets it be seen," he repeated angrily. "Maddie, you put things very disagreeably. Would I--tell me, is it likely that _I_ would take to a girl so utterly devoid of delicacy as your words sound? And is it so improbable that a girl would care for me?" He smiled in spite of himself, and Mrs Selby's answering smile as she murmured: "I did not mean that, you know," helped to smooth him down. "She did her best to make me think she detested me," he added. "But--" "Ah, yes, but--" said his sister fondly. "Then it is settled, Despard," she went on. "I shall tackle Mrs Englewood in my own way. You can trust me. You don't know where Miss Ford is at present?" she added. He shook his head despondently. "Not the ghost of an idea. I didn't try to hear. I thought I didn't want to know, you see. But--Maddie," he added, half timidly, "you'll write at once?" "As soon as I possibly can," she replied kindly, for glancing at him she saw that he looked really ill and worn. "And," she went on, "as my reward, you will go with me to the Densters' garden-party this afternoon. Charles can't, and I hate going alone. I don't know them-- it is their first year here, though everybody says they are very nice people." "Oh, dear," said Despard. "Very well, Maddie. I must, I suppose." "Then be ready at a quarter to four. I'll drive you in the pony-carriage," and Madeline disappeared through the glass door whence she had emerged. "I wonder if she will write to-day," thought Mr Norreys, though he would have been ashamed to ask it. "I should like to know it's done--a sort of crossing the Rubicon. And it's a good while now since that last day I saw her. She was never quite so sweet as that day. Supposing I heard she was married?" His heart seemed to stop beating at the thought, and he grew white, though there was no one to see. But he reassured himself. Few things were less likely. Portionless girls, however charming, don't marry so quickly nowadays. Madeline's feelings were mingled. She was honestly and unselfishly glad of what she believed might be a real turning point towards good for Despard. Yet--"if only he had not chosen a girl quite so denuded of worldly advantages as she evidently is," she reflected. "For of course if she had either money or connection Mrs Englewood would not have kept it a secret. She is far too outspoken. I must beg her to tell everything she knows, not to be afraid of my mixing her name up in the matter in any way. When she sees that Charles and I do not disapprove she will feel less responsibility." And it was with a comfortable sense of her own and "Charles's" unworldliness that Mrs Selby prepared to indite the important letter. She saw little of her brother till the afternoon. He did not appear at luncheon, having left word that he had gone for a long walk. "Provided only that he is not too late for the Densters'," thought Madeline, with a little sigh over the perversity of mankind. But her fears were unfounded. At ten minutes to four Mr Norreys made his appearance in the hall, faultlessly attired, apologising with his usual courtesy, in which to his sister he never failed, for his five minutes' delay, and Mrs Selby, feeling pleased with herself outwardly and inwardly, for she was conscious both of looking well in a very pretty new bonnet, and of acting a truly high-minded part as a sister, seated herself in her place, with a glance of satisfaction at her companion. "Everybody will be envying me," she said to herself, with a tiny sigh as she remembered former air-castles in Despard's behoof. "The Flores-Carter girls and Edith and Bertha Byder, indeed all the neighbourhood get quite excited if they know he's here. He might have had his choice of the best matches in this county, to my own knowledge, and there are several girls with money. Ah, well!" The grounds seemed already fall of guests when the brother and sister drove up to the Densters' door. Mrs Selby was at once seized upon by some of her special cronies, and for half an hour or so Despard kept dutifully beside her, allowing himself to be introduced to any extent, doing his best to please his sister by responding graciously to the various attentions which were showered upon him. But he grew very tired of it all in a little while--a curious dreamy feeling began to come over him, born no doubt of the unwonted excitement of his conversation with Madeline that morning. He had gone a long walk in hopes of recovering his usual equanimity, but had only succeeded in tiring himself physically. The mere fact of having put in words to another the conflict of the last few months seemed to have given actual existence to that which he had by fits and starts been trying to persuade himself was but a passing fancy. And even to himself he could not have told whether he was glad or sorry that the matter had come to a point--had, as it were, been taken out of his own hands. For that Madeline had already written to Mrs Englewood he felt little doubt. "Women are always in such a desperate hurry," he said to himself, which, all things considered, was surely most unreasonable. Nor could he have denied that it was so, for even as he made the reflection he began to calculate in how many, or how few rather, days they might look for an answer, and to speculate on the chances of Mrs Englewood's being acquainted with Maisie's present whereabouts. "Maisie," he called her to himself, though he had somehow shrunk from telling the name to his sister. It was so sweet--so _like_ her, he repeated softly, though, truth to tell, sweetness was not the most conspicuous quality in our heroine. But Despard was honestly in love after all, as many better and many worse men have been before him, and will be again. And love of the best kind, which on the whole his was, is clairvoyant--he was not wrong about Maisie's real sweetness. "I do care for her, as deeply, as thoroughly as ever a man cared for a woman. But I don't want to marry; it's against all my plans and ideas. I didn't want to fall in love either, for that matter. The whole affair upsets everything I had ever dreamt of." He felt dreaming now--he had managed to leave his sister and her friends, absorbed in the excitement of watching a game of lawn tennis between the best players of the county, and had stolen by himself down some shady walks away from the sparkle and chatter of the garden-party. The quiet and dimness soothed him, but increased the strange unreal feeling, of which he had been conscious since the morning. He felt as if nothing that could happen would surprise him--he was actually, in point of fact, _not_ surprised, when at a turn in the path he saw suddenly before him, advancing towards him, her cloudy black drapery-- for she was in black as ever--scarcely distinguishable from the dark shrubs at each side, the very person around whom all his thoughts were centring--Maisie--Maisie Ford herself! He did not start, he made no exclamation. A strange intent look came into his eyes, as he walked on towards her. Long afterwards he remembered, and it helped to explain things, that she too had testified no surprise. But her face flushed a little, and the first expression he caught sight of was one of pleasure--afterwards, long afterwards, he remembered this too. They met--their hands touched. But for a moment he did not speak. "How do you do, Mr Norreys?" she said then. "It is hot and glaring on the lawn, is it not? I have just been seeing my father off. He was too tired to stay longer, and I was glad to wander about here in the shade a little." "Your father?" he repeated half mechanically. "Yes--we are staying, he and I, for a few days at Laxter's Hill. I am so sorry he has gone--I would so have liked you to see him." She spoke eagerly, and with the peculiar, bright girlishness really natural to her, which was one of her greatest charms. Despard looked at her; her voice and manner helped him a little to throw off the curious sensation of unreality. But he was, though he scarcely knew it, becoming inwardly more and more wrought up. "I should have liked to see him exceedingly," he began, "any one so dear to you. I may hope some other time, perhaps, to do so? I--I was thinking of you when I first caught sight of you just now, Miss Ford-- indeed, I have done nothing--upon my word, you may believe me--I have done little else than think of you since we last met." The girl's face grew strangely still and intent, yet with a wistful look in the eyes telling of feelings not to be easily read. It was as if she were listening, in spite of herself, for something she still vaguely hoped she was mistaken in expecting. "Indeed," she began to say, but he interrupted her. "No," he said, "do not speak till you have heard me. I had made up my mind to it before I met you just now. I was just wondering how and when it could be. But now that this opportunity has come so quickly I will not lose it. I love you--I have loved you for longer than I knew myself, than I would own to myself--" "From the very first, from that evening at Mrs Englewood's?" she said, and but for his intense preoccupation, he would have been startled by her tone. "Yes," he said simply, yet with a strain of retrospection in his eyes, as if determined to control himself and speak nothing but the unexaggerated truth--"yes, I almost think it began that first evening, rude, brutally rude as I was to you. I would not own it--I struggled against it, for I did not want to marry. I had no thought of it. I am selfish, very selfish, I fear, and I preferred to keep clear of all ties and responsibilities, which too often become terribly galling on small means. I am no hero--but now--you will forgive my hesitation and--and reluctance, will you not? You are generous I know, and my frankness will not injure me with you, will it? You will believe that I loved you almost from the first, though I could not all at once make up my mind to marrying on small means? And now--now that I understand--that--that all seems different to me--that nothing seems of consequence except to hear you say you love me, as--as I have thought sometimes--Maisie--you will not be hard on me?--" He stopped; he could have gone on much longer, and there was nothing now outwardly to interrupt him. She had stood there motionless, listening. Her face he could scarcely see, it was half turned away, but that seemed not unnatural. What then caused his sudden misgiving? "Maisie," he repeated more timidly. Then she turned--there was a burning spot of red on each cheek, her eyes were flaming. Yet her voice was low and quiet. "Hard on you!" she repeated. "I am too sorry for myself to think or care much about you. I am--yes, I may own it, I am so horribly disappointed. I had really allowed myself to think of you as sincere, as, in spite of your unmanly affectations, your contemptible conceit, an honest man, a possible friend I was beginning to forgive your ill-bred insolence to me as a stranger at the first, thinking there was something worthy of respect about you after all. But--oh, dear! And to try to humbug me by this sham honesty--to dare to say you did not think you could have cared for me enough to risk curtailing your own self-indulgences, but that now--it is too pitiful. But, oh, dear--it is too horribly disappointing!" And as she looked at him again, he saw that her eyes were actually full of tears. His brain was in a whirl of bewilderment, bitterest mortification and indignation. For the moment the last had the best of it. "You have a right to refuse me, to despise my weakness if you choose-- whether it is generous to take advantage of my misplaced confidence in you in having told you all--yes, _all_, is another matter. But one thing you shall not accuse me of, and that is, of lying to you. I have not said one untruthful word. I did--yes, I _did_ love you, Mary Ford-- what I feel to you now is something more like--" He hesitated. "Hate, I suppose," she suggested mockingly. "All the better. It cannot be a pleasant feeling to hate any one, and I do not wish you anything pleasant. If I could believe," she went on slowly, "if I could believe you had loved me, I think I should be glad, for it would be what you deserve. I would have liked to make you love me from that very first evening if I could--just to but unluckily I am not the sort of woman to succeed in anything of that kind. However--" She stopped; steps approaching them were heard through the stillness. Maisie turned. "I have nothing more to say, and I do not suppose you wish to continue this conversation. Good-bye, Mr Norreys." And almost before he knew she had gone, she had quite disappeared. Despard was a strong man, but for a moment or two he really thought he was going to faint. He had grown deathly white while Maisie's hard, bitter words rained down upon him like hailstones; now that she had left him he grew so giddy that, had he not suddenly caught hold of a tree, he would have fallen. "It feels like a sunstroke," he said vaguely to himself, as he realised that his senses were deserting him, not knowing that he spoke aloud. He did not know either that some one had seen him stagger, and almost fall. A slightly uneasy feeling had made Maisie stop as she hurried off and glance back, herself unobserved. "He looked so fearfully white," she said; "do--do men always look like that when girls refuse them, I wonder?" For Maisie's experience of such things actually coming to the point, was, as should be the case with all true women, but small. "I thought--I used to think I would enjoy seeing him humbled. But he did seem in earnest." And then came the glimpse of the young fellow's physical discomfiture. Maisie was horribly frightened; throwing all considerations but those of humanity to the winds she rushed back again. "Perhaps he has heart-disease, though he looks so strong," she thought, "and if so--oh, perhaps I have killed him." She was beside him in an instant. A rustic bench, which Despard was too dizzy to see, stood near. The girl seized hold of his arm and half drew it round her shoulder. He let her do so unresistingly. "Try to walk a step or two, Mr Norreys," she said, "I am very strong. There, now," as he obeyed her mechanically, "here is a seat," and she somehow half pushed, half drew him on to it. "Please smell this," and she took out a little silver vinaigrette, of strong and pungent contents, "I am never without this, for papa is so delicate, you know." Despard tried to open his eyes, tried to speak, but the attempt was not very successful. Maisie held the vinaigrette close to his nose; he started back, the strong essence revived him almost at once. He took it into his own hand and smelt it again. Then his face grew crimson. "I beg your pardon a thousand times. I am most ashamed, utterly ashamed of myself," he began. But Maisie was too practically interested in his recovery to feel embarrassed. "Keep sniffing at that thing," she said, "you will soon be all right. Only just tell me--" she added anxiously, "there isn't anything wrong with your heart, is there?" "For if so," she added to herself, "I must at all costs run and see if there is a doctor to be had." Despard smiled--a successfully bitter smile. "No, thank you," he said. "I am surprised that you credit me with possessing one," he could not resist adding. "The real cause of this absurd faintness is a very prosaic one, I fancy. I went a long walk in the hot sun this morning." "Oh, indeed, that quite explains it," said Maisie, slightly nettled. "Good-bye again then," and for the second time she ran off. "All the same, I will get Conrad or somebody to come round that way," she said to herself. "I will just say I saw a man looking as if he was fainting. _He_ won't be likely to tell." And Despard sat there looking at the little silver toy in his bands. "I did not thank her," he said to himself. "I suppose I should have done so, though she would have done as much, or more, for a starving tramp on the road." Then he heard again steps coming nearer like those which had startled Maisie away. They had apparently turned off elsewhere the first time--this time they came steadily on. CHAPTER FOUR. As Despard heard the steps coming nearer he looked round uneasily, with a vague idea of hurrying off so as to escape observation. But when he tried to stand up and walk, he found that anything like quick movement was beyond him still. So he sat down again, endeavouring to look as if nothing were the matter, and that he was merely resting. Another moment or two, and a young man appeared, coming hastily along the path by which Despard had himself made his way into the shrubbery. He was quite young, two or three and twenty at most, fair, slight, and boyish-looking. He passed by Mr Norreys with but the slightest glance in his direction, but just as Despard was congratulating himself on this, the new-comer stopped short, hesitated, and then, turning round and lifting his hat, came up to him. "Excuse me," he said, "do you know Lady Margaret--by sight? Has she passed this way?" He spoke quickly, and Mr Norreys did not catch the surname. "No," he replied, "I have not the honour of the lady's acquaintance." "I beg your pardon," said the other. "I've been sent to look for her, and I can't find her anywhere." Then he turned, but again hesitated. "There's nothing the matter, is there? You've not hurt yourself--or anything? You look rather--as if a cricket ball had hit you, you know." Mr Norreys smiled. "Thank you," he said. "I have got a frightful pain in my head. I was out too long in the sun this morning." The boyish-looking man shook his head. "Touch of sunstroke--eh? Stupid thing to do, standing in the sun this weather. Should take a parasol; I always do. Then I can't be of any service?" "Yes," said Despard, as a sudden idea struck him. "If you happen to know my sister, Mrs Selby, by sight, I'd be eternally grateful to you if you would tell her I'm going home. I'll wait for her at the old church, would you say?" "Don't know her, but I'll find her out. Mrs Selby, of Markerslea, I suppose? Well, take my advice, and keep on the shady side of the road." "I shall go through the woods, thank you. My sister will understand." With a friendly nod the young fellow went off. Despard had been roused by the talk with him. He got up now and went slowly round to the back of the house--it was a place he had known in old days--thus avoiding all risk of coming across any of the guests. By a path behind the stables he made his way slowly into the woods, and in about half an hour's time he found himself where these ended at the high road, along which his sister must pass. There was a stile near, over which, through a field, lay a footpath to the church, known thereabouts as the old church, and here on the stile Mr Norreys seated himself to await Mrs Selby. "I've managed that pretty neatly," he said, trying to imagine he was feeling as usual. "I wonder who that fellow was. He seemed to have heard Maddie's name though he did not know her." He was perfectly clear in his head now, but the pain in it was racking. He tried not to think, but in vain. Clearer, and yet more clearly, stood out before his mind's eye the strange drama of that afternoon. And the more he thought of it, the more he looked at it, approaching it from every side, the more incapable he became of explaining Miss Ford's extraordinary conduct. The indignation which had at first blotted out almost all other feeling gradually gave way to his extreme perplexity. "She had no sort of grounds for speaking to me as she did," he reflected. "Accusing me vaguely of unworthy motives--what _could_ she mean?" Then a new idea struck him. "Some one has been making mischief," he thought: "that must be it, though what and how, I cannot conceive. Gertrude Englewood would not do it intentionally--but still-- I saw that she was changed to me. I shall have it out with her. After all, I hope Madeline's letter _has_ gone." And a vague, very faint hope began to make itself felt that perhaps, after all, all was _not_ lost. If _she_ had been utterly misled about him--if-- He drew a deep breath, and looked round. It was the very sweetest moment of a summer's day existence, that at which late afternoon begins softly and silently to fade into early evening. There was an almost Sabbath stillness in the air, a tender suggestion of night's reluctant approach, and from where Despard sat the white headstones of some graves in the ancient churchyard were to be seen among the grass. The man felt strangely moved and humbled. "If I could hope ever to win her," he thought, "I feel as if I had it in me to be a better man--I am not _all_ selfish and worldly, Maisie-- surely not? But what has made her judge me so cruelly? It is awful to remember what she said, and to imagine what sort of an opinion she must have of me to have been able to say it. For--no, that was _not_ my contemptible conceit--" and his face flushed. "She _was_ beginning to care for me. She is too generous to have remembered vindictively my insolence, for insolence it was, at the first. Besides, she said herself that she had been getting to like and trust me as a friend. Till to-day--has the change in her all come from what I said to-day? No girl can despise a man for the fact of his caring for her--what can it be? Good heavens, I feel as if I should go mad!" And he wished that the pain in his head, which had somewhat subsided, would get worse again, if only it would stop his thinking. But just then came the sound of wheels. In another moment Mrs Selby's pony-carriage was in sight. Despard got off his stile, and walked slowly down the road to meet her. "So you faithless--" she began--for, to tell the truth, she had not attached much credence to the story which had reached her of the frightful headache--but she changed her tone the moment she caught sight of his face. "My poor boy, you do look ill!" she exclaimed. "I am so sorry. I would have come away at once if I had known." "It doesn't matter," Despard replied, as he got into the carriage; "but did you not get my message?" "Oh, yes; but I thought it was just that you were tired and bored. What in the matter, dear Despard? You don't look the least like yourself." "I fancy it was the sun this morning," he said. "But it's passing off, I think." Madeline felt by no means sure that it was so. "I am so sorry," she repeated, "and so vexed with myself. Do you know who the young man was that gave me your message?" Despard shook his head. "It was Mr Conrad Fforde, Lord Southwold's nephew and heir--heir at least to the title, but to little else." "So I should suppose," said Norreys indifferently. "The Southwolds are very poor." "How queer that he knew your name if you have never met him before," said Mrs Selby. "But I dare say it's through the Flores-Carters; they're such great friends of mine, you know, and they are staying at Laxter's Hill as well as the Southwold party." "Yes," Despard agreed, "he had evidently heard of you." "And of you too in that case. People do so chatter in the country. The Carters are dying to get you there. They have got the Southwolds to promise to go to them next week. They--the Carter girls--are perfectly wild about Lady Margaret. I think it would be better taste not to make up to her so much; it does _look_ as if it was because she was what she is, though I know it isn't really that. They get up these fits of enthusiasm. And she is very nice--not _very_ pretty, you know, but wonderfully nice and unspoilt, considering." "Unspoilt," repeated Despard. He was glad to keep his sister talking about indifferent matters. "I don't see that poor Lord Southwold's daughter has any reason to be spoilt." "Oh, dear yes--didn't you know? I thought you knew everything of that kind. It appears that she is a tremendous heiress; I forget the figures. The fortune comes from her aunt's husband. Her mother's elder sister married an enormously wealthy man, and as they had no children or near relations on his side, he left all to this girl. Of course she and her father have always known it, but it has been kept very quiet. They have lived in the country six months of the year, and travelled the other six. She has been most carefully brought up and splendidly educated. But she has never been `out' in society at all till this year." "I never remember hearing of them in town," said Despard. "Oh, Lord Southwold himself never goes out. He is dreadfully delicate-- heart-disease, I think. But she--Lady Margaret--will be heard of _now_. It has all come out about her fortune now that he has come into the title. His cousin, the last earl, only died two months ago." "And," said Despard, with a strange sensation, as if he were listening to some one else speaking rather than speaking himself, "till he came into the title, what was he called? He was the last man's cousin, you say?" "Yes, of course; he was Mr Fforde--Fforde with two `f's' and an `e,' you know. It's the family name of the Southwolds. That young man--the one you spoke to--is Mr Conrad Fforde, as I told you. They say that--" But a glance at her brother made her hesitate. "Despard, is your head worse?" she asked anxiously. "It comes on by fits and starts," he replied. "But don't mind; go on speaking. What were you going to say?" "Oh, only about young Mr Fforde. They say he is to marry Lady Margaret; they are only second cousins. But I don't think he looks good enough for her. She seems such a womanly, nice-feeling girl. We had just been introduced when Mr Fforde came up with your message, and she wanted him to go back to you at once. But he said you would be gone already, and I--well, I didn't quite believe about your head being so bad, and perhaps I seemed very cool about it, for Lady Margaret really looked quite vexed. Wasn't it nice of her? The Carters had been telling her about us evidently. I think she was rather disappointed not to see the famous Despard Norreys, do you know? I rather wonder you never met her this summer in town, though perhaps you would scarcely have remarked her just as Miss Fforde, for she isn't--" But an exclamation from Despard startled her. "Maddie," he said, "don't you understand? It _must_ be she--she, this Lady Margaret--the great heiress! Good heavens!" Mrs Selby almost screamed. "Despard!" was all she could say. But she quickly recovered herself. "Well, after all," she went on, "I don't see that there's any harm done. She will know that you were absolutely disinterested, and surely that will go a long way. But--just to think of it! Oh, Despard, fancy your saying that you half thought she was going to be a governess! Oh, dear, _how_ extraordinary! And I that was so regretting that you had not met her! What a good thing you did not--I mean _what_ a good thing that my letter showing your ignorance was written and sent before you knew who she was! Don't you see how lucky it was?" She turned round, her eyes sparkling with excitement and eagerness. But there was no response in Mr Norreys' face; on the contrary, its expression was such that Mrs Selby's own face grew pale with dread. "Despard," she said, "why do you look like that? You are not going to say that now, because she is an heiress--just because of _money_," with a tone of supreme contempt, "that you will give it up? You surely--" But Mr Norreys interrupted her. "Has the letter gone, Maddie?" She nodded her head. "Then I must write again at once--myself--to Gertrude Englewood to make her promise on her honour never to tell what you wrote. Even if I thought she would believe it--and I am not sure that she would--I could never allow myself to be cleared in her eyes _now_." Madeline stared at him. Had the sunstroke affected his brain? "Despard," she said, "what do you mean?" He turned his haggard face towards her. "I don't know how to tell you," he said. "I wish I need not, but as you know so much I must. I _did_ see her, Madeline. I met her when I was strolling about the shrubbery over there. She was quite alone and no one near. It seemed to have happened on purpose, and--I told her all." "You proposed to her?" He nodded. "As--as Miss Fforde, or as--" began Mrs Selby. "As Miss Ford, of course, without the two `f's' and the `e' at the end," he said bitterly. "I didn't know till this moment either that her father was an earl, or, which is much worse, that she was a great heiress." "And what is wrong, then?" "Just that she refused me--refused me with the most biting contempt-- the--the bitterest scorn--no, I cannot speak of it. She thought I knew, had found out about her--and now I see that my misplaced honesty, the way I spoke, must have given colour to it. She taunted me with my insolence at the first--good God! what an instrument of torture a woman's tongue can be! There is only one thing to do--to stop Gertrude's ever telling of that letter." "Oh, Despard!" exclaimed Mrs Selby, and her eyes filled with tears. "What a _horrid_ girl she must be! And I thought she looked so sweet and nice. She seemed so sorry when her cousin told me about you. Tell me, was that after? Oh, yes, of course, it must have been. Despard, I believe she was already repenting her cruelty." "Hush, Madeline," said Mr Norreys sternly. "You mean it well, but--you must promise me never to allude to all this again. You will show me Mrs Englewood's letter when it comes--that you must do, and I will write to her. But there is no more to be said. Let to-day be between us as if it had never been. Promise me, dear." He laid his hand on her arm. Madeline turned her tearful eyes towards him. "Very well," she said. "I must, I suppose. But, oh, what a dreadful pity it all seems. You to have fallen in love with her for herself--you that have never really cared for any one before--when you thought her only a governess; and now for it to have all gone wrong! It would have been so nice and delightful." "A sort of Lord Burleigh business, with the characters reversed--yes, quite idyllic," said Despard sneeringly. "Despard, don't. It does so pain me," Mrs Selby said with real feeling. "There is one person I am furious with," she went on in a very different tone, "and that is Mrs Englewood. She had no business to play that sort of trick." "Perhaps she could not help herself. You say the father--Mr Fforde as he then was--did not wish her to be known as an heiress," said Mr Norreys. "She might have made an exception for you," said Madeline. Despard's brows contracted. Mrs Selby thought it was from the pain in his head, but it was more than that. A vision rose before him of a sweet flushed girlish face, with gentle pleasure and appeal in the eyes--and of Gertrude's voice, "If you don't dance, will you talk to her? Anything to please her a little, you know." "I think Gertrude did all she could. I believe she is a perfectly loyal and faithful friend," he said; "but for heaven's sake, Maddie, let us drop it for ever. I will write this evening to Gertrude myself, and that will be the last act in the drama." No letter, however, was written to Mrs Englewood that evening--nor the next day, nor for that matter during the rest of the time that saw Despard Norreys a guest at Markerslea Rectory. And several days passed after the morning that brought her reply to Mrs Selby's letter of inquiry, before the person it chiefly concerned was able to see it. For the pain in his head, the result of slight sunstroke in the first place, aggravated by unusual excitement, had culminated in a sharp attack which at one time was not many degrees removed from brain fever. The risk was tided over, however, and at no time was the young man in very serious danger. But Mrs Selby suffered quite as much as if he had been dying. She made up her mind that he would not recover, and as her special friends received direct information to that effect, it is not to be wondered at that the bad news flew fast. It reached Laxter's Hill one morning in the week following Lady Denster's garden-party. It was the day which was to see the breaking-up of the party assembled there to meet Lord Southwold and his daughter, and it came in a letter to Edith Flores-Carter from Mrs Selby herself. "Oh, dear," the girl ejaculated, her usually bright, not to say jolly-looking countenance clouding over as she spoke, "oh, dear, I'm so sorry for the Selbys--for Mrs Selby particularly. Just fancy, doesn't it seem awful--her brother's dying." She glanced round the breakfast-table for sympathy: various expressions of it reached her. "That fellow I found in the grounds at that place, is it?" inquired Mr Fforde. "I'm not surprised, he did look pretty bad, and he would walk home, and he hadn't even a parasol." "Conrad, how _can_ you be so unfeeling? I perfectly detest that horrid trick of joking about everything," said in sharp, indignant tones a young lady seated opposite him. It was Lady Margaret. Several people looked up in surprise. "Beginning in good time," murmured a man near the end of the table. "Why, do you believe in that? I don't," replied his companion in the same low tone. Conrad looked across the table at his cousin in surprise. "Come now, Maisie," he said, "you make me feel quite shy, scolding me so in company. And I'm sure I didn't _mean_ to say anything witty at the poor chap's expense. If I did, it was quite by mistake I assure you." "Anything `witty' from you would be that, I can quite believe," Lady Margaret replied, smiling a little. But the smile was a feeble and forced one. Conrad saw, if no one else did, that his cousin was thoroughly put out, and he felt repentant, though he scarcely knew why. Half an hour later Lord Southwold and his daughter were talking together in the sitting-room, where the former had been breakfasting in invalid fashion alone. "I would promise to be home to-morrow, or the day after at latest, papa," Lady Margaret was saying; "Mrs Englewood will be very pleased to have me, I know, even at the shortest notice, for last week when I wrote saying I feared it would be impossible, she was very disappointed." "Very well, my dear, only don't stay with her longer than that, for you know we have engagements," and Lord Southwold sighed a little. Margaret sighed too. "My darling," said her father, "don't look so depressed. I didn't mean to grumble." "Oh no, papa. It isn't you at all. I shall be glad to be at home again; won't you? Thank you very much for letting me go round by town." Mrs Englewood's drawing-room--but looking very different from the last time we saw it. Mrs Englewood herself, with a more anxious expression than usual on her pleasant face, was sitting by the open window, through which, however, but little air found its way, for it was hot, almost stifling weather. "It is really a trial to have to come back to town before it is cooler," she was saying to herself, as the door opened and Lady Margaret, in summer travelling gear, came in. "So you are really going, dear Maisie," said her hostess. "I do wish you could have waited another day." "But," said Maisie, "you will let me know at once what you hear from Mrs Selby. I cannot help being unhappy, Gertrude, and, of course, what you have told me has made me still more self-reproachful, and--and ashamed." She was very pale, but a sudden burning blush overspread her face as she said the last words. "I do _so_ hope he will recover," she added, trying to speak lightly, "though if he does I earnestly hope I shall never meet him again." "Even if I succeed in making him understand _your_ side, and showing him how generously you regret having misjudged him?" said Mrs Englewood. "I don't see that there need be any enmity between you." "Not _enmity_, oh no; but still less, friendship," said Maisie. "I just _trust_ we shall never meet again. Good-bye, dear Gertrude: I am so glad to have told you all. You will let me know what you hear?" and she kissed Mrs Englewood affectionately. "Good-bye, dear child. I am glad you have not a long journey before you. Stretham will take good care of you. You quite understand that I can do nothing indirectly--it will only be when I see him himself that I can tell him how sorry you have been." "Sorry and _ashamed_, be sure to say `ashamed,'" said Lady Margaret: "yes, of course, it can only be if--if he gets better or you see him yourself." Two or three days later came a letter to Lady Margaret from Mrs Englewood, inclosing one which that lady had just received from Mrs Selby. Her brother, she allowed for the first time, was out of danger, but "terribly weak." And at intervals during the next few weeks the girl heard news of Mr Norreys' recovery. And "I wonder," she began to say to herself, "I wonder if Gertrude has seen him, or will be seeing him soon." But this hope, if hope it should be called, was doomed to disappointment. Late in October came another letter from her friend. "I am sorry," wrote Mrs Englewood, "that I see no probability of my meeting Mr Norreys for a long time. He is going abroad. After all, your paths in life are not likely to cross each other again. Perhaps it is best to leave things." But the tears filled Maisie's eyes as she read. "I should have liked him to know I had come to do him justice," she thought. She did not understand Mrs Englewood's view of the matter. "It would be cruel," Gertrude had said to herself, "to tell him how she blames herself, and how my showing her Mrs Selby's letter had cleared him. It would only bring it all up again when he has doubtless begun to forget it." Nevertheless, Despard did not leave England without knowing how completely Lady Margaret had retracted her cruel words, and how bitterly she regretted them. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Time passes quickly, we are told, when we are hard at work. And doubtless this is true while the time in question is the present. But to look back upon time of which every day and every hour have been fully occupied, gives somewhat the feeling of a closely-printed volume when one has finished reading it. It seems even longer than in anticipation. To Despard Norreys, when at the end of two busy years he found himself again in England, it appeared as if he had been absent five or six times as long as was really the case. He had been a week in England, and was still detained in town by details connected with the work he had successfully accomplished. He was under promise to his sister to run down to Markerslea the first day it should be possible, and time meanwhile hung somewhat heavily on his hands. The waters had already closed over his former place in society, and he did not regret it. Still there were friends whom he was glad to meet again, and so he not unwillingly accepted some of the invitations that began to find him out. One evening, after dining at the house of the friend whose influence had obtained for him the appointment which had just expired, he accompanied the ladies of the family to an evening party in the neighbourhood. He had never been in the house before; the faces about him were unfamiliar. Feeling a little "out of it," he strolled into a small room where a select quartette was absorbed at whist, and seated himself in a corner somewhat out of the glare of light, which, since his illness, rather painfully affected his eyes. Suddenly the thought of Maisie Fforde as he had last seen her seemed to rise before him as in a vision. "I wonder if she is married," he said to himself. "Sure to be so, I should think. Yet I should probably have heard of it." And even as the words formed themselves in his mind, a still familiar voice caught his ear. "Thank you. Yes, this will do nicely. I will wait here till Mabel is ready to go." And a lady--a girl, he soon saw--came forward into the room towards the corner where he was sitting. He rose at once; she approached him quickly, then with a sudden, incoherent exclamation, made as if she would have drawn back. But it was too late; she could not, if she wished, have pretended she did not see him. "Mr Norreys," she began; "I had no idea--" "That I was in England," he said. "No, I have only just returned. Pardon me for having startled you, Miss Fforde--Lady Margaret, I mean. I on my side had no idea of meeting you here or--" "Or you would not have come," she in her turn interrupted him with. "Thank you; you are frank at all events," she added haughtily. He turned away. There was perhaps some involuntary suggestion of reproach in his manner, for hers changed. "No," she said. "I am very wrong. Please stay for two minutes, and listen to me. I have hoped and prayed that I might never meet you again, but at the same time I made a vow--a real vow," she went on girlishly, "that _if_ I did so I would swallow my pride, and--and ask you to forgive me. There now--I have said it. That is all. Will you, Mr Norreys?" He glanced round; the whist party was all unconscious of the rest of the world still-- "Will you not sit down for a moment, Lady Margaret?" he said, and as she did so he too drew a chair nearer to hers. "It is disagreeable to be overheard," he went on in a tone of half apology. "You ask me what I cannot now do," he added. The girl reared her head, and the softness of her manner hardened at once. "Then," she said, "we are quits. It does just as well. My conscience is clear now." "So is mine, as to _that_ particular of--of what you call forgiving you," he said, and his voice was a degree less calm. "I cannot do so now, for--I forgave you long, long ago." "You have seen Mrs Englewood? She has told you at last that all was explained to me--your sister's letter and all," she went on confusedly, "that I saw how horrid, how low and mean and suspicious and everything I had been?" "I knew all you refer to before I left England," he said simply. "But I asked Mrs Englewood to leave it as it was, unless she was absolutely forced to tell you. I knew you must hate the sound of my name, and she promised to drop the subject." "And I have scarcely seen her for a long time," said Maisie. "I saw she did avoid it, and I suppose she thought it no use talking about it." "I did not need her explanation," Despard went on gently. "I had--if you will have the word--I had forgiven you long before. Indeed, I think I did so almost at once. It was all natural on your part. What had I done, what was I that you should have thought any good of me? When you remembered the way I behaved to you at first," and here his voice grew very low. "I have never been able to--I shall never be able to forgive myself--" "Mr Norreys!" said Maisie in a very contrite tone. But Despard kept silence. "Are you going to stay at home now, or are you going away again?" she asked presently, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact way. "I hardly know. I am waiting to see what I can get to do. I don't much mind what, but I shall never again be able to be idle," he said, smiling a little for the first time. "It is my own fault entirely--the fault of my own past folly--that I am not now well on in the profession I was intended for. So I must not grumble if I have to take what work I can get in any part of the world. I would rather stay in England for some reasons." "Why?" she asked. "I cannot stand heat very well," he said. "My little sunstroke left some weak points--my eyes are not strong." She did not answer at once. Then, "How crooked things are," she said at last suddenly; "you want work, and I--oh, I am _so_ busy and worried. Papa impressed upon me that I must look after things myself, and accept the responsibilities, but--I don't think he quite saw how difficult it would be," and her eyes filled with tears. "But--" said Despard, puzzled by her manner, "he is surely able to help you?" She turned to him more fully--the tears came more quickly, but she did not mind his seeing them. "Didn't you know?" she said; "Papa is dead--more than a year ago now. Just before I came of age. I am quite alone. That silly--I shouldn't say that, he is kind and good--Conrad is Lord Southwold now. But I don't want to marry him, though he is almost the only man who, I _know_, cares for me for myself. How strange you did not know about my being all alone! Didn't you notice this?" and she touched her black skirt. "I have never seen you except in black," said Despard. "No--I had no idea. I am so grieved." "If--if you stay in England," she began again half timidly, "and you say you have forgiven me,"--he made a little gesture of deprecation of the word--"can't we be friends, Mr Norreys?" Despard rose to his feet. The whist party had dispersed. The little room was empty. "No," he said, "I am afraid that could never be, Lady Margaret. The one reason why I wish to leave England again is that I know now, I cannot--I must not risk seeing you." Maisie looked up, the tears were still glimmering about her eyes and cheeks; was it their soft glistening that made her face look so bright and almost radiant? "Oh, do say it again--don't think me not nice, oh, _don't_!" she entreated. "But why--oh, why, if you care for me, though I can scarcely believe it, why let my horrible money come between us? _I_ shall never care for anybody else--there now, I have said it!" And she tried to hide her face, but he would not let her. "Do you really mean it, dear?" he said. "If you do, I--I will swallow _my_ pride, too; shall I?" She looked up, half laughing now. "Quits again, you see. Oh, dear, how dreadfully happy I am! And you know, as you are so fond of work now, you will have _lots_ to do. All manner of things for poor people that I want to manage, and don't know how--and all our own--I won't say `my' any more--tenants to look after-- and--and--" "`That girl in black' herself to take care of, and make as happy as all my love and my strength, and my life's devotion can," said Despard. "Maisie, my darling; God grant that you may never regret your generosity and goodness." "No, no," she murmured, "yours are far greater, far, far greater." There was a moment's silence. Then suddenly Despard put his hand into his pocket and held out something to Maisie. "Look," he said, "do you remember? I should have returned it to you, but I could not make up my mind to it. I have never parted with it night or day, all these years." It was the little silver vinaigrette. This all happened several years ago, and, by what I can gather, there are few happier people than Despard Norreys and Lady Margaret, his wife. CHAPTER FIVE. BRONZIE. It was in church I saw her first. She was seated some little way in front of me, somewhat to one side. My eyes had been roving about, I suppose, for I was only a boy, fifteen or thereabouts at most, and she was--let me see--she could not have been more than nine, though by the pose of her head, the dignity of the small figure altogether, the immaculate demeanour--which said all over her, "I am in church, and behaving myself accordingly"--one might well have taken her for at least five years older. I remember positively starting when I first caught sight of her--of _it_, I should rather say; for _her_, in the ordinary sense of seeing a person--that is to say, her face--I never once saw during the whole of the first stage of our one-sided acquaintance--the first act of the drama, so to speak. The "it" was her hair. Never--never before or since, I do verily believe, has such hair gladdened mortal eyes. "Golden" was no word for it, or, rather, was but one of the many words it suggested. It was in great floods of waving and wavering shades of reddish--reddish, not _red_, mind you--brown, dark brown. The mass of it was certainly dark, though the little golden lights gleamed out all over as you will see the sparkling threads of the precious metal ever and anon through the texture of some rich antique silk with which they are cunningly interwoven. I worried myself to find an adjective in any sense suitable for this marvellous colour, or colours; but it was no use, and at last, in a sort of despair, I hit upon the very inadequate but not unsuggestive one of "bronze." It seemed to come a degree nearer it than any other, and it struck me, too, as not commonplace. From "bronze" I went a step further; I found I must have a name for her--a same all my own, that no one would understand even if they heard it; and, half without knowing it, I slipped into calling her to myself, into thinking of my little lady-love as "Bronzie." For I had fallen in love with her--looking back now I am sure of it--I had fallen in love with her in the sweet, vague, wholly ridiculous, wholly poetical way that a boy falls in love. And yet I had never seen her face; nay, stranger still, I did not want to see it! It was not so at first; for two or three Sundays after the fateful one on which the glorious hair dazzled me into fairy-land, my one idea was to catch sight of Bronzie's face. But from where I sat it was all but impossible; she wore a shady hat, too--a hat with a long ostrich feather drooping over the left side, which much increased the difficulty. In time, and with patience, no doubt I should have succeeded; but, as I have said, before long the wish to succeed left me. I was only in London for my Christmas holidays, and, somehow, I fancied that Bronzie, too, was but a visitor there. "I shall never see her again," I reflected, with a certain sentimental enjoyment of the thought; "but I can always think of her. And if her face were not in accordance with her hair and her figure--that dear little dignified, erect figure--what a disappointment! If she had an ugly mouth, or if she squinted, or even if she were just commonplace and expressionless--no, I don't want to see her." Accident favoured me; all those Sundays, as I have said, I never did see her face. The church was crowded; we made our exit by different aisles, and, as I was staying with cousins who were never in time for anything, we always came in late--later than Bronzie, any way. The little figure, the radiant hair, were always there in the same corner for my eyes to rest upon from the moment I ensconced myself in my place. And so it was to the end of the holidays--somewhat longer that year than usual, from illness of an infectious nature, having broken out among the brothers and sisters at my home. I went back to school, to Latin verses and football, to the mingled work and play which make up the intense _present_ of a boy's life; I was, to all appearance, just the same as before, and yet I was changed. I never talked about my Bronzie to any one, I made up no dreams about her, built no castles in the air of ever seeing her again, and yet I never forgot her. No, truly, strange and almost incredible as it may seem, I never did forget her; I feel almost certain there was no day in which the remembrance of her did not flash across my mental vision. It was three years later. School-days were over--so recently over that I had scarcely realised the fact, not, certainly, to the extent of feeling sad or pathetic about it--such regrets come afterwards, and come to stay; my feeling was rather one of rejoicing in my new liberty, and pride in being considered man enough to escort an elder sister on a somewhat distant journey had effectually put everything else out of my head that Christmas-time--it was always at Christmas-time--when--I saw _her_ again. We were at a railway station, a junction; our through carriage was being shunted and bumped about in the mysterious way peculiar to those privileged vehicles. We had been "sided" into a part of the station different from that where we had arrived; I was leaning out, staring about me, when suddenly, some little way off, there gleamed upon me for a moment the glow of that wonderful hair. The platform was crowded; Bronzie was walking away in an opposite direction, though slowly. She was with two ladies; as usual, it was only the hair and figure I saw--no glimpse of the face was possible; yet I knew it was she. Nor, of course, would the sight of a face I never had seen have helped to identify her. "By Jove!" I exclaimed aloud, unconscious that my sister was close behind me; "by Jove! how she has grown!" "Who?" Isabel exclaimed; "whom are you speaking of? Is there some one there we know?" and in another instant she too was craning her neck out of the window. "I don't see any one," she added, withdrawing her head, in disappointment. "Who was it, Vic?" I think I had turned pale; I felt myself now grow crimson. "Oh!" I blurted out, saying, of course, in my confusion exactly what I would _not_ have said: "only a--a little girl with such wonderful hair." "Where?" asked Isabel, again poking her head out--in the wrong direction, of course; she was tired of the long waiting, and jumped at the smallest excitement. "Oh, yes! I see! at the door of the refreshment, room. Yes, it _is_ magnificent hair; but, Vic, you said--" "Nonsense!" I interrupted, "she's nowhere near the refreshment room; it's not possible it's the same." Nor was it. Bronzie was by this time out of sight, far off among the throng of travellers at the left extremity of the platform, and the refreshment room was some yards to our right. It was absolutely, practically impossible. "Nonsense!" I repeated peevishly, looking out, nevertheless, in expectation of seeing some childish head of ordinary fair hair at the spot my sister indicated. But I started violently-- yes, it _was_ Bronzie again; the self-same hair, at least. And the girl was standing, with her back to us, at the door of the first-class refreshment room, as Isabel had said. I felt as if I were dreaming; my brain was in a whirl. I sat down in my place for a moment to recover myself. "I wonder," said my sister, "if her face is as lovely as her hair? She is sure to turn round directly. Wait a minute, Vic, I'll tell you if she oh, how tiresome! I do believe we are off; after waiting so long, they might as well have waited one moment longer." And off we were--in the opposite direction too. We could see no more of her--Bronzie, or not Bronzie! On the whole I was not sorry that my sister's curiosity was doomed to be unsatisfied. But my own perplexity was great. How _could_ the child have been spirited all the length of the station in that instant of time? "She is a fairy; that is the only explanation," I said to myself, laughingly. "Perhaps I have dreamt her only--in church, that Christmas too--but no; Isabel saw the hair as well as I." Time went on, faster and faster. I was a man--very thoroughly a man-- for seven years had passed since that winter day's journey. I was five-and-twenty; I had completed my studies, travelled for a couple of years, and was about settling down to my own home and its responsibilities--for my father was dead, and I was an eldest son--when the curtain rises for the third and last time in this simplest of dramas. I was unmarried, yet no misogamist, nor was there the shadowiest of reasons why I should not marry; rather, considerably even, the other way. My family wished it; I wished it myself in the abstract. I had money enough and to spare. I loved my home, and was ready to love it still more; but I had never cared for any woman as I knew I must care for _the_ woman I could make happy, and be happy with, as my wife. It was strange--strange and disappointing. I had never fallen in love, though I may really say I had _wished_ to do so. Never, that is to say since I was fifteen, and the gleaming locks of my Bronzie--like Aslauga's golden tresses--had irradiated for me the corner of the gloomy old London church where she sat. That was ten years ago now, yet I had not forgotten my one bit of romance. It was Christmas again. For the day itself I was due at home, of course; but on the way thither I had promised to spend a night with Greatrex, a friend of some few years' standing, whom I had not seen since his marriage, at which something or other had prevented my being present. He had invited me before, but I had not felt specially keen about it. He was rapturously in love with his wife I could see by his letters, and that sort of thing, under the circumstances, made me feel rather "out in the cold"--not unnaturally. But at last I had given in: I was to stay a night, possibly two, at Moresham, Greatrex's home, where, as he had written, on receiving my acceptance, "You will see her at last," for all the world as if I had been dying to behold Mrs Greatrex, and counting the hours till my longings for this privilege should be gratified. Greatrex met me at the door. It was afternoon, but clear daylight still, though December, when I drove up. "So delighted, so uncommonly pleased, old fellow, at last," he ejaculated, shaking me vigorously by the hand; "and so will Bessie be. I don't know much about your taste, but you can't but agree that _I_ have shown some, when you see her. One of her great beauties is her hair; I wonder if you'll like the way she--; what's the matter?" as the footman interrupted him with a "Beg pardon, sir," "Oh yes, I'll tell Barnes myself;" and he turned back to the groom, still at the door. "Excuse me one instant, old fellow. Bessie is in the drawing-room." "Don't announce me. I will introduce myself," I said hastily to the servant. A queer, a very queer feeling had come over me, at that mention, by her husband, of Mrs Greatrex's _hair_--could it be? And her name was Bessie. I could not imagine Bronzie by that name--my stately little maiden--what if it _were_ though? and my dream to end thus? I stepped quietly into the room. She was standing by the window; there was snow outside. I saw her, all but her face, perfectly: I saw _it_-- the hair--and for an instant I felt positively faint. It was _it_--it must be she; the way she wore it was peculiar, though very graceful; the head was pretty, but the small figure, though neat and well proportioned, was by no means what I had pictured Bronzie as a woman. But what did it matter? She was Greatrex's wife. "I must introduce myself; Mrs Greatrex," I began, and then, as my words caught her ears, she turned, and for the first time I saw the face--the face I had so often pictured as a fit accompaniment to that glorious hair. Oh, the disappointment--the strange disappointment--and yet the still stranger relief! For she was Greatrex's wife! But she wasn't Bronzie-- my Bronzie had never been. There _was_ no Bronzie! Yet it was a sweet and a pretty little face, and a good little face too. Now that I know it well I do not hesitate to call it a very dear and charming little face, though the features are _only_ pretty; the eyes nothing particular, except for their pleasant expression; the nose distinctly insignificant. I exerted myself to be agreeable. When Greatrex came in, a moment or two afterwards, he was evidently quite satisfied as to the terms on which we already stood. Then followed afternoon tea. It seemed to go to my head. I felt curiously excited, reckless, and almost bitter, and yet unable mentally to drop the subject as it were. The absurdity of the whole filled me with a sort of contempt for myself, and still there was a fascination about it. I determined to go through with it, to punish myself well for my own fantastic nonsense, to show my own folly up to myself. "You may be surprised, Mrs Greatrex," I said, suddenly, "to hear that-- I feel sure I am not mistaken in saying so--that I have seen you before." She was surprised, but she smiled pleasantly. "Indeed," she said; while "where? when? Let's hear all about it. Why didn't you tell us before?" exclaimed Greatrex, in his rather clumsy way. "Can you carry your memory back, let me see, nine, ten years?" I asked. "Do you remember if at that time you spent a winter in London; or was London your home?" She shook her head. "No, it was not; but I did spend the winter of in London." "Had you--can you possibly recollect if you wore a large, rather slouching, felt hat, with a long feather--grey, the hat, too, was grey-- that fell over the left side? and a coat of grey, too, some kind of velvet, I think, trimmed with dark fur?" Greatrex looked extremely astonished. "Come, now," he ejaculated. Mrs Bessie smiled. "Yes," she said, "I remember the whole get-up perfectly." Greatrex looked triumphant. I did not, for I did not feel so. "And," I went on listlessly, almost--I felt so sure of it now--"did you not come to church for several Sundays that winter; and on Christmas Day, to Saint Edric's, in ---Square?" For the first time Mrs Greatrex shook her head. "No," she said. "I never remember being in Saint Edric's in my life." Greatrex's face fell; he had been quite excited and delighted, poor fellow. "Come, now," he said again, in a different tone, "are you sure, Bessie? I think you must be mistaken." "I think so, too," I added, a little more eager myself now. "You may have forgotten the name. Saint Edric's is--" and I went on to describe the church. "You came with a lady who looked like a governess," and I concluded with some details as to this person's appearance. "Yes," Mrs Greatrex said, "that sounds like our governess--Mrs Mills; she was with us several years. But it is not only that I was never at Saint Edric's; I was never at church all those weeks in London at all. I had a bad attack of bronchitis. I remember particularly how vexed I was not to wear my new things, especially as we--" suddenly a curious change of expression came over her face, and just at that instant her husband interrupted her. "I have it," he began excitedly, but he got no farther. "_Bessie_," he exclaimed, with almost a shriek, "my dearest child, you've scalded me!" and he looked up ruefully from the contents of a cup of tea deposited on his knee. "No, no," his wife exclaimed, "it was only a little water I was pouring into my cup, and it was not very hot. But come along, I have a cloth in the conservatory, where I was arranging some flowers. I'll rub it dry in an instant." She almost dragged him off--with unnecessary vehemence, it seemed to me. I could not make her out. "An odd little woman," I thought. "I hope, for Greatrex's sake, she's not given to nerves or hysterics, or that sort of thing." But they were back in two minutes, Greatrex quite smiling and content, though he has owned to me since that his knee _was_ scalded, all the same. No more was said on the subject of reminiscences. Indeed, it seemed to me that Bessie rather avoided it, and a new idea struck me--perhaps Greatrex was given to frightful jealousy, though he hid it so well, and his wife had got him off into the conservatory to smooth him down. Yes, his manner _was_ queer. Poor little woman! I forgave her her hair. We strolled off to the stables, then to have a smoke, and thus idled away the time till the dressing-bell rang. "We're very punctual people," said Greatrex, as he showed me to my room. So I made haste, and found myself entering the drawing-room some few minutes before the hands of my watch had reached the dinner-hour. "_She_ is punctual," I thought, as I caught sight of a white-robed figure standing with its back to me, full in the light of a suspended lamp, whose rays caught the gleam of her radiant hair. "Not--not very wise to be down before him, if he has the uncomfortable peculiarity that I suspect. By Jove! how much taller she looks in evening dress! Strange that it should make such a difference!" "So your husband is the laggard, in spite of his boasted punctuality, Mrs Greatrex?" I began. She turned towards me. "I am not Mrs Greatrex," she said, while she raised her soft brown eyes to my face, and a little colour stole into her cheeks. The words were unnecessary. I stood silent, motionless, spell-bound. "I--I am only her sister--Imogen Grey," she went on. I have asked her since if she thought me mad: she says not; but I feel as if I must have seemed so. For still I could not speak, though certain words seemed dancing like happy fairies across my brain. "Bronzie, my Bronzie! found at last. Bronzie!" And in another instant good little Bessie Greatrex was in the room, busy introducing me to her sister, "Miss Grey," and explaining that she had not been sure of Imogen's arriving in time for dinner--had I heard the wheels just as we went up to dress? She was a little confused; but it was not till afterwards that I thought of it. In a sort of dream I went in to dinner; in a sort of dream I went through that wonderful evening. They were as unlike as sisters could well be, except for the hair: unlike, and yet alike; for, if there is one woman in this world as good and true as my Bronzie, it is her sister Bessie. Yes, she was--she _is_ my Bronzie, though no one knows the name, nor the whole story, but our two happy selves. And I had it out with Bessie; she suspected the truth while I was questioning her about her recollections, and then she saw it must have been Imogen, and not herself: the dragging off poor Greatrex into the conservatory was to tell him to hold his tongue. She wanted so to "surprise" me! I believe, at the bottom of my heart, that Greatrex and she had planned something of the kind even before they heard my unexpected reminiscences; and if they did, there was no harm in it. But--if she hadn't been my Bronzie, nothing would have been any use; I should have lived and died unmarried. 
31252	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) The Red Moccasins A STORY BY MORRISON HEADY [Illustration] LOUISVILLE, KY.: COURIER-JOURNAL JOB PRINTING CO. 1901. ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1901, BY THE AUTHOR. THE RED MOCCASINS, A STORY. CHAPTER I. Portrait of Our Hero. Once, in the spring-green years of the good old times, when our great-grandfathers were great-grandchildren themselves, there lived in the land of green Kentucky a sprout of a man, some dozen years old, who went by the name of Sprigg. And "Sprigg," for aught I know to the contrary, was his real name; though it has so little the sound of a name, I sometimes wonder his father and mother should ever have thought of giving it to him, when any grandmother of common capacity for naming babies could have suggested a better one. "Jeems," for example, or "Weeliam." Be this as it may, "Sprigg" was the name to which our hero always answered, whenever addressed as cousin, or uncle, or friend; and which, before going the way of all good grandfathers, he left at the end of his will, where it was thought real enough, not only to make that instrument good in the eyes of the law, but his heirs highly respectable in the eyes of the world. We have no choice, then, but to call our hero "Sprigg," just as everybody else did; though were we allowed to christen him more to our liking, we should certainly call him Jack. Jack, in our humble opinion, being the fittingest name in the world for giving pointedge and moral force to a juvenile novel. Especially would we be allowed this liberty in the present instance, where the hero, whose fortune we propose to follow, is described as being of a wild and run-away turn, and, hence, well fitted to figure as a warning example to all dissatisfied youngsters, who not content to stay at home and do their sliding on dry ground, go seeking for ice on a summer day at imminent risk of getting drowned. Now green Kentucky, in the days of Sprigg, was _green_ Kentucky, indeed! Mrs. Daniel Boone and her daughters had not yet distinguished themselves by being the first white women who ever set foot upon the banks of the Kentucky River, when Sprigg was already a three-years' child, the joy and pride of a home in a hewn log house in western Virginia; as merry and saucy, and every whit as well pleased with himself as were he the rising hope and promise of one of the "F. F. Vs." The eight or nine years of pioneer activity which had followed the historical event just noticed, had made many a wide gap in the forest, yet had not changed the general aspect of the country so much but that the fields, as viewed by the eagle who sailed with the clouds, must have appeared no more than as the prints of man's feet, left impressed in the otherwise universal verdure. As you may well imagine, so wild and savage a region must still have been the home of a thousand wild and savage creatures, the like whereof we never dream of now-a-days, even in our loneliest woodland rambles. There, too, was the terrible red man, who, though he built not his wigwam in these wilds, made it his frequent custom of resorting thither, sometimes to follow the chase, but oftener to war with the whites, who lived in great terror of him the whole year round. The Christian name of our hero's father, whom he called "Pap," was Jervis; the Christian name of his mother, whom he called "Mam," was Elster, and the surname was Whitney. They dwelt in a roomy cabin, rudely built of logs and boards, with a clay-topped chimney at each end, and a porch or shed on each side. Under the front porch Jervis hung his saddle, fishing tackle, beaver traps and the like. Under the back porch Elster kept her spinning wheel, crockeryware, garden seed, a big cedar water bucket, with its crooked-handle gourd, and the like; while in there, on the earthen floor of the kitchen, stood her huge, unwieldly loom. The cabin was situated in the midst of a small patch of cultivated ground, hemmed in on every side by dense and lofty woods, which spread their waving shadows for miles and miles away to the north and south, to the east and west, with only here and there, at wide intervals, a similar clearing, or a natural glade to speck the boundless green. Now Sprigg, you must know, happened to be an only child--a most uncommon circumstance in backwoods life--your backwoodsman, like your poor woodcutter, who makes such a figure in old-time story-books, rarely stopped short of a baker's dozen, as a replenisher of the earth. Such being the case, "Pap" and "Mam" must need, of course, do their very utmost to make their one chub as troublesome as six, in order to realize, so it would seem, how much kind Providence had done for them; _i. e._, by overdoing the thing to make him happy; underdoing the thing to make him good enough to be what they most desired. To exemplify: If there chanced to be a little bread in the cupboard and a little milk in the springhouse (these were luxuries then in the Hunter's Paradise), all of it, though there might be quite enough for two, was sure to find its way to Sprigg's tin cup and pewter spoon; and Sprigg's pewter plate always received the tit-bits of venison and bear's meat. The best feather bed in the house was Sprigg's; so was the warmest place by the fire, which he would share with nobody, but Pow-wow, the dog--the only creature, four-footed or two-footed, with whom he could be in contact for a whole day without coming to hard rubs. If a deer-skin proved, upon dressing, an uncommonly nice piece of buckskin, fine, fair and soft, straight, it was cut up and made into moccasins, breeches and hunting shirt for Sprigg; and should a fat raccoon take a fancy to quarter himself for the night in "Pap's" trap, its fresh, sleek skin would be seen in less than a fortnight thence on Sprigg's head, in the form of a cap, with the ringed tail left on behind, as ornamental there as a cue, if not more so. In short, there was nothing rare, or choice of its kind and within the bestowal of the Hunter's Paradise, which did not, sooner or later, find its way to the hands or feet, to the head or back, or to the selfish little belly of master Sprigg. But these were trifling indulgences compared with others, and would, in all likelihood, have left upon his disposition no other lasting evil effect than to render him overwatchful of his own ease and comfort. What was far worse, he was allowed to say, with his saucy young tongue, whatever he should choose to say; and to do, with his meddling young hands, whatever he should choose to do; and to go, with his wayward young feet, whithersoever his foolish young nose should choose to lead him; so that, by the time he had walked into his twelfth year, a worse spoilt boy, a vainer boy, a more self-conceited boy, a more self-willed boy than master Sprigg was not to be found in the land--ransack the Paradise from Big Bone Lick to the Mammoth Cave. And yet, to put the question to such parents, as Jervis and Elster--though with little expectation of receiving an audible answer--what other result could reasonably have been looked for in a boy, brought up, like Sprigg, to know no will but his own? This was the very thing to render it next to impossible for him to know what his own will really was and how he should use it, not knowing that of his elders and wisers. This, in turn, was the very thing to keep him but ill at ease with himself, and iller at ease, if not at downright loggerheads, with everybody else. Now, had Jervis and Elster been as wise as we are--you and I--they would, at the very outset of their son's existence, have laid their own will down, as the rule, whereby he should order his steps until the beard on his lip announced him qualified to follow his own nose, without too great danger of forgetting to allow that organ the help of his eyes and ears. But as it was, they would have done a wiser and more benevolent part by their boy had they given him a scalping knife, without sheath, for a plaything, or a young bear, without a muzzle and chain, for a pet. The knife might have cut off a few of his fingers, and the bear might have clawed off some of his flesh, but the mischief done would have been slight, compared to that of letting him have his will to play with. So, it were hardly to be laid to poor Sprigg's charge that he was mad enough to figure as a warning example to juvenile evildoers; and it were but Christian in us to draw our sketch of him with a soft nib to our pen, softening down the lines with words from the law of love, which is, or ought to be, written on all our hearts. Had he been as wisely trained as he was affectionately cared for, there is no telling but that Sprigg, instead of being one of the worst boys in the world, he might have turned out to be one of the best--nearly as good, it may be, as a brave little George, the boy, you know, who cut his father's cherry tree with his little hatchet, and when the matter was inquired into, had the courage to own that he was the offender, even while fully expecting that his tender young legs would be made to smart for his adherence to principle. With so brave a start in life, our hero, when he and the time were ripe for it, might have figured as the hero of Mew Orleans, instead of General Jackson, and, qualified by that achievement, have made the American people just as good a President--kicking the national bank as unmercifully out of existence as ever Old Hickory did. But leaving the might-have-been out of the question and taking things as we find them, Sprigg, by the time he had climbed to the top of his twelfth year, had more serious faults and more foolish ways than I feel willing to stop and take a list of, preferring to let them come out little by little of their own accord, which will seem less like telling tales away from home. One of his faults, however, the most conspicuous, though, by no means, the most grievous, I must mention here at the outset, it being that trait of his character which imparts to our story its particular color and drift. I allude to his vanity, which displayed itself in a ridiculous fondness for fine clothes, not to mention that he was, in every way, a very handsome boy; and the fools, as usual in such cases, had blabbed this into his ears, until he had grown to be as strutty and vain as a peacock. Now, you smile to think that a boy, who lived in a log cabin and ate his bread and milk with a pewter spoon, and dressed in buckskin breeches and a coonskin cap, should fancy that he had anything to be vain of. But take the second thought; or, if you do not feel inclined to make the effort, I will, by a simple illustration of the point, save you the trouble. Is not turkey-cock just as proud of his homely feathers as peacock of his magnificent plumes? And after the battle fought, which leaves him but the tattered rag of a tail to display to the sun, will not turkey-cock spread that tattered rag of a tail as self-complacently, and strut as grandly and gobble as obstreperously as ever? Aye, that will he! And why? Because his tail--tag-rag or not--is all his own and nobody else's; though almost anybody else may have one which the sun would rather shine on. As with turkey-cock, so with an overwhelming majority of mankind. CHAPTER II. Our Hero Falls in Love. It had only been three or four years since Jervis Whitney and his wife, Elster, had left their old home beyond the Alleghenies to find a new home here in the perilous wilds of green Kentucky, where they had built the cabin they lived in, and cleared the ground they tilled. Among their household goods, they had brought along with them quite a curious medley of such little notions as fancy ribbons and kerchiefs, books, big wood engravings, odd pieces of ware--china, silver and glass--odd pieces of family jewels, strings of bright-colored beads, and the like. Among the rest, were several locks of hair, some of which were gray, the others black or brown, golden-yellow, or flaxen, or white, as the case might be; locks of hair in those simple times being viewed pretty much in the same light that photographs now-a-days are, and, perhaps, even more highly prized and tenderly preserved. As you have already anticipated, these little notions were gifts for dear remembrance sake from the loved ones they had left so far behind them and whom they were to meet no more for long, long years--perhaps, forever. Precious relics, which the lonely young pair took out, from time to time, to look at them; when, with a smile and a tear, they would tell of the sweet recollections, which this lock of hair, or that piece of chinaware, this book or that old picture was conjuring up from out the lights and shadows of such days as no land but brave old Virginia--happy old Virginia--ever knew. Now, in this same pack, along with these odds and ends of dear remembrance, there chanced to be an old show bill, which Jervis and Elster had brought along with the rest just to keep them in mind of the happy, happy day, when they two had united their hearts and fortunes for life. On that self-same day they had gone to the show, which was blazed by this self-same show bill; and the occasion made their bridal tour as complete a thing of its kind as nothing short of a centennial could make in these latter days do for the like excursions. On the show bill, in a variety of fancy colors, such as we sometimes see in pictures of Daniel in the den of lions, and the like, were the representations of the animals which were to be seen at the show; and more, you may be sure, than were seen there on that day, or ever had been seen in the land, or ever shall be seen in the world, unless, indeed, what African travelers tell us, backed by Barnum and the man in the moon, should some day turn out to be true. To lend their rustic home a more genteel and civilized appearance, as well as to keep them in mind of the ever-to-be-remembered day just mentioned, Elster had tacked the show bill to the rough log wall of their best room, and against this, for a background, had hung their only looking-glass, with a comb case on one side and Jervis' jolly-faced silver watch on the other; while crowning the glass was a bunch of magnificent eagle feathers--a trophy of her husband's skill as a marksman. Now, these pictures, flashy, extravagant and out of all nature, though they might seem to our age of chromo, crayon, perfection, had for this many a day been the delight of Sprigg's young eyes. But the one that charmed his fancy more than all the others was that of an Indian boy, apparently about his own age, riding a Shetland pony at a dashing gallop, with the right foot tip-toe on his charger's back, the left amusing itself in the air, the left hand holding the bridle-reins, the right hand flourishing aloft a savage little tomahawk. In the browband of the pony's bridle was stuck the staff of a small red flag, while the gallant young horseman himself was rigged out in leggins and hunting shirt of the fairest of buckskin, trimmed with the blackest of bearskin, a hat of gay feathers upon his head, and upon his feet a magnificent pair of red moccasins. There was scarcely a day in the week, not even excepting Sunday, that Sprigg did not go and, planting himself before the old show bill, take a long look at the Indian boy and his Shetland pony. And more than a few times, after thus feasting his eyes, had he gone to his mother, where she would be plying her loom in the kitchen, when something like the following confab would take place between them: "Mam, I do wish that I had a pair of red moccasins, such as the Indian boy in yonder has on!" "And a red cap, too, such as Jack Monkey in yonder has on!" would his mother rejoin, as she paused in her work. Then resting her arm on the breast beam of the loom and regarding her rising hope with a half-fond, half-ridiculous smile, she would add: "Still harping on the same old tune! Still hankering after the red tomfooleries! Well, suppose if a civilized white boy should happen to have a pair of red moccasins, what could he do with them?" "I could wear them to quiltings and to log-rollings and to house-raisings and to shooting matches and to weddings--yes, and to church, too." "Why, Sprigg, a church is the last place in the world where so outlandish a thing as a pair of red moccasins ought to be seen. How the old people would frown and shake their heads at you! How the young people would titter and point at you; and some would say: 'Just look yonder at Sprigg, strutting about in a pair of red moccasins, as if he were thinking himself so much finer than our bare-footed boys--the young monkey!' And, Sprigg, would you like to be called a monkey? I rather think not. You'd rather take a whipping any day than to be laughed at and ridiculed." "No, but they wouldn't laugh; nobody would think of laughing. The boys would envy me and the girls would admire me, and everybody would say: 'Just look yonder at Sprigg! But isn't he fine? Oh, how beautiful! So beautiful in his red moccasins.'" And the vain boy would fall to dancing and skipping about the earthen floor of the kitchen, as if the very thought of the moccasins had made him tipsy. "Dandy Jim, of Caroline, might say all that of dandy monkey at a show," would Elster answer, "and dandy Jim might say as much of dandy Sprigg at church, but nobody else would--count on that! So, just leave the red tomfooleries to Indians and monkeys, my boy; and just make up your mind to be satisfied, and more than satisfied, too, with the nice boots, which pap has promised to bring you when he goes to our old home next spring." But, let his mother picture him in whatever color she might, the vain boy would go on hankering after the red moccasins all the same; till, by and by, they took such hold on his fancy that his thoughts by day and his dreams by night assumed the same complexion, and became, so to speak, as red as the reddest of leather. Indeed, there were moments when it did seem to Sprigg as if he would be willing to part with one of his legs for a pair of red moccasins. Now, you are thinking such a whim, out of all nature and reason, absurd, and I fully agree with you; yet, have I known a few grown-up children in my day, of high reputation for judgment, who in some of the fancies they have cherished, and in some of the bargains they have made, have exhibited not a whit more judgment than poor Sprigg. Distinguished personages, who, from the solid and dignified outward appearance they showed to the eyes of the world, would give you the impression that they had never entertained a foolish fancy, or mistaken the shadow for the substance in all their lives, I have known women who have given their hands--sacrificed the best of their hearts--to put their heads in other women's bonnets; and I have known men who have sold their very souls to set their feet in other men's shoes. So, time went lagging by; lagging, perhaps, because his feet were not shod with a pair of red moccasins; or, it may be, because he was not mounted on a Shetland pony. At last, one night in April, as they were all sitting around a roaring log fire, Sprigg's dreams took a definite shape, as well as color. Jervis had sat for some time smoking his pipe in thoughtful silence, when he turned to his wife and thus addressed her: "So, Elster, I am to set out on my long tramp for the Old Dominion; and with what a light heart I could do it, too, could I but take you and our boy along with me. But, as it is, I am beginning to feel already quite out of sorts at the very thought of leaving you behind me for so long, and I would give up the trip altogether were it not for the business, which no one else can attend to but myself." Sprigg was sitting directly in front of the fire, gazing with a fixed and dreamy look into the glowing embers before him; and, observing this, his father said to him: "Come, Sprigg, let us have some of the pictures you are drawing there in the fire-coals! You can beat any boy of your size at that sort of headwork that ever I saw. What do you see in the coals?" "I see," answered the boy, in a musing way, "I see an Indian boy standing tip-toe on the back of a Shetland pony, riding at full gallop, his head all waving with feathers, his feet so fine with red moccasins, and he is showing off before a great crowd of people, who seem to be waving their hats, as if they were shouting: 'Hurrah! Hurrah! Splendid! Splendid!' Oh, how I wish that I were an Indian boy, and had a Shetland pony; then might I travel from town to town and show off before the people, and be somebody, and so happy!" Then, with a start, as if a bright thought had flashed out to him from the fire-coal, he exclaimed: "Oh, pap! won't you get me a pair of red moccasins while you are gone, please?" And coming over and laying his hand on his father's shoulder, he repeated his request--all in the softest, winningest way you can well imagine. For, whenever he had an object near at heart, and knew he could gain it by a little palaver, Sprigg could appear as soft and winning as any young tom-cat you ever saw. "But, Sprigg, why not the boots, which I have been promising you for a year or more? Black boots, with fair tops and brass heel-taps, that will make a gentleman of you as soon as you put them on." "But I would not care for the boots half so much; and, if you will just only bring me the moccasins I won't say one word about anything else you have been promising me. I won't even ask you to get me the fur hat, nor the red waistcoat, nor the little hunting knife, nor the little tomahawk--nothing but the red moccasins." The artful young rogue made this spreading display of self-denial merely to jog his father's memory, knowing perfectly well that he was running no risk of being taken at his word, and that by his offer of release he should be all the more certain of receiving what had been promised him. "Then, red moccasins shall you have, my boy!" cried the fond father, giving his son a chum-like slap on the back. "Let me but find them in the Old Dominion, and the red moccasins shall you have--yes, and the boots to boot." Of course, it never once entered Jervis Whitney's mind that so fantastic a thing as a pair of red moccasins was to be found in the Old Dominion, or anywhere else outside of a monkey show, though he might search the world, with a will-o'-the-wisp, from Big Bone Lick to the Land of Nod. So, in saying, "let me but find them, and you shall have them," he thought he was hazarding his word no more than were he to say: "Let the man in the moon but give me the moon, and the moon, my boy, is yours." "Yes, pap, get him the red moccasins--do, by all means!" here put in Elster, who had a vein of mocking pleasantry, in which she was wont to indulge, especially whenever, as now, her fingers were busy with yarn and knitting needles. "With a little practice he could play Indian every whit as well as Jack Monkey, if not better; and we ought to do all we can to bring out his talent, so that he may make a monkey of himself, and, as he says, 'be somebody, and so happy.' So you furnish the moccasins and the tomahawk and I will get up the rest of the rigging. I will trim his new buckskin breeches and hunting shirt with bearskin, and take those plumes from over the looking-glass up there, and make him as fine a feathered hat as ever grandmother Pocahontas fixed up for brothers. Nor shall the war paint be forgotten. I will streak and stripe and spot his face till he looks as savage and fierce as Big Foot, the Wyandot giant--scary enough to scare a scare-crow. Then, having so bedaubed and bedizened him that his own looking-glass couldn't tell him whose son he was, we will take him out, and, mounting him upon old Blue Blaze, witness him make his maiden effort. To be sure, old Blue Blaze is not exactly what you might call a Shetland pony, but by that time she will have a colt a month or two old, so that while our monkey is up there, playing Big Injun on the old mare's back, coltie can trot along behind and play Little Shetland. Meanwhile, we must be making all the noise we can, clapping our hands and shouting: 'Hurrah! hurrah! splendid! splendid!' Should our demonstrations fall short of the desired effect, and we should happen to hear some of our red neighbors shouting and yelling over there in the woods, we will call them in to help us out. They will make noise enough to slack his thirst for applause, I warrant you. They will be so delighted with his performance that nothing will satisfy them short of taking him home with them--Blue Blaze, coltie and all--to old Chillicothe, where he shall be kept all his days to play Big Paleface for the reds, just as Jack Monkey is kept in the Old Dominion to play Dandy Nigger for the whites. "Yes, pap, get him the red moccasins. Let him make a monkey of himself, and 'be somebody and so happy.'" Now, you must know that our hero, though tough to reproof, was keenly sensitive to ridicule--a jimson weed to that, a snap dragon to this. Having discovered his weakness, his mother was much in the habit of playing upon it, as the only means of persuasion or dissuasion within her command which was likely to make any impression upon his knotty young rind. So, while she was spinning out her rigmarole, Sprigg was making a great show of amusing himself with Pow-wow, slapping him over the muzzle with his coonskin cap, or setting that ornament in divers ways on the old dog's head; now with the tail over the right ear, then over the left, or over the nose; the young sauce-box the while keeping up, in a confidential undertone to his four-footed chum, a running commentary on his mother's burlesque of himself, for every word of which he should have received a sounding spank. "Some folks think they are monstrous smart, don't they, Pow-wow?" "You could bark tip a tree and do better than that, couldn't you, Pow-wow?" "Funny enough to make a dog laugh, isn't it, Pow-wow?" "Some folks ought to be told what fools they are, oughtn't they, Pow-wow?" "Ding-dong bell, when the fools are all dead, Then we will have plenty of butter and bread, won't we, Pow-wow?" CHAPTER III. Meets with the Object of His Love. So, next Monday, Jervis Whitney set out on his long tramp, with Pow-wow for company, and with Black Bess, his rifle, to keep them supplied with game, their chief dependence for subsistence while traveling the five hundred miles of wilderness, which lay between them and their old home beyond the Alleghenies. While they were gone, Sprigg kept count of the months and weeks and days, and, as they went silently gliding by, he went silently dreaming on about the red moccasins. Silently, for never another word said he to his mother concerning the matter he had so near at heart. He knew she would laugh at him, and call him a monkey--our hero, bear in mind, being as touchy to ridicule as a raw mouth to ginger. You might scold him and rate him, sneap him and snub him, to a degree you would suppose sufficient to break the heart of any boy who knew his catechism, yet not a fig nor a flint would he care for it all. Perhaps, he would kick up his heels in the very face of your reproof; or, it may be, merely wrinkle up his saucy young knob of a nose, thereby saying as plainly as words could say it: "Thin! thin! When the wise waste words, then fools may grin, So, save your breath for a rainy day, Or the wind will blow it all away; Bottle it up and cork it fast, The longer you keep it, the longer 'twill last." The month of May was drawing near its close. Night was spreading its dusky shadows over the lonely forest home. The turkey-cock had gone to its rest; so had the red-bird, so had the jay-bird; so had Sprigg. Elster had heard her boy repeat his prayers and was now singing him to sleep with a hymn; a pious custom which, in all sincerity, she had faithfully observed from his infancy up; doing her best, from night to night, to make him a Christian, while suffering him, from day to day, to become more and more of a heathen. Such parental inconsistencies were rare in the days of Mary Washington, but are so common nowadays that no one excepting himself or herself can find an exception to the rule except at home. The last line of the hymn had just been sung, and Sprigg was making his last big sleepy wink at the cradle before fairly off for nodland, when they heard, first, a glad yelp out there in the yard, which they thought they knew; then a brisk, firm step on the loose board floor of the porch, which they were certain they knew. Up from her chair sprang Elster; up from his bed bounced Sprigg, and by the time the door, with a ringing click of its wooden latch, swung open, both were there, and both hugged tight in the long, strong arms of husband and father. "Heaven be thanked!" exclaimed Elster, kissing her husband for the----, but I must not say what number of times. "The moccasins! the moccasins!--where are my red moccasins?" cried Sprigg, who had not kissed nor hugged his father once. "You young feather-pate! you jay-bird!" exclaimed Jervis. "Can't you give your poor pap some little sign of welcome first?" "Oh! then, you have got them! You have got them!" And now, assured that such was the case, Sprigg could find it in his heart to hug and kiss his father, which he did as sleekly and lovingly as any he-kitten. But Sprigg paid for this bit of selfishness, and that dearly, too. Having laid Black Bess in the rifle-hooks over the fireplace, and hung his bearskin cap on the hook to the left and his ammunition pouch and powder horn on the hook to the right, Jervis hugged and kissed his wife again. Then, from the capacious game bag which, slung by a strap from the shoulder, he wore at his side, he began drawing out slowly and with great show of carefulness a small package, which Sprigg instinctively knew to be the object of his heart's desire. The next moment, held high aloft in pap's right hand, there they were at last, in plain view before his eyes, the long dreamed of red moccasins. How beautiful looked they. Trimmed with the finest of fur and glittering all over with the brightest of beads, to say nothing of the color--red, as the reddest of leather could be, not dyed in blood. You would have laughed, or, perhaps, felt more like crying, to have seen the poor, vain boy, as he stood there, with his heart in his eyes, gazing gloatingly up at the moccasins as if the very shine of them had charmed him out of his senses. Thus he stood for several moments till, giving a quick turn of the head, he glanced sharply up at the Indian boy on the show bill, as if half expecting to find the young horseman stripped of his moccasins and now performing his equestrian antics in bare feet. "Jervis," said Elster, grieved and provoked, "I am so surprised that you should indulge our boy in so ridiculous a fancy, as were he, after all, the monkey he would make himself. I had no idea that you would ever give the whim a second thought. Why did you not get him the boots you have been promising him? Throw the moccasins into the fire and let us be rid of the nuisance at once! If you won't, I will!" "Mum, Elster! Mum! I neither bought them nor sought them. They were sent as a present to our boy by some one, who said that he was one of Sprigg's very best friends; and that he could not do a better part by our boy and ourselves, too, than to let him have them and wear them, a little experience being all that he needed to disenchant him of his fancy. 'Our boy's case,' said he, 'was like a man's case, whose heart is set on matrimony--a little lively experience being all that was needed to cure him of his hankering and set him right with matrimony, so with moccasins.' Quoting, Elster; understand me, now, only quoting: Thirteen years of lively experience, and here am I, just as far from being cured as I was the day we went to the show, and your case every whit as desperate. But here stands the boy like one bewitched. Sprigg!" The boy giving a big start, the spell, which the moccasins, or his own fancy, or, it were hard to say what, had thrown upon him, was snapped in a twinkle, and recovering the use of his tongue, he cried out: "Let me try them on! Let me try them on!" and on they were in a trice. "Look, look! Do but see how nicely they fit! Oh, what beautiful shoes!" And the boy began dancing about the room in a fashion so fantastic as were enough to make one fancy that what he had on his feet were medicine moccasins, which could carry him whithersoever and in what manner soever might please him, or might please them. In the extravagance of his delight he ran up to Pow-wow, where he sat on the hearth, and gave him an affectionate hug; then, taking the old dog's paws in his hand and shaking it heartily, said: "How are you, old pard, and did you bring your Sprigg the red moccasins? Yes, that you did, and you shall have a good meat-bone for it, too; that you shall." And going to the cupboard, like old Mother Hubbard, to get the poor dog a bone, Sprigg found there three ribs of a bear, and so the poor dog had plenty. "Sprigg," said Elster, in a grieved and reproachful voice, "are all your thanks for the dog? Have you none for pap? Poor pap, who has been gone so long and traveled so far, and has come home so weary, and has been so kind to bring you the moccasins, which, of all things else, you have most desired! Shame upon you! Who would have thought that our boy could have shown himself so thankless!" Sprigg stopped short in his capers; looked first at his mother and then at his father, and, perceiving that pap also seemed hurt and grieved, he hung his head, but not this time to look at the moccasins. It was to hide the blush of shame, which, redder than they, burst up from his heart and burned in his cheek--the first that had ever been seen there. They had hardly observed the change and wondered thereat when the boy burst into tears, and drawing off the moccasins crept back to bed. Nor could they get another word out of him that night, though they tried hard to do so--harder, indeed, than was wise. So, at last they gave it up and allowed him to sob himself to sleep. But all night long, to and fro and up and down, were the red moccasins walking about in his dreams. Sometimes he felt as if they were treading upon his naked heart and brain, as though feet were in them--cruel feet, which took a delight in trampling upon him, and once or twice it seemed to him as if some wild and fearful shape of the night were clutching at his toes, when he had cried out in a fright: "Oh! the red moccasins! How they hurt my feet!" CHAPTER IV. He Has Them--What Shall He Do With Them? But the first broad stare of the day's bright eyes drove all these dark dreams and wild shapes of the night from his mind; and nimble and fresh as a jay-bird--nimbler and fresher, indeed, than was his wont--Sprigg sprang from his bed and donned the red moccasins. Yes, shod his feet the first thing; and, leaving his breeches to cover the naked legs of the stool, he went out on the front porch, there to take his morning airing and see what color red moccasins were by daylight. Here, at the end of an hour, he was found by his mother, strutting to and fro like a young peacock in the pride of his first tail feathers. The morning breezes briskly fluttering his only garment and doing all they could for his health. Provoked to find him at so late an hour, in such a guise, which was full six inches too short for any guise at all, Elster gave the "rising hope and promise" a spank, which would have done you good to see and hear, and bade him go and finish his toilet and perform his morning ablutions--all in a hurry, too, or she would give his bread and milk to Pow-wow. Whereat the hopeful youngster kicked up his heels, and, as it pleased him for once to be obedient, ran and did as he was bidden, and in a trice was ready for his bread and milk, which, in the glee of the moment, he shared with Pow-wow. The day succeeding pap's return chanced to be Sunday, so Sprigg, as a matter of course, was allowed to wear the red moccasins from morning till night, just by way of making him sensible. How much better and more dearly to be remembered that day was than Monday, or any other day of the week. But a too full Sunday makes an empty Monday, as Mother Goose herself has covertly hinted in the well known lines: "As Tommie Snooks and Bessie Brooks Were walking out on Sunday, Says Tommie Snooks to Bessie Brooks: 'To-morrow will be Monday.'" The next day, not being permitted to wear the red moccasins, our hero grew tenderfooted and ill at ease with the ground he needs must walk on, and more than once, with a moccasin in each hand, did he go to his mother and lay before her his trouble of mind. "Mam, I do wish that I could go to grandpap's house to-day." "And why do you wish to go to grandpap's house?" "To wear my red moccasins to church next Sunday." "I have set my foot on your moccasins there, my boy!" and Elster, for once, laid down the law, with a look and tone of decision which put it in force right there on the spot. "To church your red tomfooleries never shall go while I have a membership there!" "Well, then, if not to church, to grandmam's quilting?" "I rather think you will have to wait for the day. Grandmam will hardly get up a quilting just to give you a chance of showing off your moccasins." "And how long shall I have to wait for the day?" "Monday--Wednesday--eight--ten days," replied Elster, counting them off on her fingers. Giving a backward jerk of the heel, expressive of impatience, the spoilt boy exclaimed: "Oh, how long a time to wait! Where's the use of a feller's always waiting?" "A kick in the ribs may make old Blue Blaze quicken her pace, but if you want Old Time to quicken his you must neither kick him nor seize him by the forelock, but catch him by the tail and do your best to hold him back; then he'll go fast enough, I warrant you! So go along with your moccasins and put them away in the chest, or the rats and mice will gnaw them, as rats and mice are always sure to do with everything of the sort we set our hearts too much on. Then go to the woods and play like a bird. Pow-wow will go along with you and show you how--be glad to do it." Sprigg and Pow-wow went out to play, but the dog was more like a bird than the boy. The glad light was gone from his heart. His heart was in the chest with his treasures--his treasures denied him as too precious for every day and Sunday too. Barefooted and out of sorts, he dragged along through the idle hours. He should have been hoeing corn; and, when the night was come and the jay-bird went to his nest with a thankful heart, Sprigg went to his with nothing of the kind, and, therefore, had no pleasant dreams. Nor was this all. That night, for the third time in his life--the second being the night before, and the first the night before that--Sprigg went to his rest without saying "Now I lay me down to sleep," the sweet old words his mother had taught him to speak when he could scarcely speak at all, and which he could never fitly and truly speak again, so long as the red moccasins and the like vain fancies filled his heart. The next day, iller at ease than ever--all but desperate--he went to his mother, where, banging away at her ponderous loom, she was just finishing a nice piece of flax linen for him and pap, thus renewing the subject: "Mam, wouldn't you like to know how the old folks are at the fort to-day?" "Yes, indeed; that I would!" "And wouldn't you like for me to go and see how they are?" "And wear your red moccasins?" added his mother, with a mocking smile. "I could carry the moccasins in my hands." "And who would carry your feet?" "Shank's mare can carry my feet, for Shank's mare can carry double." "But Shank's mare is tenderfooted, and there are twenty miles of stony hills and shaggy woods between here and the fort. Besides, Shank's mare could never find the way." "Yes, but I can! You first go by the hunting camp, then by the Lick, then by the sugar camp, and the next thing you know you are there." "Now, what did I tell you? The Lick comes before the hunting camp, and there is no sugar camp at all. So the next thing you know you are not there, but lost. Besides all this, there are a thousand wild things in the woods, which even a strong man without his gun and knife would not be willing to run the risk of meeting. So just content yourself to stay at home, my boy, until to-morrow week, when we shall all be going to grandmam's quilting, and you will have somebody to keep you out of harm's way." "I could go now and get back in time to go then, too," urged Sprigg, who was in a fair way of sliding off into one of his pets. "But Sprigg, have you so soon forgotten what pap was telling us last night of his adventures between here and our old home? Once he was by three Indians chased far into the night, and pressed so closely that he only saved himself by leaping from a high bank into a deep river, where, as good luck would have it, a thick growth of rushes fringed the water's edge, thus affording him a hiding place until the savages gave up the pursuit. Then there was that other adventure with the two Indians, in which he should certainly have lost his life but for the timely assistance of brave Pow-wow. Now, Sprigg, what would you do miles and miles away from home, in the dark and lonesome woods, were you to see one of these terrible red men running to meet you, yelling like a demon--all hideously painted, rifle in hand, belt stuck full of tomahawks and scalping knives, eh?" "I would scamper away as fast as Shank's mare could carry me," promptly rejoined our hero, who, though vain as a young peacock, was as bold as a young game-cock. Elster continued: "And, Sprigg, there are bears in the woods, who have such a fancy for little boys that, should they find one astray too close to their den, they would hug him, and hug him, till there would not be enough breath left in his body to carry him home. So he stays just there; and when he is found, if ever he is found at all, the grass and the weeds and the dead leaves of the trees have gathered about him and covered him up--nothing left but his bones and his buttons to tell you whether his name was John or Sprigg. And, Sprigg" here Elster lowered her voice as if he of whom she would speak might hear her--"there is one bear in the woods so large and strong and bold that five dogs as large and strong and bold as Pow-wow would be no match for him in a fight. Hunters who have lived much alone in the forest--red hunters, as well as white--say that neither arrow nor bullet has power to kill him. Though the eye of the marksman be as keen as that of a lynx, and his hand as steady and firm as the limb of an oak, and his bullet as swift as the red bolt shot from the edge of a storm cloud--all will avail him nothing; for, in a flash of time, where but the moment before appeared a bear, the hunter now sees nothing but a vine-clad rock, or a moss-grown stump, or a low, thick bush, waving its green head to the forest winds. Sometimes no shape whatever appears, and when this is the case, while yet the blue rifle smoke is curling up over his head, the hunter will hear, just there in the empty air so near that he could lay his hand on the spot, a low laugh--He-he-he! A wild, low laugh of scorn and derision, which causes the strong, bold man to quake and quail far more than were he to hear the loud, fierce growl of a bear behind him. Saving the red man, no one knows who or what this terrible shape of the wilderness is--where he dwells, nor how he exists; whom he loves, nor whom he hates; but white men call him 'Nick of the Woods.'" CHAPTER V. Who Gave Sprigg The Red Moccasins? "Will-o'-the-Wisp. Some would wear our moccasins red, Though the road should lead to the dead. Some would wear our coronals green, Who would keep themselves unseen! Jervis Whitney! Jervis Whitney!" So sang a wild and musical voice out there in the woods; and halting suddenly and cocking his gun, Jervis Whitney stood on his guard. "Will-o'-the-Wisp! None shall wear our moccasins red, On the road that leads to the dead. None shall wear our coronals green, But to see themselves as they are seen! Jervis Whitney! Jervis Whitney!" Again sang the voice out there in the night; and looking straight before him, his eyes upon the spot where a speaker should be, Jervis Whitney saw never a living thing; saw nothing but the moss-grown trunk of a tree, where it lay on the ground, not ten paces distant, with the moonlight shining full upon it. What I am now telling you happened last Saturday night, on which, as you will remember, Jervis Whitney returned from their old Virginia home. He was within a mile of his journey's end, and had reached a glade in the forest where there was scarcely a tree or bush to break the clearest of moonlight with a shadow, when his ear was caught by the voice of the invisible speaker. "Who calls Jervis Whitney?" now in his turn cried the White Hunter, looking in wonder all around him, far and near, still seeing never a shape of life that could call a man by name. "I do!" answered the voice. "I, the king of the Manitous; or, as you white men call me, Nick of the Woods." And with these words there seemed to perch on the tree trunk, whence the voice proceeded, what seemed a magnificent bird of bright green plumage, and there beside it, visible, stood the mysterious speaker. It was a manikin, scarcely more than a yard in height, but beautifully formed, with limbs as round and strong as those of a roebuck. In color and feature, the style of his face was that of the Indian, as was, indeed, his whole external appearance, excepting that, instead of the characteristic scalp-lock, he wore all his hair, which, straight, thick and long, fell in a sable gleam to his shoulders. He wore a bearskin robe, which, secured at the throat by a clasp which seemed to be a pair of claws interlocked, hung gracefully about his form; on the hair side, fresh and sleek; on the flesh side, smooth as satin and red as blood. His airy little feet were shod with a pair of red moccasins, all agleam with bright-colored beads, which shone like rubies and diamonds in the glistering moonlight. The object, which the white hunter at first glance had supposed to be a large, green bird, now proved to be a kind of feathered hat, or coronal, resembling those worn by Indian sachems when in full dress. The red mist-cap of the fairies possessed the magic power of rendering the person who wore it--man, as well as elf--invisible to mortal eyes. That the white hunter might use his eyes as well as ears, and thus stand on equal terms in the interview, which had opened at a disadvantage to him, the elf had laid aside his magic headpiece, and now stood as plainly revealed to bodily vision as the brightest of moonlight could show him. "And what can Jervis Whitney do for Nick of the Woods?" at length said the hunter, after eyeing the manikin over from top to toe for some moments in silent wonder, as well he might. "For Nick of the Woods," replied the elf, "Jervis Whitney can do nothing; nor could he were he king of the earth. But for Jervis Whitney, Nick of the Woods can, and is willing to, do much." And the elf paused. "Well, say on," said the hunter, as, uncocking his rifle and setting it on the ground, he propped his chin upon the muzzle, thereby signifying his readiness to listen. The elf resumed: "You have a son, who goes by the name of Sprigg, I think." "Yes, that have I; and a rare young buck he is. As antic at times in his capers as were he kin to an elf." "Has he not teased you much of late for a pair of red moccasins?" And pat to the question, the manikin thrust out one of his small moccasined feet. "And did he beg you to get him a pair while you were gone to the land of Pocahontas?" Jervis started. He had never given the matter a serious thought, there being no monkeys as yet in the country to create a demand for the article in question. After musing a moment he answered: "Yes, it is even so, though I must confess that the thing had quite escaped my memory. But granting it to be as we say, how does the circumstance interest Nick of the Woods?" "Listen!" replied the Manitou king. "I also have a son, who goes by the name of Manitou-Echo, until you white men christen him more to your fancy. Now my son Manitou-Echo has fallen in love with your son Sprigg, Sprigg being a boy more after his own heart than any young human being he has known for more than a hundred years. Of all fleet-footed fairies, Manitou-Echo, be it known, is the fleetest, and it is the chief delight of his existence to run races with fast boys. Sprigg, he says, is the fastest boy that has skipped upon the green earth since the days of Little Winged Moccasin, the boy who ran to the setting sun in quest of his shadow, which he had lost at noonday. So, then, my son Manitou-Echo is burning to run a race with your son Sprigg." "Well, and how is my son Sprigg to run this race with your son Manitou-Echo?" and the hunter crossed his legs, still with his chin propped on the muzzle of his gun, an attitude characteristic of hunters, from Robin Hood, in the cross-bow days of Merry England, to Daniel Boone, in the rifle days of green Kentucky. "True," rejoined Nick of the Woods, "Sprigg, with merely his own bare feet to go on, would stand but a slender chance in a trial of speed with Manitou-Echo. Therefore, to put him on an equal footing for the feat, Sprigg must be furnished with a pair of red moccasins such as we elves wear." And the elf again thrust out his moccasined feet, by way of exemplification. "But, while we shall be doing so much to please the whim of your son Manitou-Echo, what shall we be doing to please or benefit my son Sprigg?" "Pat to the point!" quoth Nick of the Woods. "The very thing I was coming to next--the main thing, indeed, which has led me to seek this interview with Sprigg's father. I should hardly have come a thousand miles out of my way, since set of sun, had it been merely to gratify Manitou-Echo in an elfish whim. In brief, then, and in sweet earnest, too, the object we have in view is intended mainly for Sprigg's own good; and, as the means to this end, my son Manitou-Echo has sent, as a present to your son Sprigg, a pair of red moccasins, to put him, as I have just said, on an equal footing in the trial of speed between them. Refuse the gift, and nothing shall follow therefrom, be it for good or for evil. Accept the gift, and good--nothing but good--shall come of it, sooner or later." Here, with the air of one who has had his say, and now but awaits your final answer to take fair leave of you, the Manitou paused. Jervis Whitney did the like, remaining silent for many moments, half in doubt, half in debate, his eyes bent fixedly the while upon his companion. At length, very dubiously, indeed, he answered: "I must confess, were we to drop the matter just here, I should be left as much in the mist as if you had kept your mist-cap on your head and allowed me only the use of my ears. Will you please enlighten me, sir, with a few more gleams of your moonshine?" "Certainly, sir; certainly!" rejoined Nick of the Woods, with an obliging smile and a courteous wave of the hand. "I perceive you are something of a philosopher, by wishing to view the subject in that light. Know, then, that Sprigg's fancy for red moccasins has grown to be the one idea of his mind--a hankering, so to speak; and the best cure in the world for a hankering, as everybody knows, is a strong, sudden, overwhelming dose of the thing so hankered after. Sprigg's case is like that of a man's case, whose heart is dead set on matrimony--a little experience, tough and lively, being all that is needed to cure him of the hankering and restore him to a healthy condition of mind. As with matrimony, so with moccasins." "I am glad that Elster is not present to hear that speech; else should I feel constrained to send a bullet through your bearskin, just by way of giving you the lie, and of satisfying her that I am the truest of husbands, as she is the best of wives, although I am perfectly aware that it would be a waste of powder and lead, having once or twice in my time sent my bullet after a bear, and found that, without missing my mark, I had shot nothing." "And I should esteem you all the more highly for doing so much to please your wife," rejoined Nick of the Woods, with increased complacency; "and my wife, Meg of the Hills, were she present, also, at the time, would cordially join in my expression of commendation. When I say, 'as with matrimony, so with moccasins,' it is merely by way of illustration, and is not to be understood as an expression of my private sentiments. Our married life--Meg's and mine--began with that of Adam and Eve, and our honeymoon is not yet on the wane. Just here, I should be tempted to go off at a tangent into wide digression, had long observation not taught me that there is nothing so galling to a hunter's patience as a hang-fire gun. As with a gun, so with a speaker. Then, in fine, I will say, 'trust me, and to the latest day of your life you never shall rue it, though you should live until the Indian, the Jeer and the Manitou cease to exist.'" Then, as if he had, indeed, made an end of his say, the Manitou king picked up his crown of plumes and placed it upon his head, when straight he was no more to be seen than the transparent air around him. The next instant, with a magnificent somerset curve, full ten feet aloft in the air, a pair of red moccasins plumped themselves, as if firm little feet were in them, square in front of the hunter, where he stood--with his chin still propped on the muzzle of his gun and his legs still crossed? I rather think not! "Leave, and lose! Take, and gain! But leave or take, it is all one to Nick of the Woods!" And hardly were the words spoken, just there in the empty moonlight, when a whirr in the leaves and flutter in the air announced that the elf was gone. For many moments Jervis Whitney stood there gazing down on the moccasins, debating within himself, with a look of great perplexity, whether to take them or to leave them. He went over, in his mind, all that had been said by the elf, and so well said, too, it needs must be as well meant, odd and fantastic though it might seem. He recalled the Manitou's aspect--so clear and bright, so free from disguise; and, withal, as beautiful, while so Indian-like--as well could be the eyes of a white man, who, for some years past, had had a hard scuffle to keep his scalp. Then, too, there was Pow-wow's behavior on the occasion to be taken into consideration. There was not a dog west or east of the Alleghany Mountains who had a sharper nose than Pow-wow for detecting an ill wind; yet, all this while, he had set there on his haunches, without betraying the least sign of uneasiness or distrust, nor even of curiosity, as if a Manitou to him were a sight as familiar as a jay-bird, and no more to be barked at. Now, the real state of the case was this: Foreseeing that the dog, dog-like, would be for putting in his jaw to help his master out, the prudent elf had thrown a spell or charm upon him, hoodwinking not his eyes only, but also his ears and nose, thus making one side, at least, of the interview as blank to him as the middle of next week. Therefore, not a glimpse nor a sniff of the elf had Pow-wow caught; nor had he heard a word of what the elf had said from "Will-o'-the-Wisp" to "Nick of the Woods." His master, he could see and hear, and doubtless marveled much that a husband and father, who had traveled hundreds of miles to be with his wife and child again, should thus hang fire within dinner-horn call of home, merely to hold a pow-wow with a rotten log. As Jervis could no more see the charm on the dog than the dog the charmer on the log, he must needs regard the orderly deportment of his dumb companion--in whose sagacity he had unbounded confidence--as the strongest additional evidence he could wish for confirming him in the favorable view; his own senses had already inclined him to take off the Manitou and the matter between them. At length his thoughts shaped themselves into a conclusion, which he thus expressed aloud: "I have never known a dog of Pow-wow's blood whose instinct did not tell him when there was an enemy near his master. I have never known that man to deceive me, nor try to deceive me, whose eye spoke with his tongue, and before it and after it, as did the eye of the strange being here but now. To doubt the word of such a one, were to do him a wrong. To refuse the gift of such a one, might be to withhold a blessing from me and mine. I will take the moccasins and trust this Nick of the Woods." CHAPTER VI. Temptation and Flight. "It was the first of June, the day on which It is as easy for the heart to be true, As for grass to be green, or for skies to be blue." But Sprigg's heart was too full of red moccasins for the laughing gladness of the green fields, or the smiling delight of the blue sky, to find any place there. What his mother had told him of the wild shapes which haunted the forest had, for the time, caused his heart, bold as it was for one of his years, to quake with a nameless dread, which seemed to dog his shadow wherever he went. When the shades of night and the hours of sleep were come, these wild remembrances took the form of wilder dreams, which vexed and scared his slumbers till break of day. But next day was the first of June; and the sun was too bright, and the sky too blue, and the earth too green, for ugly dreams to linger long in the mind, and by the time the shadows stood still at noon Nick of the Woods, chasing Indians, hugging bears and the like terrors of the forest were remembered only as frightful pictures seen in a book. Sprigg had dined; and a healthy young cub of a bear never cleaned out a hive of honey with a keener appetite than our hero his bowl of milk and bread. For the seventh time that day he had looked at and tried on the moccasins, just to reassure himself that they were made for his feet and nobody else's, and to take a few quiet turns in them about the room, just to see if they felt as easy as they fitted well. Now, with greater liveliness and earnestness than ever, his thoughts returned to the matter he had so near at heart; nor would they let him rest until he had answered the question which, for the seventh time that day, he had put to himself: "Shall I on with the moccasins and go to grandpap's house to-day?" The good voice in his heart said: "No, Sprigg! No! Don't you do it! Don't even think of such a thing! It is not mam's wish; it is not pap's wish, that you should venture so far away, through the wild and dangerous woods all alone! It would vex and grieve them a thousand times more than it could possibly gratify you. So stay at home, Sprigg; stay at home, and have a care how you let red moccasins tempt you astray! Wait, like a good boy, until you can go with pap and mam to grandmam's quilting." But quickly spoke up the bad voice in his heart and said: "Go, Sprigg! Go! By all means go, and a delightful time you shall have of it--be sure of that. The old folks won't care so much--not so very much! When did they care so very much for anything you had done, even though it might not have been exactly right. So up and away to grandpap's house! and never a fear that a pair of red moccasins could take you anywhere it pleased you not to go." The good voice spoke soft and low; the bad voice loud and high. Sprigg heard the bad voice best, because he liked it best. Still, he could not fairly make up his mind. Perhaps the moccasins could help him to decide. He went to the chest and, for the eighth time, took them out, that the very thing that was tempting him to do wrong might tell him what were best to be done. As he stood there, holding up the red temptation in the fairest light before his eyes, he thought he heard a noise, coming, he could not tell whence, which caused him to set the moccasins hastily down on the chest lid and look about him. Nothing was there to be seen that he had not seen a thousand times before. In a little while the noise shaped itself into something almost like a voice, which seemed to come directly up from the moccasins, saying: "Are we not beautiful things for the feet, Sprigg? Oh, but we are! You can't deny it! On with us, and away to grandpap's house!" With startled eyes the boy looked all around him--not a living thing was to be seen in the room. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The Indian boy on the show bill was the nearest approach to a shape of life that met his gaze. He clapped his hands to his ears to make sure they had not played him a trick. His ears were all right; so was his coonskin cap, the rim before, the tail behind. What seemed a voice began again, and, for the life of him, Sprigg could not determine whether it came from the moccasins or from his own heart. "Who plies her loom, with shuttle and beam, and sings at her work with so blithe a heart? Elster Whitney. And her shuttle shall fly, and her beam shall bang, from hour to hour, till the day is well nigh done. Who roams the forest, with dog and gun, and follows the chase with heart so bold? Jervis Whitney. And his dog shall bound, and his gun shall bang, from hour to hour, till the day is well nigh done. So, Sprigg, the day is clear, and you have the half of a long, bright, summer day before you. Make the most of it! There, near the fort, where grandpap lives, lives young Ben Logan. Ben, when he sees you coming, all by your own lone self, will shout: 'Hurrah! hurrah! what a brave boy is Sprigg!' Yet, let him admire your bravery ever so much, he will be ready to die of very envy, because of your beautiful moccasins. And there is little Bertha Bryant, too, at the fort; blue-eyed little Bertha, laughing little Bertha, dancing little Bertha! And Bertha will admire your bravery even more than Ben, and love you to very distraction, because of your beautiful moccasins. On with us, then, and away to grandpap's house. We know the road; we can take you there safely enough. Let us alone for that! and Sprigg is a brave boy! Who said our Sprigg was not a brave boy? He-he-he!" Sprigg thought he heard a low laugh; the queerest little laugh he had ever heard. A laugh he did not exactly fancy, because it made the chills come creeping up his back and set his flesh to creeping, and caused the most peculiar sensations about the roots of the hair you can well imagine. So, to keep up his spirits, he forced out a mechanical sort of a sound, meant for a laugh, after which he felt considerably better, because it made him imagine it was he who laughed but now, and that the words he had heard were but the thoughts of his own heart. Sprigg's mind was made up: He would go to grandpap's house that self-same day. But he dared not put on the moccasins there in the house, lest his mother should see him as he was making off and put her foot on his little pet project. "I have it!" said he to the moccasins, for he felt that they knew what was afloat, as well as himself. Pat to the word, he slipped out to a bench in the yard, where Elster had set her household vessels to sun. From these he took their large, oak-bound cedar water bucket and brought it into the house. In this he concealed the moccasins, and, with a cat-like step, stole out by the way of the front porch. But just as he was climbing the yard fence, his mother, who had left off her work at the loom for a few minutes, came to the door to throw an old hen and her brood of young ones some dough, and seeing her boy on the fence she called out: "Where now, Sprigg, so brisk and spry, with my big cedar bucket?" "I am going to our best spring, down yonder in the edge of the woods, to fetch dear mam a good, cool drink of water." "Our boy will be a credit and a blessing to us yet, let the wiseacres predict as they will!" and Elster returned to her work with a glad heart, that her son, for once, of his own accord, had bethought him of doing a kind turn for his mother. Sprigg sped down the hill till he reached the hollow in the edge of the woods, where their favorite spring, screened from the rays of the noon-day sun by thick, overhanging trees, came bubbling up from under a mossy ledge of rock. Here, in the dark, cool shade, he sat down on the ground to put on his moccasins. But why so trembled his hands? Why trembled he so all over? And why did he fumble so long at the moccasin latches? It was the guilt of that ugly lie, which he had sent back to his mother, and with which his mouth and heart were now all hot and foul. "Quick! Quick!" There it was again at his side. That sound so like a voice. "Right and tight! Brave! Brave! Who said our Sprigg was not a brave boy? He-he-he!" And, while the voice was yet speaking, the moccasins seemed to adjust themselves, to his feet of their own accord. Now he was up, and now he was speeding away through the forest; his road, one of those buffalo-traces, which, in those days, formed the only highways through the wilderness; the road of all others to lead a young runaway wide and wild of his mark. Soon, too soon, was Sprigg--vain Sprigg, bad Sprigg, poor Sprigg--far out of sight of home, the one place under the pitiful heavens where the young and the aged, the weak and the helpless, the untried and the overtried, should look for happiness and peace and safety! He fled with his face toward Sunset-land; but never once thought he of Little Winged Moccasin. Elster had often told her son of the little Indian boy, who ran to Sunset-land in quest of his shadow, which he had lost at noon-day. The legend ran thus: "There was a Cherokee boy, who discovered one morning at sunrise what a long shadow he cast on the ground. Whereat, greatly delighted, he cried out: 'Look! look! see what a shadow I make! See what a giant I am!' But as the sun rose higher and higher his shadow grew shorter and shorter, until, at noon, it had dwindled to scarcely a span's length. Whereupon, he set up a loud lamentation, when suddenly a Manitou appeared before him, who wore on his feet a pair of winged red moccasins. "'What grieves you, boy?' said the Manitou. "'I have lost my shadow!' cried the boy. "'Wait until sunset, and you shall find it again,' said the Manitou. "'But I have not the patience to wait so long!' whined the boy. 'Could I but get there, I would go to Sunset-land, to live forever, where the shadows are always long!' "'Look!' said the Manitou, 'I have no shadow at all; never had, neither in Sunset-land nor anywhere else. Yet am I perfectly satisfied.' "'Maybe I would be satisfied, too, without one, had I never had one,' put in the boy. "'Well,' quoth the Manitou, 'since you are not willing to wait for your shadow till sunset, and must need go to Sunset-land, where you think the shadows are always long--here, I will lend you my moccasins, which, being winged, will enable you to keep pace with the sun, and arrive at Sunset-land as soon as he.' "The boy put on the moccasins; and, in a trice, he was flitting away over the face of the green earth at ten times the speed of a wild goose chased by the winds. He ran and ran, nor ceased to run, even when come to the land he was in quest of. All unwitting where he was, or whither going, on--right through with might and main speed--on and on, until he had put the Land of Sunrise as far behind him as the Land of Sunset was before him; nor yet had found the object of his heart's desire. And why? because he had gone the wrong course and the wrong speed to keep himself in the right light for the long shadow. Suddenly, to his astonishment, he found himself once more at the self-same spot whence, but the day just gone, he had set out on his wilder than a wild goose chase; and there was the Manitou waiting for him, who, with a twinkling smile, said: "'Boy, have you found your shadow?' "The poor shadow-hunter pointed to the insignificant figure he still made on the earth and remained silent. "'Foolish youth!' exclaimed the Manitou, 'had you but been content to remain where you were and abide your time, you would have found your shadow, not only at sunset, but also at sunrise; and little enough worth the seeking at that! Thus, have you cheated yourself of your happiness twice from being unwilling to wait for it once!'" No! Poor Sprigg never once thought of Little Winged Moccasin. CHAPTER VII. Met--and Only His Shadow to Be Seen. Sprigg ran for more than a mile with all his might, and was astonished to find he was not in the least degree weary or short of breath. Then he thought it must be the moccasins making his feet so light, and little dreamed he how swift; and he was all the more certain that they would carry him straight to grandpap's house, as they, or the voice, or his own heart--it were hard to say which--had promised. With this discovery, he need have no fear of now being overtaken and carried back home before he had made his way to the fort; and, once there, fairly nestled under grandmam's wing. He well knew from pet-boy experience he could spin out his visit until it should please him to remount Shank's mare and trot back home of his own free will. His mind thus eased from the apprehension of pursuit, there was nothing to hinder him now, even while moving so swiftly along, from feasting his eyes on his beautiful moccasins--so red, so light, so fleet--so brave with their glittering beads. The light-footed fawns were skipping, like lambs, in the sunlit glades of the forest. The glad-voiced birdlings were singing, for joy of the summer, in every tree. The bright-eyed flowerets were smiling in every sunny spot by the wayside, and doing their utmost to make the wilderness lovely. But the flowerets might smile, and the birdlings sing, and the fawns, like lambkins, skip--they skipped and sang and smiled in vain for Sprigg! His eyes were on his moccasins, and his heart was in his eyes. The boy was moving along in this half-dreamy state of self-admiration, when his ear was caught by a noise, as of feet, which stirred the leaves and came on with a quick, quick tramp. He started and looked up. Started again, then stood stock still. What think you Sprigg saw there, in the wild and lonesome woods? A gaunt-ribbed wolf, with teeth so long and sharp? No, not a wolf. A shaggy-coated bear, with claws so long and sharp? No, not a bear, nor panther, nor yet a wild-cat! Then it must have been an Indian, as Elster had pictured, all hideously painted, with a tomahawk in his right hand, a scalping knife in his left, and, by this time, yelling like a demon! No, nor an Indian either. Only pap and Pow-wow; pap, rifle on shoulder, not ten paces distant, and Pow-wow so near that Sprigg could easily have laid his hand on his dear old play-fellow's shaggy head. The boy's first impulse was to slink aside and hide himself in a thick clump of bushes which grew by the wayside; but it was too late, his father's eyes were already fixed, or seemed to be fixed, directly upon him. So he remained perfectly motionless where he was, standing, too, in the very midst of a bright spot of sunlight--the only one which, just there, broke the sombre shade of the forest. Pow-wow trotted on by, nor wagged his tail in greeting to his young master, nor even so much as raised his nose from the ground to sniff at him. His father passed on by; passed within arm's length of his own flesh and blood, nor yet extended his hand to touch him, nor even so much as moved his lips to speak to him. What might this mean? "He-he-he!" And a low, wild laugh went out on the air. All three jumped--the boy, the man, the dog--and, with startled eyes, all glanced behind them. The dog slunk cowering back to the side of his master, who, with a glance of his keen hunter's eye, which comprehended every object around them, said, addressing his dumb companion: "What! frightened, my brave old fellow? Frightened for the first time in your life! What could it have been? for not a thing do I see." Yet his eyes, as also those of the dog, were turned directly toward the spot where, as though he were a bush and his feet roots, the boy still stood, the sunlight shining full upon him. Sprigg felt a strange thrill come creeping through his veins, to find that, though he was looked at, it was with a look as if he were not perceived. A discovery, which caused his heart to quake with a terror he could not have felt, had his father actually seen him and called to him in a loud, stern voice, to know what he did there, and to command him to go back home. "No, Pow-wow," again said the hunter to his cowering dog, and still glancing keenly about him, "not a thing do I see that could either laugh or cry; and yet, just there on the ground, in that spot of sunlight, I do see something which looks for all the world like a boy's shadow." And lifting his eyes to the branches of the trees above him, Jervis scanned them narrowly to discover the particular bough to which the freak might be ascribed. Then lowering his eyes against to the shadow on the ground, with a look of no small wonderment, he added: "It seems, Pow-wow, that our ears and eyes have a plot among them to play us a trick. But, come! Let's push on home. The day grows late, and we still have ten long miles to trudge; and Sprigg, you know, must have a good, broad edge of daylight for looking at and playing with the young black fox we found in our trap this morning. How our boy will kick up his heels when he comes out to meet us, finding we have brought him so rare a pet! But won't he, though? So up with your tail, my brave old fellow! Up with your tail and lead on!" But Pow-wow did not up with his tail; nor, till now, when they were turning to go, had he ceased to glare at the spot where his young master was standing, and whence had come that low, wild laugh. Sprigg watched them till he could see them no longer. Then he laughed, as he had done at home, to pluck up the spirit he had lost; laughed in such a way as to make him imagine that, after all, it could only have been himself, who but now had laughed. But that his father and Pow-wow could have passed right by him without seeing him, or discovering his presence in any way, was a circumstance certainly far from pleasant to think of; even while the young runaway felt quite assured that had he been found there, so far from home, he should, for that one time, at least, have been severely punished. But there it was coming again! That sound, so like a voice shaping in words the thoughts of his own heart. "Pluck up, Sprigg! Pluck up! Ten long miles from home, and the old hen and her chickens still with their bills in the dough, which Elster threw out to them as we were climbing the fence. And now, Sprigg, don't you see that with these red moccasins on your feet you are as swift as a young wild goose, if not swifter? Better still, you are no more to be seen in them, even when met by your own father, face to face--no more to be seen than the thin air you stand in! Then, what can catch you? What can hurt you? Sprigg, this is fine! It is splendid! Only see how high the sun is, and we already here at the old hunting camp, exactly half way between your house and grandpap's. You heard pap say to Pow-wow that you must have a good, broad edge of daylight for the young black fox, but you shall have that for better things than black foxes. You shall, in the first place, go by young Ben Logan's house, only a mile or so out of your way, and letting him have just one broad stare at your brave moccasins--set him to dying of envy at once. This done, you will have time enough, and to spare, for going by pretty little Bertha Bryant's house; although, to do this, you will be obliged to pass by grandpap's first. But I would do it; and I would walk directly through the yard, and allowing Bertha just one flitting glimpse of your beautiful moccasins, set her, there on the spot, to losing her senses for very admiration and love of them. Then, pluck up your heart, my boy! Pluck up heart! Oh, what a brave boy is Sprigg! Who said our Sprigg was not a brave boy? He-he-he!" Poor Sprigg! Why did you not cast off the terrible moccasins then and there? And, all in your naked feet, unmindful of tearing stones and piercing thorns, speed you after your father, and confessing all, implore him to beat you, ere he had forgiven you? He might have done so; rebuked you sternly, punished you sorely, but far easier and better for you had been all that than the fearful delight which was now charming you out of your better nature. For, had he done so, would he not have taken you, with your feet all torn and bleeding as they were, your body all bruised with the stripes of his chastising rod--taken you up in his strong, loving arms and borne you home? Home, the one place under the pitiful heavens where the young and the aged, the weak and the helpless, the untried and the overtried, should look for happiness, peace and safety! CHAPTER VIII. Awakes to Find that He Is Lost. Again the poor, vain boy was speeding him on his lone and perilous way. His flight was as swift as the wind, yet so smooth and lightsome that he could gaze upon his moccasins and delight his eyes with their glitter and gleam, as completely at his ease as were he perched on his three-legged stool at home. Of course, then, rambling on thus, with neither eye nor thought but for the red allurements on his feet, he must, ere long, lose sight of the road he set out to follow. This will surprise you the less when told that from the time he had put them on at the spring, it had seemed to the poor boy's fancy that the moccasins knew, as well as himself, whither they were bound, and that they would take him there by the shortest and easiest route, did he but yield himself to their guidance. The road to be followed, thus lost sight of--what wonder, then, if the place to be reached should at last be lost sight of also! In this strange plight, the young wanderer was pursuing his way, when he was aroused from his walking dream by a broad, red glare, which struck full upon his downcast eyes, and for the moment left him blind as night. Soon, however, his vision returned to him strong and clear, when he found himself on the top of a lofty hill, just where a gap in the forest let in the flood of sunlight; and this it was which had dazzled him into transient blindness, as, too suddenly, he had entered it from out the sombre shadows, in which he for long hours had been wandering. Now had you seen that hill, how lofty and steep it was, and marked with what ease and swiftness our hero scaled it, you would have said at once that the red moccasins had more to do with the feat than Sprigg's own legs. The gap in the forest proved to be a long, lane-like opening through the trees, which covered only the sides of a round-backed ridge. Through this opening Sprigg had an unobstructed view toward some distant hills in the West, and could see that the sun had well nigh run his daily course. The ridge ascended gradually till it reached it greatest elevation where the boy was standing, and here ended abruptly in a promontory-like hill, which overlooked a wide sea of waving verdure far below. The brow of the hill and the crest of the ridge were not so bare of trees but that, here and there, a lofty oak tree might be seen; but the face toward the East was much too steep and smooth to offer a foothold for trees, being covered instead with a dense growth of low bushes, whose twisted twigs and crisped leaves had, from a distance, more the appearance of moss than of verdure. Upon waking from his reverie, and turning to look behind him, Sprigg had found himself on the very brink of the declivity. Could it be possible that he had climbed it without conscious effort? Or, indeed, without any effort at all of his own! A bear climbing, paw over paw, might have been equal to the feat; but even a bear, were he minded to scale the hill, would have chosen a more circuitous and less laborious route. There was not the sign of a path made by man or beast anywhere to be seen, either up the steep or along the ridge. Even of his own footsteps, Sprigg could not discern a single trace, whether in crushed leaf, or bruised weed, or print of his moccasins left in the soft soil. The spot was utterly strange to him; it could not have been more so, had he been taken and set down on a hill in the land of Nod. He looked around. There were hills far, far beneath the one on which he stood. And beneath these valleys and plains, while one unbroken forest spread dark and sombre over all, not a token of man or savage could he discover, whether in house, or field, or road, or column of smoke curling up from among the trees. Nothing but woods, woods. Woods! Then, like a sudden awakening from a wild dream, it flashed upon his consciousness that he was lost. "Where am I?" cried the poor boy. "How came I here?" "He-he-he!" Sprigg jumped. This time, the sound that seemed so like a laugh was too completely outside of himself; too little in harmony with his present thoughts for him to fancy it was himself that laughed. First on this side, then on that. Quite near at hand he looked--not a thing of life could he see. He looked far forth; a herd of deer was grazing in a blue-grass glade, a great way off to the right; and a great way off to the left, a herd of buffalo, browsing on the tender shoots of a cane-brake, which skirted the banks of a beautiful river. Behind him, toward the setting sun, a few birds of prey were wheeling and screaming aloft in the crimson evening sky. Saving these, not a thing of life or sound was there to be seen in all the wilds. Lost! Lost! Lost! To find himself lost is the only discovery your waking dreamer is apt to make. Then Sprigg looked down and scanned the red moccasins. They showed not a grain of dust, not a speck of mire, not a stain of grass, or weed, or water, although he had walked in them--or, if you please, they had walked with him--through many a mile of grassy wood and reedy swamp, where path was none, that had ever been trodden by foot of man. As clean and bright and red were they as when he had drawn them on in the shade of the spring trees there at home. A rather singular circumstance, certainly; and only to be explained upon the ground that, as the boy had submitted himself entirely to their guidance, the moccasins had daintily picked out the road which suited them best, and such roads, I warrant you, as common shoes were not at all in the habit of traveling. Yes, the red charms had beguiled the young runaway, and, without any motive or knowledge of his own, had brought him to that remote and solitary spot--how, or to what end, he could not imagine. Of one thing he was certain, they had not brought him to grandpap's house, as they--for so it had seemed to him--had promised they would, and he had been so foolish as to believe they could. At last, but when it was too late, the scales were beginning to fall from his eyes. In other words, the red fog, in which he had so long been chased by the shadow he sought, was beginning to grow a little transparent, so that he could view his case in a somewhat clearer and more natural light. Apparent enough was it now that the red moccasins had deceived him, mocked him, laughed at him--in short, made a fool of Sprigg completely. This discovery brought a twinge to his self-love, far more severe than any pain of conscience he felt at the thought of the foul lie he had told, or of his shabby flight from home; even while he could not help but be aware of the grief and shame and distressing apprehensions he must thereby be causing his dear father and mother. In a pet of wrath, plump down he sat, this poor, vain boy; and, jerking the moccasins from off his feet, flung them, one after the other, over the brink of the steep, as far as his sturdy, young arms could send them. "Curse the red moccasins!" cried the boy, as now in his bare feet he stood, the hot tears jumping suddenly out of his eyes. "You mocked me, fooled me, lost me! Curse you! and may I never----" What more he might have said was cut short by a noise, which, while he was yet speaking, had caught his ear. A noise as of answering voices, mingled with peals of wild and mocking laughter, heard from several directions at once, and ringing out clear and shrill upon the still evening air. These sounds abruptly ceased--the more abruptly from leaving no echoes behind them, where echoes were wont to be left. But straight were they succeeded by another sound, caused, apparently, by a pair of light feet, which, with a hop, step and jump, by way of a start, were now coming in through the leaves and grass with a slow and measured tread; and so near at hand that he who walked would have been in plain view just there. At first Sprigg looked too high to see what was to be seen, but soon lowering his gaze he saw---- But close the book for a minute and guess. Can not? Try it again! Not yet? No--nor could you, were you to try from New Year's morn to New Year's eve. Wonderful, as you may think it, Sprigg saw there on the ground, not a dozen paces from him, his cast-off moccasins, coming slowly toward him--first the right foot, then the left--without so much as a pair of knee buckles to show for legs, till they had set their toes within easy speaking distance, squarely confronting him. The boy stood stock still, staring before him, with no more power to move from the spot than the bushes around him. So great was his astonishment, not to say terror, he felt at the sight of this fantastic apparition. CHAPTER IX. Finds the Red Moccasins Whole-souled Friends in Need. "Are we not beautiful things for the feet, Sprigg? Oh, but we are! You can't deny it! On with us, then, and away to grandpap's house! Who said we couldn't take Sprigg to grandpap's house? Who said we couldn't take Sprigg to young Ben Logan's house? Who said we couldn't take Sprigg to pretty little Bertha's house? If Will-o'-the-Wisp said so, he lied! He lied, too, if he said our Sprigg was not a brave boy! He-he-he!" The boy knew well enough, for he heard it distinctly enough this time, that the voice did not come from his own heart, nor yet from the moccasins, but from a point in the air, about as high up from the ground as his own mouth, as if he who spoke were standing in the moccasins, face to face with him, though not even so much as a shade of a shadow could he see. "An elf! An elf is in the moccasins!" cried the boy, and tearing his feet from the ground, where he had stood as rooted, fled for his life, the moccasins following right at his heels and mockingly keeping step for step with him, till down in a swoon he sank at the foot of an old oak tree. How long he lay thus he never knew, but when he recovered his senses, there before him were the red moccasins, side by side, the toe of the left one turned slightly outward, as if he who stood in them were taking it quite at his ease. A self-assured air, well suiting the self-assured voice, which, in tones quite new and strange, pronounced these words, with an emphatic pause at the end of each brief sentence: "You may run to the green earth's end, my boy! To the sea, where the bright sun soon shall set! To the sea, where the pale moon soon shall rise! But, step for step, come we at your heels, though borne you be on the wings of the wind!" The poor boy cowered down at the foot of the old oak, and burying his face in his coonskin cap, remained for a long time mum and motionless. With the red moccasins, which, in a pet of disappointment and wounded self-love, he had flung from him, had departed the marvelous stoutness of heart and strength of limb he had felt while his feet were in them. And now, all weak and spiritless, was he left to shift for himself, with such resources only as a bare-footed boy, alone in the midst of a vast wilderness, might be supposed to have at his command. Sitting thus, he began gradually taking in some idea of the sad condition to which he had brought himself by his vanity and disobedience, though his remorse for the wrong of the thing, and for the sorrow it must occasion the dear ones at home, was by no means as lively and decided as his regret for the unpleasant consequences thereof to his own particular self. There he was--he knew not how far away from home, sweet home!--all alone in that wild and solitary spot, and the darksome, dismal, terrible night soon to come creeping, creeping over his houseless head. There he was, and no dear mam--so loving, so cheerful--to give him his bowl of bread and milk! No dear pap--so kind, so merry--to tell him wild stories of Indians and Will-o'-the-Wisp and Nick of the Woods! Yes, and no good, old Pow-wow, brave old Pow-wow, to come trotting up to him, in the dear old wag-tail way, to thrust his shaggy head into his little master's hand for a pat or a hug! It was too much for the poor, young runaway's heart, and out came a passionate burst of tender home-sick feeling, though he did it as well as he could, smothering it up in his coonskin cap. But soon again, bethinking him how he had been mocked and fooled by the imp in the moccasins, he summoned back the pride of his young heart and the strength of his young will, and checked his tears, lest his weakness of feeling, like his vanity, should be made the provocation of derision. In this condition he sat for many moments, quite motionless, saving when the sobs, which needs must follow his tears, came heaving up from his breast and shook his crouching little figure. Yet he did but sulk as one who, while glum with all the world besides, is far from being at peace with his own heart. His tear-wet face he still kept buried in his cap, not daring to remove it from his eyes, lest they should encounter those of the thing who stood in the moccasins, whom he felt to be watching him all this time from up there in the clear, unshadowed air. At the end of less than half an hour he was roused from his unquiet thoughts by the sound of a slow, heavy tramp, at no great distance off, followed immediately by a slight stir in the leaves and grass near-by, which caused him to start; and, before he was aware, he had dropped the cap from over his eyes. The moccasins had turned quite 'round, with their toes another way, as if the ear of him who stood in them had been caught by the same sound, and he would inform himself of the cause. Sprigg looked in the direction thus indicated, when an object met his gaze, which caused his eyes to grow big and round, then stand fixed in their sockets. What the boy and the thing in the moccasins saw there was a bison bull--and a huge beast he was. That bull of the wilderness, and of as wild and savage an aspect, too, as you would care to behold, even within the secure enclosure of a menagerie. His hair was long and curled, and of dun or tawny color. A hump he had on his shoulders, which gave his neck a downward slope to the head, and his back a downward slope to the tail--his tail, but a short brush of a thing, scarcely reaching to his hocks. Horns, he had, too--black horns, long and strong, and tapering to a sharper point than is the case with horned cattle, generally speaking. But the feature to which the monster chiefly owed his singular wildness of appearance was his mane, which, in shaggy luxuriance, flowed from neck, shoulders and breast, covering the legs to the knees, and veiling the face almost to the very nose. Now, had he seen all this in the yard at home, himself stationed on the porch, with pap on one side, Black Bess in hand, ready to shoot; Pow-wow on the other, ready to spring at the first intimation of hostile design on the part of his bullship, our hero would have clapped his hands and pronounced it a grander sight than any the old show bill could boast, always excepting, of course, the Indian boy and Shetland pony. But there, in that desolate spot, with not a living soul a-near, unless, indeed, the thing in moccasins might have a soul, a bison bull were hardly the object to awaken pleasant wonderment and lively admiration in the mind of a lost boy, who, against a pair of long, sharp horns, could oppose no weapon but a jack-knife, no shield but a coonskin cap. When the boy first caught sight of him, the bull was already within easy viewing distance, and was soon so near that, in his turn, he could not fail to catch sight of the boy, where he still sat crouched at the foot of the tree. This was plainly to be seen, by the way the monster stopped short, turned square 'round, and lowered his huge, black front to stare at the little stranger. Bright eyes, wild eyes, Sprigg now saw a bison's eyes to be. The fringe of mane, which veiled the face, obstructing his vision, caused the animal, when he stared at you, to roll his eyeballs downward till their colored circles were half hid by their lower lids, thus leaving the upper whites exposed to view in the form of a new moon, with the points downward. To be squinted at with the side whites of the eyes, to a naughty boy like Sprigg is anything else but pleasant; but to be stared at with the upper whites of the eyes, as the bison bull was now staring at Sprigg, were enough to make you feel as if you had a wide-awake nightmare in broad daylight. Evidently his bullship was greatly surprised to find so small a boy, at so late an hour, in that out-of-the-way place, without even so much as a dog and gun to show for the business which had brought him thither. Then, as if feeling that he had a right to investigate the matter, the bison, with short, slow, soft steps, began shortening the distance between himself and the object of his curiosity. Closer and closer he came, still with his huge, black front lowered, and his crescent-like eyes gleaming wildly out from the depths of his overshadowing mane, with a look as if he were saying within himself: "And what wee thing is this, up here in my bluegrass pasture?" Sprigg could not draw his eyes from those of the beast; nor had he the power to rise and flee from the spot, though it was well that he had not the power to run, as in that event the bull might have been tempted to give him chase, as things with horns are apt to do when we are trying our best to get out of their way. Overtaking him, the bull would have run his long, sharp horns directly under the young fugitive's arms, and, giving him a toss high up in the air, let him drop down a-straddle of his back, just behind the hump, for a pleasant evening ride. Understand me, now--I am not positive in saying that this is precisely what the bison would have done had our hero taken to his heels. Though the thing may have happened once or twice since time began, I have never heard of a runaway boy being chased by a bison bull; and, therefore, can only guess how such a beast would deport himself under the circumstances. But I am rather inclined to think he would hardly do anything more dreadful than play the savage antic just suggested; because, a moment's reflection would show him that to use his horns to a greater length, were to frighten the young runaway out of his wits, and thereby incapacitate him from being made to see and feel the error of his way. Though, I must confess that, for my own part, I should not be willing to trust the savage fellow a single horn's length until I had subjected him to a certain old-fashioned test--I would first take care to see how far I could fling the bull by the tail, and make the result the measure of my confidence in his good intentions. Step by step, still came the monster slowly on, and now was come so near that the boy could feel his moist breath warming the air around him. Another step, and their noses had been all but within touching distance of each other. But just at that moment--just as the cry of pap! pap! rang affrightedly out on the still evening air--the red moccasins, which, up to this time, had remained perfectly quiet, seemed to be seized all on a sudden with an animated interest in what was passing. With a hop, step and jump, they were, in a twinkling, right at the bull's nose and pouring upon it a shower of kicks, so rapid and stunning that the beast, huge and powerful as he was, staggered backward several paces, with a look of utter bewilderment. Nor did the pertinacious little stunners let him off till they had forced him back to the very brink of the steep; when, with a roar of fright and pain which shook the lonely wilds, the monster wheeled about, and making a blind leap, vanished over the precipice. This done, the red moccasins quietly retraced their steps, and, with the same air of easy self-assurance, adjusted themselves before the boy, who, not so fearful now as sullen, buried his face once more in his coonskin cap; and never a word of thanks to them, nor to any one else, that Sprigg was in the land of the living. CHAPTER X. Still at the Foot of the Old Oak Tree. The roar of the bison bull was hardly out of his ears, when the boy heard another slight rustling in the leaves and grass near-by, and peeping out from behind his cap, he saw that the moccasins had again shifted their position. Looking in the direction toward which their toes were turned, he saw an object more to be dreaded, by far, than a bison bull. A wild-cat it was, already too near at hand, creeping up in that soft, sly way peculiar to animals of the cat family whenever they have a victim in view. A wild-cat--fat; sleek sides, all ribbed with stripes of black and white; white teeth, very long and sharp; black claws, longer and sharper still; ringed tail, very long and very lithe, waving softly all the time from side to side, with a sort of quivering eagerness in its motion, as if the owner were trying his best to hold it still, and for the life of him could not do so. By this time, the handsome savage had slipped himself within easy springing distance of his intended quarry. Here he paused, and fixing his wild, sly eyes on those of the boy, began purring in a soft way, and licking his red chops with his long, red tongue in a soft way--that uncontrollable tail still waving from side to side in the same soft way--all in the softest, slyest way that you could well imagine, as if he were saying within himself: "But won't a wild-cat pap and a wild-cat mam and their wild-cat kittens feast and be merry to-night?" All this took the boy but three winks of the eye to observe; though, in the time, he had not winked once, so fascinated was he by the gaze of those wild, sly eyes, which shone like balls of green fire, rather than eyes. Now was Wild Tom of the Woods making his squat for the long spring, and the poor little runaway screaming again to pap for help. But just then, in the very nick of time, with a swiftness that left a red streak in the air, the red moccasins darted directly at the wild-cat's face, and kicking the green fire out of his eyes, spoiled their charming expression in a twinkle. With a scream of amazement, fright and pain, which struck on the ear like the shriek of a terrified woman, the nimble creature spun lithely 'round, and, like the bull, reckless of all save the unseen foe behind him, made a blind leap sheer over the brink of the precipice, and in a moment sank out of sight. This happily accomplished, the moccasins, precisely as they had done before, returned to their post; and the boy, precisely as he had done before, hid his face in his coonskin cap. Nor even yet one word of thanks for timely rescue from untimely end. Now, had you been in our hero's place, you would have up and made friends with the moccasins, there on the spot, for so kindly stepping in betwixt you and peril--shaken hands with them as whole-souled fellows, with whom it was to a bare-footed boy's behoof to stand on a good footing. But Sprigg was the worst spoiled boy in the world; which, unless I am mightily mistaken, you are not; and it still rang in his foggy young noddle that it was all the red moccasins' fault that he had been brought to straits so sad and desperate. Therefore, he owed them no thanks whatever for helping him out, let them kick as they might. Such being the case, Sprigg would not have made friends with the moccasins, had it been to save their soles. So, there sat the boy, with his face in his coonskin cap; and there stood the thing, with its feet in the moccasins; and there flung the sun his last red beams, then went his way, unrecking who wept to see him go. Now, shade by shade, with foot as stealthy and soft as the furred paw of the gray cat, came the gray twilight, creeping, creeping on. The hour, when the gray owl, with a whoop, from his hole in the tree; and the gray wolf, with a howl, from his cleft in the rock, come forth in quest of their prey. And woe to the fawn! And woe to the birdling! strayed from home for the first time, should the shadows of night, that tempt the famished foe abroad, find him still far from the old one's side; for chased shall he be, and caught up by the claws, or dragged down by the fangs of the dread destroyer! And Sprigg--poor child! How weak and helpless to be in a spot so lonely and dreary and perilous, and so far away from the dear old hearts of home! Hearts, by this time, so overburdened with grief and distressing apprehensions--all for him! How weary, too, and faint he felt! And how he longed to lay him down to sleep and be at rest! But this, he dared not, lest he should awake but to find long, sharp horns at his breast, or long, sharp teeth at his throat. Or, if not this, he might, while yet asleep, be borne away to some spot, still more distant and lonely, by the strange being, who stood just there in the moccasins, the gaze of whose unseen eyes he now felt in his inmost heart. At last, in spite of all his efforts to keep awake, the weary child was dropping off to sleep, when his ear, as yet but half closed, was caught by a dog-trot sort of a noise in the leaves quite near at hand. Rousing with a start and looking out, the boy saw there a wolf--gray, grim and gaunt, with eyes that glared upon him through the dusky shades, like balls of red fire, rather than eyes. Sprigg was on the point of screaming again to pap for help, when he bethought him of the moccasins, and glancing down and perceiving that they had turned their toes toward the monster, he choked himself into silence. Though he still feared them, he had, by this time, learned to trust the red moccasins, and now felt assured that they would defend him against the wolf as they had done against the bull and the cat. Nor was he mistaken. Just as Wild Tray of the Woods would have made his spring and sprang on the boy, the moccasins made their spring and sprang on the wolf, driving directly at his ugly eyes, with a kick into each, which brought the red fire flashing out into the darkness. Back, with a terrified howl, cowered the monster, and spinning swiftly 'round, vanished like the bison and the wild-cat, with a blind leap over the precipice. But this time, when the moccasins came back, a voice came with them; a new voice, whose tones, gentle and kind, reminded the poor boy of his mother's, and thus the new voice spoke: "Now our Sprigg must feel assured he may trust us. Then sleep, poor boy! You are weary, faint and sick at heart, and have but too much need of rest! A friend is here, who will watch over you and keep you safe from harm. Then, sleep, poor child, sleep!" And with these words the forlorn little castaway felt a tiny hand laid upon his head, and with a touch so gentle that a gush of soft, warm, grateful tears came welling up from his overburdened heart; and straightway a sense of rest and slumber stole over his spirit, and he sank into a deep sleep. Just then the moon wheeled up from behind the forest-bound East, and shot her first silver arrows, long-and level, against the shaggy breast of the giant hill. Round-faced, she was, and as bright as moon could well be, not to make day of night; for, be it borne in mind, that it was still the first of June, though gone the joyous sun, who had been blazing the thing to the world the livelong day. The boy had slept but an hour or so, when he was aroused by a voice, whose tones seemed those of his father's, which said: "Up, Sprigg! Up! They come!" as if he who spoke were in haste. With a wild start the boy sprang to his feet, and the first thing he knew he was standing bolt upright, looking straight down the vista, which ran along the crest of the ridge, as if his head had been turned by him that had spoken on purpose that way, that he might see what there he saw. And had Sprigg seen the bison, the wild-cat, the wolf, all there in a row, the sight could hardly have daunted him more than did that of the object which now met his eyes. A sight, it was, which brought to his memory all that his mother had told him concerning that terrible thing of the wilderness--the Indian mystery--Jibbenainesy, called by the white men, Nick of the Woods. Yes, fancy it out as you please--it was a bear, with black hair, so shaggy and long that his legs could scarcely be seen, and his tail not at all. Sprigg's first thought, after the hundred thoughts which the object before him had awakened, was to reassure himself that the moccasins still stood guard. He looked! Dire to relate, the red moccasins had deserted their post--abandoned their trust! Nothing--no one left him to look to now for help! Down he crouched again at the foot of the old oak tree, hiding himself in its deepest shadow, in the forlorn hope that the monster might pass by without discovering his presence. On came the huge bulk of shaggy blackness--now in the shadow of a tree, now in the belt of moonlight, slowly, steadily, trudged he along--his head bent down with the air of one who, while he walked, is absorbed in profound thought. When his deliberate pace had brought the bear to the third or fourth belt of light, Sprigg spied an object, which, for the moment, in spite of the terror he felt, caused his young heart to burn with indignation, reminding him, as it did, how he had been made a fool of, by something, or somebody, he had not fairly decided yet what or who. But the moment after, remembering the voice, which, so like his mother's, had lulled him to sleep with words of rest and peace--this feeling gave place to one of joy and trusting reassurance. Side by side with the bear, and keeping exact step with his sloomy pace, Sprigg saw his cast-off moccasins, coming quietly on, as if with the sole intent of guiding the monster directly up to the tree, in whose dark shadow he had trusted to find a hiding place. Thus leading, thus led, composedly on they came together, step for step--now the three right feet, now the three left feet--each as pat to the other's movement as were they walking arm in arm. The next broad patch of moonlight gained, brought them square abreast with the boy; and here, within easy speaking distance, they came to a dead halt--the red moccasins and the bear. CHAPTER XI. An Agreeable Disappointment. "Sing a song of moccasins, Pockets full of rye. Four and twenty black bears. Sniff! I smell a lie!" So said the bear, in a nursery, sing-song tone of voice; then fetching a quick sniff at the air, began peering about him--first this way, then that way, then another way--every way, indeed, but straight at Sprigg. "First behead the headsman, Then we'll fry the friar; Next we'll hang the hangman. Snuff! I smell a liar!" Again said the bear, still jingling out his words, and still stiffly sniffing the air. He now looked down at the earth, then up at the moon, then straight at Sprigg. "Holloa!" he cried, abruptly modulating his voice into quite a different key, "who sits here, at this late hour, on Manitou hill, hiding himself from my moonshines?" And with these pleasant preliminaries to their better acquaintances, his bearship seated himself upon his stump of a tail, with his amiable muzzle directly confronting the boy, as though he were in for a good, long talk and meant to be at his ease while so engaged. He had the look of one who was conscious of being the possessor of immense wisdom, and was accustomed to seeing whatever he might choose to let drop from his sagacious jaw waited for, snatched at and borne away as precious bits to be treasured up for lifelong use. The moccasins daintily adjusted themselves beside the bear, the toe of the left foot resting on the ground, with the heel turned upward, as if the wearer were standing with his legs crossed, and with the left arm thrown carelessly over the bear's shoulders. The attitude was, doubtless, an easy and graceful one: too fine, indeed, to be all lost in the air. But it pleased Sprigg exceedingly just as it was. It made him feel that the bear could not be such a terrible fellow after all, if the moccasins could make themselves so completely at home in his presence. "Who, I say?" repeated the bear. "Who sits here at this late hour on Manitou hill, hiding himself from my moonshine? What's wrong about my moonshine?" But Sprigg said never a word, moved never a limb, winked never an eye. "I say, what's wrong about my moonshine? If you have a tongue, speak!" Poor Sprigg had a tongue, but it stuck fast to the roof of his mouth, and when he world have told the bear as much, it stuck still faster. "Speak, I tell you! None of your mums with me!" the bear's voice terribly gruff by this time. "If you don't----" "Sir!" gasped out Sprigg at last. "Sir!" mockingly echoed the bear. "Sir! and is 'Sir' all a boy has to say for himself, who dodged my moonshine? I knew that much before. Now, sir, to the purpose, and tell me something I don't know." "Yes, sir," which was as near to the purpose as anything the boy could think of just then. His grim questioner looked at him with so hard a countenance that it kept his scared wits from performing the very office demanded of them. "Now, there is some sense in that," remarked the bear, with a grim smile and with a nod of the head to the right, as if the comment was intended for his ear, who stood there; and Sprigg could see that the moccasins shook, as if the wearer were laughing heartily. "Having discovered that he has a tongue," continued the bear, "we will now take a fresh start and find out, if we can, what stuff the cub is made of. Now, sir, what's your name?" "Sprigg," replied the boy, glad to have an opportunity, at last, of saying something to the purpose. "Is that an English name, or Indian name?" inquired the bear. "It is my name, sir; and you can see that I am not an Indian, by my coonskin cap." "Bless a body!" exclaimed the bear, "but that was well turned. Now, sir, as you are getting a little glib, will you go still further and tell us how old you are?" "Twelve years old, sir, next June-day come a year," replied the boy, in the peculiar sing-song way in which old-fashioned children were wont to answer the question. "Why, that's to-day, you young gump!" cried the bear, "and your answer still leaves me in the fog as to your age--whether it's eleven or twelve.' "I was eleven years old the last time, and I was to be twelve years old the next time, whenever that might be." "Better and better," quoth the bear, with an approving nod, "and now I shouldn't be surprised if he were prepared to tell us whose son he is. Can you tell us that?" "Oh, yes, sir, very easily!" "Then why don't you, and prove it?" "My pap's name is Jervis Whitney, and my mam's name is Elster Whitney;" and the poor little runaway choked as he pronounced the dear names. Whereupon, as if musing on what he had just heard, the bear made that peculiar sound, which, uttered through the nose, with the lips closed, amounts to a doubtful, undecided yes: "Oo-hooh"--then a pause--"he says his pap's name is Jervis Whitney." "Yes, sir, and my grandpap's name is Jervis Whitney, too," added Sprigg, thinking that the fuller he gave his pedigree, the more satisfactory might prove his information, "and I have an uncle who goes by the name of Benjamin Whitney, who was shot through the knees at the battle of Brandywine, so that he now goes about on wooden legs." "And the better husband for his pegs, too, I warrant you," quoth the bear, "for he will stick by his wife so long as she will stick to him." "Yes, sir, and I have another uncle, who goes by the name of----" "Ooh-hooh," said the bear, relapsing into his musing mood, "he has another uncle. But, Jervis Whitney--now, where did I ever hear that name? It sounds as familiar to my ear as the hum of a bee. Ooh-hooh--Jervis Whitney. Yes, yes! Now I have it! I know the man; know him like a book! It's the white hunter, whom Will-o'-the-Wisp and I fell in with one moonshiny night last week; and a very pleasant sort of a fellow we found him, too. Yes, and I gave him a pair of red moccasins for his little son. Yes, and he told me his son's name was Sprigg. All as clear as moonshine now. Sprigg!" "Sir!" The urchin would have said "what" to pap and mam. "A particular friend of yours sent you a pair of red moccasins one night last week--did your father deliver them to you?" "Yes, sir." "Have you worn them yet?" "Yes, sir." "Have you worn them to-day?" To which, after a pause, Sprigg owned that he had. "Did you have them on when you left home?" "Well, no, sir; not exactly." "But I want it exactly--yes or no." "Well, I was barefooted when I left the house, and wasn't barefooted when I left the spring." "What particular place did you have in your mind, as your journey's end, when you set out from home?" "Grandpap's house, sir." "And did you ask permission of your father or mother, sir?" "Yes, sir." "And did you obtain their permission?" The bear's eyes, by this time, as sharp as gimblets; as piercing as sprig-awls. Sprigg made a long pause before answering this question; and when, at last, he did do so, he pulled out the words, as a dentist pulls out teeth--with a twist and a wince--"No, sir, I didn't." "Did any one see you as you were taking your departure?" "Yes, sir; mam saw me as I was climbing the fence." "And what did your mam say to you, as you were climbing the fence?" "She asked me where I was going with the big cedar bucket." "And what did you tell her? Now, have a care, Sprigg! Be certain you come square up!" and the bear raised his right fore-foot paw with a warning gesture, awful to see, at the same time showing a double row of teeth, which gleamed like crooked little dirks in the moonshine. "Oh! Please, sir, don't look at me so with your teeth! I don't like to see you look that way!" and our hero mashed up his face for a cry. "Oh, you don't like my looks, hey! Hold your brine! You don't like my looks! Aye, and bad boys never do! Never did! So, when bad boys find fault with my looks, I just say: 'If you don't like 'em, you can lump 'em.' That's what I say. 'It's your own fault, if my looks don't please your fancy.' I say that, too. 'You see right, and I'll look right,' that's something more I say. Now, sir, out with it--straight as an arrow, plump as a bullet--what did you tell your mother, as you were climbing the fence?" And the bear again raised his right fore paw, and showed the double row of crooked little dirks. "Oh! if you please, sir, don't look that way," said our hero, still with his face mashed up for a cry. "Please don't look at me so with your long, sharp teeth! It scares me all but into fits! My name's Sprigg!" "And who said it wasn't?" growled the bear; and then in a mocking tone added: "Oh, he is trying to dodge me, is he? His name's Sprigg, is it? With this for a fresh start, we'll pass on again to his age, and from that to his pedigree; when he will tell us how his Brandywine uncle took to preaching, because of his wooden legs. Speaking of preachers, up comes his catechism, which, when well said, good little boys get the pat on the head and go out to play. Thus, he was going to lead us by the nose from point to point, till the point in point was clean lost sight of. No, no, my sly cub; you don't bamboozle an old bear so easily as all that. Then out with it at once, and mind how you blink it again! What did you tell your mother?" Sprigg would have blinked it still, but when he had looked this way and that way at the bear, and down at the moccasins and up at the man in the moon, he saw that to dodge the question longer were but to hide his head, so to speak, under a fence rail, like a goose, or a pig, and fool himself into thinking he was safe. So, with a great gulp, to keep his heart down, which would come heaving up to his throat, he at last cried out: "Oh, I told her a lie! I told her a lie!" and bursting into tears, he hid his face in his coonskin cap for shame. The bear paused for a moment; then, in a voice quite soft and gentle for him, said: "But you mourn in your heart for having done this thing?" "Yes, indeed; that I do!" and the little prodigal shook from top to toe with the violence of his sobs. "And for why?" asked the bear, in the same gentle way, only more so, almost fatherly. "Because," sobbed the boy, "had I not done so, I should not be here now, in this dark and lonesome place, with nobody for company, nobody to give me my supper, nobody to put me to bed, nobody to--to--" "And nobody to sing you to sleep with a hymn, hey!" put in the bear with a mocking grin, his fatherly manner gone In a twinkling. "No, no, my laddie! You are showing me the matter wrong side out, giving it to me wrong end foremost. You must mourn in your heart for the little lie you have told, before you put up such a pitiful mouth for the ills you have thereby brought upon yourself. Viewed in the right light, these ills are precisely what you deserve; precisely what you need for your own good. But come, quiet down and cheer up, and take a fresh start; go on and make a clean breast of it by telling us the whole story. You climbed the fence----" Thus put to it, Sprigg fell to and told the whole thing, from beginning to end--all just as it had happened. Indeed, he made so clean a breast of it as to confess that he had cursed the moccasins on flinging them away in his pet of wrath. When he had ended, greatly surprised was that little sinner to find how much better he felt that, for once in his life, he had told the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The grim confessor had kept his eyes the while fixed full and hard on those of the young delinquent, without saying a word. Now he turned his head to the right, with a look as were he inquiring of him who stood in the moccasins if what they had heard were true. This look must have been answered by an affirmative nod from the head in the air, which Sprigg could not see; for, with a soft "Ooh-hooh," long drawn out, the bear bent his eyes to the ground, as if he must needs meditate awhile on what he had heard before he could fairly make up his mind what to say or do next. Thus he remained for some moments, absorbed in thought; then, looking up at Sprigg, he gravely shook his head--took several little spells of shaking it before breaking the awful silence. "It's a bad case, Sprigg; a mighty bad case, indeed. But before we proceed any further, you may as well tell me how you like the looks of the bull and the cat and the wolf--as well as do you mine?" "Oh, no, indeed, sir! Not half so well!" And Sprigg was perfectly sincere in the compliment. The bear improved the looks so complimented by a beaming smile of gratified vanity; and the boy could perceive that the moccasins were again agitated, as if the imp, or elf, or whatever it was that stood in them, were laughing in his sleeves. "It is true, Sprigg," resumed the bear, with a look of bland self-satisfaction, "quite true that I have a rough coat and a rough voice, and, it may be, a rough way with me sometimes, but they who know me best can and do testify that my heart is in the right place, for all that; and that it is a truer and kinder heart than many a one that beats under wool, or fur, or even buckskin. But I am deviating and bearing rather too near upon the unpardonable. A person may sooner hope to find forgiveness for speaking ill of his neighbor than well of himself. Vice versa, he who speaks to his own discredit, as you, Sprigg, have just been doing, gains more credit thereby than were he to speak in the highest praise of another. And why? Because those who listen to such a person are sure to begin thinking of their own merits, while he is confessing his demerits; and to think of them is to discover how immense they are. This is a fact, for which we need not go one step out of our way to find an example. We have it right here. The bad account you have given of yourself had set me to thinking the better of myself. Your confession of fault, putting me in a good humor with myself, puts me also in a good humor with you. My merits, then, and your demerits are on the best of terms. In short, Sprigg, to sum it all up in a nutshell, I am not only one of the best fellows in the world, but one of the best friends you ever had, or ever shall have; which assurance, though you may doubt it now, I will prove to your entire satisfaction, even while yet the month of June is young and rosy." "Sprigg!" The boy said, "Sir," and the bear went on: "You have been a bad boy to-day; indeed, you have been a bad boy all the days of your life. You have never yet seen that day, Sprigg--neither winter nor summer--when, eating a Christmas pie, you could put in your thumb and pull out a plum and say: 'What a good boy am I!' Yet, to be just, you are a boy of excellent parts in many ways, which encourages us to hope that we may yet be able to bring out the good that is in you, and, at the same time, bring out the evil; at any rate, crumple it up where it is, which amounts to the same. How this desirable end is to be attained is not yet quite clear to my own mind. So you will have to go home with us to-night, where you shall make the acquaintance of our cubs, who will gladly share their bed with you. And pleasant bed-fellows shall you find them, too--so soft and warm! So affectionate, too! Only you mustn't let them hug you too hard. Meanwhile, I shall consider your case, which, being a peculiar one, I shall lay before my wife, that I may have the benefit of her good advice. This she will gladly give, believe me; for there is nothing in the world that pleases a wife more than for her husband to beg the benefit of her good advice. Though I fear it is the misfortune with some husbands--I won't say how many--to have wives so overstocked with the treasure in question that they can not wait to be called on, but must give it gratis, whether anybody wants it or not. Like giving a man a bottle of bear's grease for his hair, when his scalp is already sufficiently oily by nature; or by giving a boy a bearskin cap, when he has already a coonskin one of his own, which answers every purpose, especially if the tail is left on. These are the wives who save their husbands' grindstones from being eaten by the cows, and thereby keep their scissors sharp, to say nothing of their tongues." CHAPTER XII. Will-o'-the-Wisp. "Sprigg!" said the bear, and rose from his tail. "Sir!" said the boy, as he rose from his seat. "Can you ride a bear?" "I don't know, sir; I never tried it," said the boy, dubiously. "Come, and try it now," said the bear encouragingly. But being by no means perfectly sure, even yet, of the burly monster, our hero was in no hurry to accept the invitation. "Come and try it, I tell you!" repeated the bear in his old, gruff voice. "You won't bite me with your long, sharp teeth, will you?" whined the boy. "No," growled the bear. "And you won't scratch me with your long, sharp claws?" again whined the boy. "Scratch you with my long, sharp claws! No!" again growled the bear. "And you won't, like the bull and the cat and the wolf, go a-jumping over there, at that steep place in the hill?" still urged the boy, though a little less whiningly. "Do like the bull and the cat and the wolf? No!" rejoined the bear, a little less growlingly. "And you won't kick up, and rear up and cut capers, like a horse?" The boy, by this time, not whining at all. "Kick up, and rear up and cut capers, like a horse? No! Spur me, if I do!" And this time, so far from growling, the monster actually chuckled--so funny could he be when he tried. "And now, having felt around on every side, you have, I hope, succeeded at last in finding out on which side of your mug your nose is, and are ready to come up and take me at my offer. And Sprigg, my boy, for once and for all--of this be assured--that so far as you trust me, so far are you safe. Perfect your trust--perfect your safety." Sprigg was by no means of a confiding nature; people prone to lose sight of the truth never are. But on receiving this reassurance of good faith, he walked up boldly enough to the bear, who, as his young rider drew near, swayed his back to enable him, with the greatest ease, to mount. "But I have nothing to hold myself on by," said our hero, now fairly astraddle of his strange steed, though pressing as lightly upon it as possible. "Take a lock of my hair! If a lock of hair is good for keeping one's mind on a friend, why not as good for keeping his body there, too?" Here he chuckled a little again, then added: "But the young human thing, brave as he is, may not have as much faith in a lock of hair as some people have, or pretend to have. So, up with you, Manitou-Echo, and give him a lock of your arms." Whereat, fetching first a nimble flounce, the red moccasins, as if their wearer made a pivot of his head in the air, described a circular flourish aloft, and in a twinkle, there they were at the bear's flanks, each with a toe at one of our hero's naked heels. In another twinkle Sprigg felt himself clasped tightly around the waist, by what seemed to be a pair of small arms; small, but, bless me! how strong, as the boy was but too glad to discover the moment after. "All right?" To which, receiving an affirmative kick from the moccasins, the bear, to Sprigg's dismay, made directly for the brink of that horrible steep, where the bull, the cat and the wolf had vanished. Here, on the dizzy verge, bear-like, he wheeled about, that his tail might take the lead in the descent, which he evidently meditated. The boy glanced fearfully over his shoulder. The top of the tallest trees which grew at the foot of the hill were hundreds of feet beneath him, and so directly beneath him, it seemed to him that were he to fall from the bear's back he would drop like a stone into their branches. In one long, smooth, unbroken slide, down they swept, from summit to base of that tremendous steep. Well it was for Sprigg that the little arms which held him on were so firm and strong, else must he inevitably have slipped from the bear's back and found his way to the world below by his own natural gravity, instead of by somebody else's super-natural power. The descent accomplished, the bear changed ends, that his nose might take the lead. With a slightly waving motion, as were he swimming in the air, now was he gliding swiftly onward at a speed which soon brought him and his riders to the edge of a wide swamp, where the forest foliage became so thick as wholly to exclude the moonlight. Here he paused, and in a loud voice called out: "Will-o'-the-Wisp! Will-o'-the-Wisp!" A voice so tremendously loud that it must have been heard through all the wilds around; yet never an echo it left to tell it had sounded. Had an echo awakened, it could hardly have fallen asleep again before the boy espied approaching them swiftly through the gloom a large ball of light, which shown with a phosphorescent gleam, so dead and dim, that the luminous circle it made in the pitch-black darkness of the swamp seemed scarcely to exceed its own circumference. Without any preliminary abatement of motion, the glimmering ball, as were it a lantern borne by an unseen hand, came suddenly to a pause in the air directly before them. Then followed an odd sort of a dialogue, made up of questions on one side, with motions for answers on the other, the wisp-light moving up and down for "yes," from side to side for "no," and for "I don't know," 'round and 'round. Bear. "Will-o'-the-Wisp, have you lighted the robber's feet to the pit-fall?" Wisp. Up and down. B. "Did he swear?" W. From side to side. B. "Did he pray?" W. Up and down. B. "Will he be less of a thief for the pit-fall?" W. 'Round and 'round. B. "Has Friar's lantern lighted the hypocrite's feet to the quicksands?" W. Up and down. B. "Did he swear?" W. Up and down. B. "Did he pray?" W. From side to side. B. "Will he be the less of a scamp for the quicksands?" W. 'Round and 'round. B. "Has Jack-o'-Lantern lighted the bad boy's feet to the frog-pond?" W. Up and down. B. "Did he swear?" W. From side to side. B. "Did he pray?" W. From side to side. B. "Then he must have swum?" W. Up and down. B. "Will he be the less of a rogue for the frog-pond?" W. 'Round and 'round. The questions duly answered, and evidently to his entire satisfaction, the bear wound up the dialogue thus: "Then, Will, lead on, over mire and clay, And when you come where the dead men lay, Hold your lantern close to the mound, That we may keep on Manitou ground." With Will-o'-the-Wisp now at their head, again were they speeding swiftly onward. Of their guide, Sprigg could at first see nothing, saving his big, dim lantern; but, soon chancing to look a little lower, there, directly under the light, he saw, strange to tell, a pair of red moccasins, gliding on over the tops of the rank swamp weeds, and so lightly that the long, lithe sedge, swaying to the slightest breeze, bent not under their tread. The boy glanced quickly down at his heels to reassure himself that the wispy elf had not stepped into and walked off in his own moccasins. But there they still dangled, just the same, each with a toe at one of his heels. Then flashed it upon his mind that he had not really seen his own moccasins since he had flung them from him up there on the Manitou hill; and so, for aught he or anybody else could tell, red moccasins, if people could only see them, might prove to be as plentiful in the world as Yankee shoes. How long, how far they traveled Sprigg, of course, had no means of judging; but the moon had well nigh climbed to the top of the sky, when, having left the morass far behind them, they came to the foot of another lofty mountain, where, under the shadow of a beetling cliff, yawned the rocky jaws of a huge cavern, into which Will-o'-the-Wisp led the way, his big, dim lamp beginning to brighten the moment it entered the subterranean gloom. Hardly had they crossed the threshold when Sprigg could perceive that they were descending as steeply as, but now, they had been rising. Deeper and deeper into the heart of the mountain they sank; deeper and deeper into the heart of the earth; the ball of light no longer a phosphorescent gleam, but a flame of living fire. But it was not long before they had descended again to the level ground, which they traversed for some distance, then, for the first time since quitting the farther side of the swamp, came they to a pause. Sprigg looked around him. Nothing could he see, saving the bear, the red moccasins behind him, the red moccasins before him; and just over the latter the ball of light, which was now burning with such brilliancy that the luminous hemisphere around it formed a wide and lofty dome in the solid darkness of the cavern. For some moments past he had heard a murmuring sound, as of abundant waters rippling over a rocky bed; and filling all the air was a delectable perfume, as if flowery fields and fruitful groves must be blooming and waving not far off. By this time nothing amazed him. Nothing frightened him. He moved and felt and thought as one in a dream; and so, indeed, had it all appeared to him from the moment he had lost sight of his father, there at the old hunting camp. CHAPTER XIII. Meg of the Hills. "Meg of the Hills! Meg of the Hills!" So called the bear in a loud voice; very loud, indeed, yet in the tone of the voice was something which Sprigg had not before observed there, so deep and mellow and musical was it. In answer to the summons, forth into the luminous circle, from some mysterious depth of the cavern, soon came gliding a bearess, who seemed in every way a match for the bear, excepting that she was of a smoother, gentler type. "Meg of the Hills, have all come home, From mountain climb and forest roam, From river mist and ocean foam, From moon-rise white and sun-set red, From elk-stag lair and bison bed, From panther ambush still and dread, All, all returned?" To which the bearess answered: "Yes all returned to Manitou den, Save those who walk by night with men. To bring the deeds in darkness done, To the dread light of the tell-tale sun." Then suddenly assuming a tone of voice as different from the former as fiddle from violin, and with a particular eye to our hero, where he still kept his seat on his charger's back, or rather was kept there by the unlocked arms of Manitou-Echo, the bearess added: "And you did find the little runaway, sure enough, Nick?" "Aye, that did I, and a stiff-necked, strong-backed, hard-muzzled cub of a human thing do I find him, too! Tough! Tough!" "Then all the accounts we have heard of him are but too true," sadly observed the bearess, whom the bear called "Meg." "But too true!" echoed the bear, whom the bearess called "Nick." Meg. "Is it really a fact, then, that his thoughts by day and his dreams by night are so taken up with red moccasins that he is in a fair way to make a monkey of himself?" Nick. "Really a fact." Meg. "A fact, too, that he had no thanks in his heart for the beautiful moccasins, which his kindest of fathers gave him one night last week?" Nick. "A fact, too!" Meg. "A fact, also, that his thoughts are so wrapped up in the moccasins that he has none left for his prayers?" Nick. "A fact, also!" Meg. "And, likewise, a fact that he sneaked off, like a spit-thief dog, when his best of mothers had told him and told him, times and times, that he ought not, and he should not?" Nick. "Like--wise--a--fact!" slowly pulling the words, as if he could hardly find it in his heart to testify to behavior so shabby. Meg. "But, Nick," and she looked earnestly at her lord, as if hoping that for this one time, at least, he would vary his affirmative echoes just a little, "that slip of the tongue on the fence, which Manitou-Echo reported to us--surely, now, you can't say 'yes' to that?" But Nick said neither "no" nor "yes." He answered never a word! All mum, he hung his head, and but for the hair on his face he would have been seen to blush up to the very eyes. Meg. "I spare you the verbal answer. I read it but too plainly in your looks. Hard is it for us poor Manitous to imagine how a boy--a Christian, human boy, who knows his catechism--could be so false to the mother that bore him! Using the very breath she gave him to tell her a lie! Then we can no longer doubt that, in addition to all, he did actually curse the red moccasins, when he spurned them from him up there on Manitou Hill. The beautiful moccasins he had so earnestly longed for, and which had been procured for him at such cost, and had borne him so bravely through wood and swamp, over hill and dale!" Nick. "My dear, to give the round sum of the matter, it is all precisely as Manitou-Echo has reported. But, if you need additional evidence to set your doubts at rest, know, then, that the boy himself has made a clean breast of it to me, and the two stories tally from beginning to end--tally as nicely as our two tails." Meg. "What! Not to leave out those secret designs on--what did Manitou-Echo call them--the boy and the girl?" Nick. "Young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant." Meg, "Not to leave out his secret designs on young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant? The boy to lose his life for envy; the girl her senses for love--all because of the beautiful moccasins!" Nick. "Well, well, Meg, mum's the word just there. He's human, remember, and you know they say that 'Adam's fall made fools of all;' and so, with their tails up, here they come; and, with their tails down, there they go--in that respect resembling dogs, who, in their turn, acquired the habit from their human masters. But I am deviating, and I perceive that you are wishing to make some further inquiry. What is it, my dove?" Meg. "I was longing to ask if--what's his name?" Nick. "Sprigg." Meg. "If Sprigg has not manifested the deepest sorrow and repentance for what he has done to-day. Does he not mourn to think of the pain and distress which, by his most undutiful conduct, he is causing his dear father and his dear, dear mother?" Nick. (With a sad shake of the head.) "Not with heart-grief, I fear; not with heart-grief! He mourns over the ills which he has brought upon himself by his undutiful conduct, rather than over the wrong thereof, or because of the pain and distress which it must be causing his dear mother and his dear, dear father!" And again Nick shook his head, as were it a desperate case almost beyond hope. Meg. (With almost as hopeless a shake of the head as Nick.) "Ah, me! who would have thought it? Who could have thought it? Why, Nick, he is as bad as Robinson Crusoe, is he not?" Nick. "Oh, worse than Robinson Crusoe. Robinson Crusoe, it is true, ran away from home against the command of his father and the prayers of his mother. But he used no deception in the matter. Robinson did not go a-sneaking off, with a lie in his mouth and his shoes in the water bucket; a-sneaking off like a spit-thief dog, to use your own expressive words. And yet, even his case was considered serious enough for a putting through on a desert island. Yes! A good deal worse than Robinson Crusoe, else no need were there of putting him through so." Meg. "But come, now, Nick; you can't stand there and tell me that Sprigg is as bad a boy as Jack Bean-Stalk?" Nick. "Well, no; not so bad as that. Not so bad as Jack Bean-Stalk. Jack Bean-Stalk was so near the very tipping-over edge of total depravity that I have often wondered since--in fact, wondered at the time--that it did not require a more tremendous putting-through than sliding up and down, between earth and moon, for developing such a hard case of a boy into an honest man. Perhaps, the man in the moon, while the rogue was up there, lent us a helping hand, not suffering him to come down to earth again, excepting on condition that he would thenceforth keep his shadow, as much as possible, in the sunshine; as little as possible in the moonshine; sow no more wild oats, plant no more wild beans." Meanwhile, the subject of this moral confab remained comfortably seated upon his charger's back. The matter and the manner of the confab smacked so much of the kind he was used to, that he was beginning to feel himself quite at home, and fancied that he could have little to fear for life or limb, so long as he found himself in the company of people, with feeling so home-like in their hearts, and with words so home-like on their lips. Therefore, the more home-like grew the moralizers, the more Sprigg-like grew the subject. But, bearing in mind how sensitive he was to ridicule, you can well imagine how he winced to hear himself compared to a "spit-thief dog;" and how he squirmed to find his secret designs on young Ben Logan and little Bertha Bryant, which he had not openly owned to himself, thus come popping out into the tell-tale light of Will-o'-the-Wisp. The wispy lamp was now not only burning as a living flame, but twinkling like a living eye, which winked or blinked or stared at the boy, as were it perfectly cognizant of all that was passing among them. But if it was all a dream, as Sprigg by this time was half persuaded it must be, what mattered it, though Will-o'-the-Wisp did snuff his lamp into a tell-tale brightness, for Meg of the Hills to show a "spit-thief dog" in, or for Nick of the Woods to hold up a bug-bear lie in? It was only a dream, which, coming soon to an end, should be wondered over for a moment, then forgotten. Yes, and in the like sense, so is life. "Then, dear Nick," answered Meg at length, after they had shaken their heads for some moments in silence, "as Sprigg's case is not so bad as Jack Bean-Stalk's, it is not yet too late to bring the poor, stray cub back to his milk again. But he must first be made, not only to see, but to feel and acknowledge the error of his ways before we can hope to amend them. Now, how is this to be brought about? How is this case to be treated?" "My dear Meg, that is the very question I have been asking myself all this time, and to find the answer I must be allowed a few hours' privacy for thinking the matter over. So you and the children go to bed and leave me to my reflections, and in the morning we will hold another consultation." So saying, the bear, with the look of one preparing himself for deep thought, and all unconscious of what he was doing, seated himself upon his haunches. Whereat, Manitou-Echo suddenly quitted his seat, when, with a swift, sleek slide down his charger's back, plump to the ground came Sprigg, still in a sitting posture, his straddled legs as nicely adjusted to the bear's broad rump as spur to heel. "Bless a body," cried the bear, glancing 'round at our hero, where he sat with his face all crumpled up for a cry; not that he was hurt in the least, but that Manitou-Echo and Will-o'-the-Wisp were laughing at him, as he could see (for he could not hear them) by the fantastic capers of their moccasins and by the lantern bobbing up and down. "Bless a body! But it had quite slipped my mind that the cub was on my back. There, now! Don't rub so hard, and save your brine for your sins." "He-he-he!" laughed Manitou-Echo, now aloud. "Ha-ha-ha!" laughed Will-o'-the-Wisp. "Ho-ho-ho!" Elfin laughter resounding now from every side. The boy looked quickly about him. To his astonishment, he found the floor of the cave, as far as the light of the bobbing lantern allowed him to see, alive, so to speak, with red moccasins, all dancing about on tip-toe, or kicking gleefully into the air. "Hush, children, hush!" cried Meg of the Hills, in a voice of gentle remonstrance. "Do you not see how it hurts the poor boy to be laughed at? Hush, I charge you!" The elfin laughter ceased at once. But straight, the void thus left was filled by a long, calf-like howl from our hero, who, now that he had found there some one capable of understanding what a human boy could suffer, must need give vent to his wounded feelings--laugh who would. His lamentation had not reached the modulating point, when, from the hollow depths around, there came, first, a big buzz, then a hoarse hum, and then a mumbling, rumbling, grumbling sort of a noise, which striking his ear as no empty echo, caused him to cut short his longest howl in the middle, to listen and glance about him. "It's only a trick," drily observed the bear. "Our old house is in the habit of playing our guests, when they sing or laugh too loud." "Or, rather a fashion," gently observed the bearess, "our old house has of reminding us when it is time we were putting our weary guests to bed. Here, Will-o'-the-Wisp and Manitou-Echo, show our young guest to bed, and be so courteous as to allow him the choice side, and charge the cubs not to crowd him or hug him, as he is an only child, and not accustomed to our litterish way of sleeping." So, with Manitou-Echo on one side and Will-o'-the-Wisp on the other, the young guest was shown, in quite a stately style, to bed. The bed he found to be as nice and snug as the cleanest of leaves and grass and the most velvety of moss could make it, and was already occupied by three or four young bears; while close beside it, ranged in a row, were three or four pairs of red moccasins. At first this circumstance struck the boy as somewhat curious, but on perceiving that Will-o'-the-Wisp and Manitou-Echo had kicked off their moccasins, and set them in the same row with the others, and now, in the likeness of two young bears, were lying side by side in bed, the mystery was made as clear to him as the light of Will's lamp, which still hung in the air where he had left it. As Sprigg stood hesitating whether to turn in or not, Meg came up behind him, and with a gentle push of the nose against his back, said: "There's your bed, and there are your bedfellows. So in with you, my stout one, and make yourself comfortable." As he still hesitated, the bearess brought him a soft dab of her paw on his back with a somewhat stronger push, which left him no alternative but to turn in as he was bidden and make the best of it. Then, humming a low, lullaby sort of a tune, Meg went 'round the bed, softly pushing up and smoothing down the grass and moss, all in a motherly way, which was so like dear mam that it brought the tears to the lost boy's eyes--the softest, the sweetest tears he had ever shed. He would fain have kept them back, but in spite of all he could do they would come stealing out and trickling down. But Meg was glad to see them, hailing them as precious indications that, hard as he seemed, there was still enough of human affection in his nature to encourage the hope that he might be easily won over to the side of love and truth. With the blossom-like odors and the water-like murmurs still in the air around him, the little castaway was dropping off to sleep, when that voice, so like his mother's, which he had heard on the hill at twilight, came again to his ear, repeating the same words: "You have but too much need of rest! Then, sleep, poor child, sleep!" CHAPTER XIV. The Manitou Voices. It was the hour when good boys, with cheerful hearts and innocent thoughts, are wont to rise to the cheerful duties and innocent pleasures of the day, that Sprigg was awakened from a sweet dream of home by a voice close beside him, which came to him like his mother's gentle morning call. He opened his eyes, but could see nothing, save a dense, red mist, bright and luminous, yet as impenetrable to sight as the blackest darkness. But when, on reaching out his hand, he had felt the moss and grass of the bed he lay on, and the hairy coats of the bears he lay with, then knew he but too well that his sweet thoughts of home--his mother's gentle morning call, his father's jolly laugh, and Pow-wow's loud, heroic bark--were all an empty dream. And yet, hardly more assured was he that what his senses were insisting on telling him were not things just as empty and unsubstantial. What the voice was saying when it woke him, the boy could not recall, but it left a feeling in his heart as if pitying tenderness had been the burden of the words it had spoken. Tones were still lingering in his ear, and with effect so soothing that he should probably have fallen asleep again; but in answer to it he heard another voice, so abrupt and stern that he started up wide awake, and, in an instant, was all attention. What passed between the invisible speakers, whom we shall distinguish as the "Stern Voice" and the "Soft Voice," ran, word for word, as follows: Stern Voice. "He must run the Manitou race." Soft Voice. "Is that terrible ordeal his only chance?" Stern Voice. "It is. Though so young, his heart is already so proud and deceitful and hard that we must all but break it, to bring it to the good for which it is destined, and of which it is capable." Soft Voice. "But he can hardly as yet have strayed so far from good as to need so severe an experience for bringing him back. There were tears on his face last night when he fell asleep--soft, sweet tears--and there are fresh ones upon it now. May not these plead for him?" Stern Voice. "True, there is something of human affection in these tears. But apart from this, they are shed, not in contrition for the sinfulness of his course, but in grief for the pitiful plight to which it has brought him. Being the tears of self-pity, and not of repentance, they are not the kind to divert us from our fixed purpose--that purpose, our highest duty." Soft Voice. "But, then, he is so young yet!" Stern Voice. "But, then, he is so bad already!" Soft Voice. "But, bethink you, how much it lacks of being wholly his own fault? Indeed, he is scarcely at all responsible for being what he is, and it seems hard that he should be made to suffer for the folly of others." Stern Voice. "That is very true; and just there is represented to us a mystery, not ours to fathom! We are the Manitous of the Great Spirit, and what he bids be done, he bids uncounseled, and would have done unquestioned. They, who reared this boy to be the false young self we find him, should and shall be made to suffer, also; and even more than he, though the fond love and the indulgent kindness with which they have spoiled him, and thereby wronged him, be never so tender and unselfish. Having so erred, they must be made to feel the consequences of their error, to be made sensible of its sinfulness; and thus, through suffering, brought to a knowledge of the duty they owe their maker, their offspring and themselves. So, then, what we propose doing, or, rather, what we are charged to execute, shall redound to their good no less than his." Soft Voice. "But may we not postpone the trial for a season, till he be stronger to endure it?" Stern Voice. "Then shall he have but the more to endure and the less to be hoped for. Thus, 'by and by,' might be too late, when 'now' is none too soon; and the hope of to-day becomes, by postponement, the despair of to-morrow. Last night we marked him well, and perceived that our running commentary upon the evil of his way, with the gentle rebukes couched in them, had little or no other effect upon him than to make him feel at home and easy in his strange position. And yet he could set up the pitiful howl at being ridiculed, as were it the worst, grievous injury that a human boy could be made to suffer. Yes, his heart is so proud and deceitful and hard that we must all but break it, to bring it to its better nature." Soft Voice. "Oh, Nick of the Woods; but you are stern! So stern!" Stern Voice. "But, Meg of the Hills, you are merciful! So merciful! Your mercifulness and my sternness temper each other, and the result being justice, makes the mission we are pointed to fulfill a labor both of use and love. You plead for postponement. This indulgence, without some sign of repentance on his part, we can not show the culprit. Yet, to satisfy you, I will give him one more chance of exhibiting his repentance, should there be any in his heart. I will tempt him once more with the red moccasins. Should he manifest no disposition to renew his acquaintance with them, then but too gladly will I defer his day of reckoning, according to your desire. Or, even should he show the least sign of diminished affection for them, diminished and just in that proportion shall be the severity of his punishment. On the other hand, should it appear that, in spite of the wholesome lesson his yesterday's experience should have taught him, he would still take pride and pleasure in the red vanities, to the exclusion of better thoughts and things, then there is nothing left for it but to put him through at once; no alternative but the Manitou race." Soft Voice. "Well, well! So be it! But I greatly fear the test shall prove too severe for the virtue of the poor, vain boy. He has a lively fancy, and the moccasins are very beautiful; their glitter and gleam would dazzle--have dazzled older eyes than his! Yes, so be it! And, after all, why deplore it? For---- "When the Manitou race is run, Which shall be ere set of sun, All is ended, all well done, And Wahcondah smiling!" Then, after a momentary pause, the two voices joined and sang, or chanted in cadences weirdly, musically, the following song: "Manitou Lords of birds and beast, Hark, to the voice that comes from the East! Great Wahcondah calling you forth, Some to South and some to North, Some to meet the rising sun, Some to the setting moon to run, Each to creature he hath in charge; Govern their way, their lives enlarge; Make them less than beastly rude, Teach them more than instinct rude, Lead them on to Manitou-Land, Where Wahcondah's powerful hand Waits to give them Manitou-being, Manitou-hearing, Manitou-seeing. Him to know, and knowing, adore, Manitou all forever more. Up and forth to meet the day, Over the hills and far away; Many a race must be begun, Some be finished ere set of sun, All in Manitou fashion run, All in Manitou mercy done, Great Wahcondah wills it!" CHAPTER XV. The Manitou Eye. The song had hardly begun when Sprigg could hear a huge stir in the cave, as if the call had awakened a multitude of living things from the slumber of the night. The hubbub was neither boisterous nor loud, yet it seemed to come, not only from near at hand, but from far and wide. It was an infinite mingling of confused, indistinct sounds, like the inarticulate murmurs rising from innumerable voices--talking, singing and shouting, intermixed with laughter and with the cries of beasts and birds. On hearing the commotion around him, the boy had risen to his feet, and now, with strained eyes, was vainly striving to pierce the red mist in which he was enveloped. Before the song was ended, the multitude, from whom the hubbub rose, were evidently in rapid motion, and all in the same direction, sweeping past him so that he felt as if he were standing upon a rock, in the midst of a wide and swiftly flowing river, on whose waters rested an impenetrable fog. Closely intermingled with the voice-like sounds were now to be distinguished a variety of other noises, resembling the sharp, light clattering of cloven hoofs, the muffled pattering of hairy paws, or the wind-like whirring of fluttering wings. As the song closed, Sprigg felt something placed in his hand, which, becoming visible the moment it came in contact with him, proved to be a coronal of bright green plumes, such as we have seen described in the interview between Jervis Whitney and Nick of the Woods. It was then remarked that his headpiece possessed the magic property of rendering the person who wore it--fairy or human--invisible to mortal eyes. Nor was this all; It had also the power of making the sights and sounds of Fairyland as clearly perceptible to the senses of the mortal who should chance to get it as to the fairies themselves, whether the wee folks were willing or not, he should pry into their mysteries. This fantastic ornament, the only object visible to him in the red mist--his own hand that held it up to his admiring gaze not excepted--Sprigg thought even more beautiful and desirable than ever were the red moccasins. He was wishing it was his, and debating within himself whether he should venture to put it upon his head, when a voice, which he recognized to be the same he had heard at home and in the woods and on the hill, and now knew to be that of Manitou-Echo, said: "Am I not a beautiful thing for the head, Sprigg? Yes, beautiful! You can't deny it; nobody can! Put me on your head! What's to hinder? Put me on, and you shall see what we do with wild dreams and wild dreamers, here in Manitou-land." In a twinkling the vain boy had doffed the coonskin cap and donned the feathers. The magic coronal was hardly adjusted to his head, when suddenly the luminous red mist condensed itself high aloft into a globe of living light, leaving all surrounding objects clearly revealed to sight, as were the crystalline sheen of a June day resting upon them. What Sprigg saw there was, indeed, a cave; but far more the appearance had it of a magnificent temple, so vast and lofty it was; so mazy with multitudinous columns and arches, and so resplendent with the light of that living lamp, which found reflection in a million star-like points, as if wall, floor, ceiling, column and arch were studded with gems of every rich and brilliant hue. The hubbub which he had heard around him, the individual sounds whereof were now more distinct to his ear, Sprigg found to proceed from an innumerable multitude of diminutive people, sweeping by him in a continuous stream, and in the same direction, as if a common impulse or purpose swayed them all. The manikins, in complexion, cast of features and fashion of dress, resembled Indians, and, though so red and outlandish, were beautiful to behold. For a robe, each wore the skin of some wild animal, which, on the hair side, showed as fresh and sleek as if the quondam owner had just walked out of it; while, on the flesh side, it was as smooth as satin and red as blood. The robe was secured at the throat by a clasp, which seemed to be made of the claws or hoofs of the beast to whom the skin had once, and, perhaps, still belonged. Many wore red moccasins and coronals of green feathers, and here and there in the throng might be seen one who wore the wings of some bird, between which and the skin, forming the robe, there seemed to be some sort of affinity, very suggestive, yet difficult to explain. Though but the miniature of men, these elfin folks were of superhuman activity and strength; and in the aspect of each was something that strangely reminded one of the beast or bird to whom he owed his robe or wings. This latter peculiarity was especially noticeable in the gait, in the play of the limbs and in the shape and glance of the eyes; yet, in the resemblance, nothing was there of deformity or unsightliness, but rather a weird beauty--fantastic, or wild, or savage, or terrible--according to the beast or bird suggested thereby--stalking elk or rolling bison, gloomy bear or rounding panther, jog-trot wolf or gliding wild-cat, nodding jay or fluttering pigeon, swooping hawk or sweeping eagle. Sprigg had hardly time to note all this, when the weird procession had swept past him, and the last lingerers were now vanishing to the distant shadows of the subterranean temple. Though myriads had departed, many still remained--several of every order--as if, while their fellows were abroad, each fulfilling his special mission, these had some corresponding office to perform here at home. Somewhat apart from the rest stood a group arrayed in the skins of bears, and among these two who, by their lofty port and commanding gestures, were evidently the king and queen of this strange realm. The aspect of the king was dark and stern; that of the queen fair and mild. The latter, as, indeed, all the other elfin women, wore upon her head, instead of the feathered coronal, a wreath of intense crimson flowers, marvelously beautiful; whence came stealing forth the delectable perfume, which the boy had perceived in the air from the moment Meg of the Hills had made her appearance the night before. As he stood there, surveying them, Sprigg felt in his heart that these were the two whose voices he had heard in such earnest conference relative to his particular case. The young guest now looked about him for the young bears with whom he had slept, but not only his bedfellows, but the bed itself had vanished. Then he knew that they must be among those who wore the skins of bears, and that, instead of having been littered with cubs, he had shared the couch of princes. In saying that the magic coronal enabled the mortal who wore it to see the sights and hear the sounds of Fairyland as distinctly as the fairies themselves, a slight mistake was made. Although he could not perceive them, Sprigg had his reasons for suspecting that other boys, beside himself, were there in that underground world; yes, and men, too. Girls and women--all waiting, like himself, to be "put through," though what that might mean the poor boy could, of course, have little or no conception. Invisible though these fellow mortals were, he could see their shadows cast with marvelous distinctness upon the floor of the temple; and, strange to say, spotted were all these shadows! Some in a sitting posture, some standing, some walking, some gliding swiftly to and fro. Many, after remaining motionless for a time, would, all at once, begin dodging, skipping, flitting about among the columns in the most fantastic manner imaginable; then would they come to a pause, and, after again remaining motionless for a brief space, suddenly vanish. The large majority of these airy figures were not sufficiently marked for safe conjecture as to the manner of persons to whom they were referrable, but many were too apparent to be mistaken. Some stood, with magisterial dignity, staff in hand. Some, with military stalk, moved slowly to and fro--swords, epaulets, plumes--all distinctly traceable. Here sat one, with the likeness of a kingly crown upon his head; while not far off, incongruous, as it may seem, appeared the picturesque silhouette of an Indian warrior, moving onward with a majestic pace, scalp lock, plumed, bow in hand, quiver on shoulder. But it was a spectacle stranger still to observe how the elves, or, more properly speaking, "Manitous," were busying themselves about these shadows--now approaching them, now receding from them; sometimes standing beside them, earnestly gesticulating, as if engaged in conversation with the unseen, unheard personages who cast them. While watching these mysterious movements Sprigg became cognizant of another curious circumstance--the very counterpart of the shadow mystery. He perceived that, while those invisible mortals were shadowed forth with such distinctness, the Manitous themselves, with the light thrown full and strong upon them, were as shadowless in that light as air itself. Noting this, he glanced upward to see what manner of light it must be that could shadow forth the unseen, and shadowless leave the seen. How the boy started! Then backward shrank, till abruptly checked by a column, against whose base, as were he an effigy carved upon it, he stood, gazing coweringly upward. That globe of living light was a living _eye_! An eye immensely large, of calm and terrible look, which Sprigg felt to be bent directly upon himself, piercing his very soul and laying it open, stripped of all disguise. Though so bright that it illumined the vast temple to its uttermost bounds, that wondrous eye did not blind, nor even dazzle, the sight; for it imparted to the mortal eye, that need must meet it, strength to bear its light and behold the things it would reveal. To have been dazzled into blindness had been far more tolerable than to endure that terrible scrutiny. So felt the guilty young human thing as, with increasing awe and dread, he perceived that, while the eye was never turned from him, it seemed to be watchfully observant of all that was passing beneath it, however distant the objects, diverse, multitudinous. No secret, then; no guilty deed or thought, could be hidden in that light. The boy started! That lie he had sent back to his mother as he was slinking away from home! Did the eye see that? Aye, and the hundred others he had told, and was showing upon his soul a smutch, a smear, a spot for every one! Back, again, he shrank and hid himself behind the column. The column was far loftier and more massive than those which uphold the dome of mighty St. Peter's, and was hewn out from the eternal granite; yet the light of that terrible eye came gleaming through it, as if it had been of the clearest crystal. He ran to another, then to a third, fourth, fifth--tenth. In vain! Interpose what he might, still was it all as airy transparency between himself and that piercing glance. There are X-rays for the soul, as well as for the body. He turned his back upon it; there it was still! Look where he would--in the depths above--and the eye was ever before him, its calm and terrible look unchanged. Yet it did not seem to follow him. It was simply _there_! Everywhere! The self-convicted young offender was still dodging and flitting about among the columns, when the voice of the Manitou king--the first sound he had heard since the procession had vanished--came to his ears, with the somewhat startling words: "Manitou-Echo and Will-o'-the-Wisp, come, conjure up, now, the red moccasins' dream! By this time our light has purged the young dreamer's eyes sufficiently clear of the red mist for him to see what stuff his dream is made of, and to what it is tending." Whereupon a bareheaded elf, extremely fantastic in appearance, yet beautiful, too, and recognized at once by his voice, Manitou-Echo came flitting up to Sprigg, and, with a bland smile and light wave of the hand, thus addressed him: "Sprigg, how are you this morning? Fresh and spry? Glad to hear it. Our brave Sprigg ran a fine race yesterday--splendid! Everybody said so! You shall run another to-day, if you much desire it. You have just been playing at hide and seek, I see. A nice little game all to yourself. That's merry; that's brave! Everybody plays at hide and seek who comes to our house, and we like to see it; it looks as if our guests were making themselves at home. One would think the old house had been designed expressly for that game, so many nooks and crannies and other out-of-the-way corners has it, where everybody thinks of hiding himself, and nobody thinks of seeking for himself. And, Sprigg, you would be astonished, were we to tell you, who have been here before you! Still, still more astonished, were I to tell you who are here at this very moment; all, like yourself, playing at hide and seek with--strange as you may think it--their own shadows! But no one ever hides from his shadow here, nor finds it. And why? Because the light in which his shadow is cast keeps continually before his eyes, so that, let him spin himself about as he will, still is his shadow ever behind him. "Doubtless, we Manitous would play at the same game, and as merrily, too; but, unfortunately, as you see, we have no shadows to play with--never had. This deficiency, however, is to some extent atoned for by our being allowed to conjure with the dreams and fancies of you mortals, in which we find our chief entertainment, and the wilder your dreams, the more extravagant your fancies, the finer our entertainment. "Now, to exemplify the point in question on a more diminished scale, allow me to present to your consideration a dream, in which I happen to have personal interest. When you have considered it attentively, will you please favor me with your opinion as to the stuff it is made of and what it is worth. Here it comes on six legs! Witness." Sprigg looked. Incredible! The Indian boy and the Shetland pony displayed before his eyes, not as a motionless picture, but as living, moving things--careering 'round and 'round, within what seemed a magnificent amphitheater, crowded with human spectators--all conjured up out of Manitou mist. Yes, there they were--the pony with a small, red flag stuck in the browband of his bridle. The boy decked out in all his Indian bravery--tomahawk, feather hat, red moccasins--executing a bewildering variety of tip-toe, neck-or-nothing, superhuman antics, along the back and neck, over the head and tail of his fairy little charger. Anon, the wild young equestrian was the Indian boy no longer, but the very semblance of Sprigg himself, throwing his red predecessor completely in the shade, as one might well infer from the plaudits of the thousands and thousands of admiring, astonished spectators, all clapping their hands, waving their hats and shouting: "Hurrah! hurrah! Splendid! splendid!" Sprigg rubbed his eyes and looked again. Just the same. He closed his eyes; it made no difference, he could see it as plainly through his eyelids. He opened them again. His semblance was fading into a shadow, so was that of the pony--fading like a cloud picture at sunset. Nothing distinctly visible, save the red moccasins, which, from the last fading outline of the pony's back, threw a prodigious summerset, and when they alighted upon the ground, there! in them again, Sprigg saw his semblance. Manitous, temple, amphitheater--all had vanished--a forest of lofty trees appearing instead, through whose glimmer of lights and shadows the boy now saw himself, or rather his wraith running with incredible swiftness, and glancing furtively over his shoulder at every bound, as if death were a present fear behind him; life a distant hope before. But his pursuers, who and where are they? Ah! Yonder they come, and here they are, and there they go. Sweeping swiftly onward--a bear, a wolf, a panther and a bison bull--and his pursuers are gaining upon him at every bound, now treading upon his very shadow. Meanwhile, the real Sprigg is conscious of a peculiar sensation, as if he were moving glidingly onward, borne along by invisible hands to keep pace with, and see the wild chase to the end. The end has come. He sees his wraith stop suddenly, poised on the very brink of a frightful precipice, those terrible shapes behind; a yawning, mist-hid gulf before. A moment, that semblance of himself stands reeling on the dizzy verge, then flings away, or is flung away into the misty void! His brain spins 'round and 'round; sight and sensation forsake him. The boy has swooned away! Will he be warned? Let us see! CHAPTER XVI. The Manitou Race. Sprigg awoke. Bolt upright, all unharmed he found himself standing in front of the old hunting shanty; in the self-same sun-spot where he had stood when his father and Pow-wow, all unconscious of his presence, had passed him by. Yes, and the self-same hour, too, of the day, as he could judge by the length of his shadow in the sunshine, which he remembered as having been traced on the landscape at that conjuncture. Was that yesterday, or the moment gone but now? He could not tell, so like a dream appeared it all. He ran his eyes along the buffalo-trace, that led in the direction of home, half expecting to catch another glimpse of his father's retreating figure. Thus he stood, for many moments, in a state of dreamy bewilderment, gazing about him far and wide, until his wondering thoughts and wandering eyes reverted directly to his personal self. He looked down; his feet were bare. Where were the red moccasins? Red moccasins! They were but a part of the dream; or, rather, the very master-fancy of it--the incubus! Never had he seen such things in bodily form. Assuredly, he must be at home, aflat of his back on the floor, asleep and dreaming. He was still looking about him, trying to make something of his strange experiences, when his eye was caught by a glitter and a gleam in the grass, which caused him to spring affrightedly backward, as from the glittering eye and gleaming crest of a rattlesnake. But no serpent was there. The more the pity! Only the red moccasins, adjusted side by side, with their old air of easy self-assurance, and now in open view before him. Yet, but the moment previous his look had chanced to be resting on that very spot, and naught but the tufted grass had he seen there! With their familiar sheen in his eyes, all came flashing back to his memory--the terrors of Manitou hill, the wonders of Manitou cave. Yet what assurance had he that these things also were not dreams? Let all the rest be as unreal as it might, the red moccasins were there in bodily form, and his own identical pair, too, as he could easily distinguish by a certain peculiar token, which was wanting in those he had seen on the feet of the elves. Upon all of theirs, between toe and instep, was the figure of an arrow traced in blood-red beads. Upon his own was the same figure, thrust through that of a human heart, but the whole device wrought in colorless beads. As he stood there gazing upon them, a twinkling light came glancing out of their beads, which met his look amazingly like a smile of familiar recognition. Then came it again, stealing upon his ear, that sound, or fancy, so like a voice; but whence, whether from the moccasins, or from some airy tongue, or from his own heart, perplexed him as much as ever to decide. "Our brave Sprigg, in a pet of wrath, flung us from him up there on Manitou hill. He thought that we had deceived him. He had only deceived himself. So bemisted were his eyes from gazing, and gazing, and gazing at us, that he could see nothing as it really was. Therefore, without being aware of it, he passed on directly by his grandpap's house; directly by young Ben Logan's house; directly by pretty little Bertha Bryant's house--the very places whither he was so bent upon going when he set out from home. Now, at any of these houses we should have been perfectly willing to stop, at pretty little Bertha's in particular, only he did not seem inclined to turn our toes that way, but went on, and went on, and never stopped going, until the first thing he knew he found himself lost. Whose fault? Sprigg's; nobody's but Sprigg's. Yet he blamed us for it; blamed us for keeping along with his feet! What else could we do? We can't walk backward; we can't walk sideways--never could. We can only follow our toes, and their course is determined by the feet that are in us. Right their course, right ours. Then to fling us from him, like a pair of slip-shod shoes, when we had done our very best to speed him on his way! Thus spiting his toes by biting his nose, as the bull and the cat and the wolf soon showed him. Had he kept us under him, we could have kept him at easy distance from the monsters and made ourselves merry at their expense. But, as it was, we could only stand by and kick them out of the way, whenever they came uncomfortably near; and precious little thanks we got for it, too! But here we are, ready and willing as ever to serve our young master, his whole-souled friends to the last! "Sprigg, this old hunting shanty, as you know, stands exactly midway between your pap's house and your grandpap's house. There's the road home; you know every crook and turn of it as well as we. You are free, perfectly free, to go that way if you prefer it; we shall say nothing, do nothing to hinder you; only, if you choose that road, you shall have to travel it without our good help, without our pleasant company, barefooted--ugly hills, cutting stones, scratching briars, piercing thorns! There's the road to grandpap's house--level and smooth, shady and pleasant! You may not know every crook and turn of it as well as you do of the other, that is true; but we do, so what's the difference? We can take you thither, be assured; and that, too, by set of sun, just at the time when Ben Logan, the bold young hunter, shall be coming home from the forest with the spoils of the chase; just as Bertha Bryant, the pretty little milkmaid, shall be coming home from the bluegrass glades with the cows. Then shall they see us and admire us--you and your beautiful shoes--admire us, fit to die--the boy of envy, the girl of love! Only, you must have a care, Sprigg, to keep your eyes clear of the red mist, else you will go agawking by them, as you did yesterday evening, when, off we are kicked again, like a pair of slip-shod shoes. "Yes, Sprigg prefers that road, and so do we; suits him better, suits us better, for we never turn back, nor does a brave boy! And Sprigg is a brave boy! Who said our Sprigg was not a brave boy? On with us, then, and away!" The boy was again bewitched. His old love had returned upon him with exaggerated force. He seated himself upon a stone, and placed the moccasins down on the grass before him, their eye-like beads all atwinkle, as with conscious light. Hark! What is that? Those mysterious sounds again, so like the murmuring, whispering voices, which had been haunting the air around him ever since his leaving home. Sternly. "Home, false boy! Home to your father-er-er-er-er!'" Softly. "Home, poor child; home to your mother-er-er-er!" 'Twas but the whispering wind, with leaves for lips. Only the murmuring brook, with echoes for words. Wind can whisper and wail; water can murmur and laugh. The boy took one of the moccasins in his hands, a thumb and two fingers on each side; yet still he hesitated--that terrible Manitou eye!! Might it not be as present in the depths of the sky above as he had seen it in the depths of the earth beneath, and at that very moment looking as piercingly through his secret soul? He was on the point of dropping the moccasins, when a jay-bird in the nearest tree before him, and a red-bird in the nearest tree behind him began chattering in a noisy, commonplace, wide-awake way, which made him laugh and say to himself: "Foolish boy! Thus to sit listening to water and wind, and the lengthening shadows telling how swiftly the day is waning! On with the moccasins! Up and away!" And on they were in a twinkling. But now they were on, why was the boy not up and away? There he still sat, his eyes fastened upon the red temptations, bigger with wonder than ever before! The colorless beads, describing the arrow and heart, had grown, in an instant, red as blood. "Bleed, poor heart! bleed!" cried a soft voice close beside him. "Bleed! or be to your mother forever a sorrow!" "Bleed, false heart! bleed!" cried a stern voice close behind him. "Bleed! or be to your father forever a curse! You have chosen! Abide by your choice! Up and away!" With a high spring, the moccasins lifted their wearer bodily up from the ground, and began executing a variety of fantastic antics, as completely foreign to any design or will on the part of the boy as if he had been but a wire-worked puppet. Whereat peals of elfish laughter came ringing out, with explosive abruptness, from every side--from the leafy heart of the forest, from the rocky breast of the hill, from the empty depths of the sky, from the solid depths of the earth--wild and mocking laughter, mingled with cries of "Put him through! Put him through!" Then, as suddenly, the laughter ceased, when, with a hop, step and prodigious jump, by way of a start, the red moccasins bounded off through the forest, no more to be guided or curbed than the feet of a wild and unbridled horse. Through darksome wood and glimmering glade, over rugged hill and tangled vale, with incredible swiftness sped they on; nor turned aside for bramble covert or reedy brake, but right through the thick of them dashed, till the boy was covered with scratches from head to foot, and his garments all torn into rags. "Stop! stop! I pray you, stop!" cried poor Sprigg, in piteous accent, at every new peril which seemed to threaten his destruction. At length, as if in spite, the moccasins stopped, so abruptly that he was thrown forward upon the ground, with a violence that left him stunned for several moments. Then, with hands that shook, did he assay to free himself from the accursed things. Too late; they clung to his feet, as if they had grown to the flesh, and the harder he tugged at them the closer they clung. In fear and rage he stamped with them upon the ground, and they, in revenge, squeezed and pinched his toes, till he screamed outright with the pain inflicted. Then, again, they were off at the same wild speed, and with no more regard for any purpose or wish of his than had he been but a dead load in them, and they had taken into themselves all part of his life and all his will. By and by, of their own accord, the moccasins came to a halt; and weary and faint, and sick unto death, our unfortunate little hero threw himself down at the foot of a tree to die. But scarcely had he stretched himself along the ground, when his ear was caught, first, by a rude roar, a far way off in the forest; then by a hoarse howl; then by a shrill scream; then by a gruff growl; and now, nearer at hand the roar, the howl, the scream, the growl--all heard at once in a savage chorus. He knew them but too well, and their sound struck a terror into his heart, which even the thought of approaching death had not awakened. Up again he sprang, exhausted as he was, to fly for the life which, but the moment before, he would fain have resigned. As he turned to flee he threw a fearful glance behind him, and through the chinks of the forest caught sight of a bear, a panther, a wolf and a bison bull, coming swiftly on and making directly toward him. For more than this he waited not, but, with a despairing cry to his father for help; to his mother for--it were hard to say what--away he sped, as if his moccasins had taken the wings of the wind. Through darksome wood and glimmering glade, over rugged hill and tangled vale, the Manitou race went on--the sky all blue and serene above them; the setting sun all bright and smiling before them. At every fearful glance cast behind him the young fugitive could perceive that his pursuers were gaining upon him. Anon, they were so close upon him that he could see their eyes, glaring like balls of fire. And now were they treading upon his very shadow, their smoking breath blown hot upon his ears and neck. Again went up the despairing cry to father; to mother. And they did hear it; would have heard it had they been in their graves! The cry was still in the air, when a young bear shot forward, wheeled about, and rearing himself up square before him, snatched his cap from his head. His cap was still in the air, when it was replaced by a green coronal, at whose magic touch the whole scene assumed at once a totally different aspect. The grisly shape before him was not a rampant bear, but Manitou-Echo himself, bareheaded, somewhat excited, but not in the least degree short of breath. His other pursuers, appearing now in their true shapes to the fugitive, proved also to be but elves, each wearing the skin of the beast, whose whole likeness he wore but now, and showing an aspect, wild and savage enough, yet which would not have been unbeautiful to innocent eyes. With a bland smile and light wave of the hand, thus speaks Manitou-Echo: "Bravely done, Sprigg! Bravely done! You have run a magnificent race! We never saw a young human thing acquit himself in handsomer style! Why, sir, we were beginning to think your shadow was all we were likely to catch! But here we are, one and all, coming out at the goal at the same instant! That's brave! We promised to speed you on, and show you in style to grandpap's house by set of sun! And like true Manitous, too, have we kept our word! You can't deny it! Nobody can! Look!" Sprigg looked. The Manitou race, after stretching its length for many a zig-zag mile, had brought them to the hour of sunset, and to the top of the lofty hill, where stood the small stockade fort, under the shelter of whose wooden walls his grandfather and the other pioneers had established their cabin homes. But these, with the loving human hearts he had trusted to find there, were now behind him, utterly beyond his reach. Out before him was a depth of airy emptiness! Down beneath him--horrible! A tremendous precipice, and his feet on the very brink! Back he shrank, aghast! But the elves were behind him! His brain spun 'round! The mystic coronal was snatched from his head. The next instant the Manitou moccasins, with a wild leap, sheer over the dizzy verge, had flung him away, like a waif! Down the frightful declivity, whirling, he went, dropping from ledge to ledge like a lifeless lump, whirling and dropping, till into the dusky depths of the forest that shagged the foot of the hill he rolled and vanished. And peals of elfin laughter; weird and mocking laughter, beginning at the brink of the steep, far up there, and keeping pace with the whirling body, now in the edge of the wood, far down there, subsiding into an elfin wail, a weird and pitying wail, then suddenly ceased. A dell, it was, where echoes were wont to linger and answer each other; but never an echo lingered now to lead in the deathlike silence that settled at once on the glimmering evening scene. CHAPTER XVII. Missed. With Pow-wow, now before him, now behind him, trotting out many a short, irrelevant digression from their general course, Jervis Whitney, rifle on shoulder, came trudging cheerfully homeward, all unwitting of the young-feet that had met him, the young eyes that had seen him, the young ears that had heard him--heard the very rustling of his garments--far back yonder in the heart of the lonely forest! He was still a half mile or more from home--the bright June afternoon by this time wearing an evening cast--when from among the trees a little way off to one side, the voice of Elster reached his ear, calling Sprigg in a tone of anxiety and alarm. Surprised to find his wife so far from the house, and evidently in quest of their boy, Jervis, somewhat alarmed himself, hastened forward to meet her and inquire into the occasion of so unwonted a circumstance. "Ah! dear Jervis!" cried she, with tearful eyes and tremulous voice, while yet her husband was coming, "You are returning, and our boy not with you! I was hoping he might have heard the report of your rifle or Pow-wow's bark and had gone forth to meet you, as he often delights in doing!" Then she went on to tell how Sprigg, about 1 o'clock, had left the house to fetch a pail of water from their favorite but more distant spring, down there in the edge of the woods. Her mind becoming wholly occupied with her work at the loom, she had quite lost sight of the little circumstance, when, all at once, it had struck her that it had now been several hours since Sprigg had left the house, nor had yet returned. Whereat she had left off her weaving and gone forth to see what had become of him. She had searched the clearing all around the house, and the woods all around the clearing; yet not a trace of him had she discovered, saving the empty bucket at the spring. By the time the story was ended, which she told with many an anxious detail, they had passed on by the house and reached the spring. In the course of the day's chase the hunter had come upon a fresh Indian trail, which made him at first apprehensive that the boy, while thus out of sight and hearing of home, might have been crept upon and captured by some lurking band of savages. But there were no traces at the spring, nor near it, to justify his apprehension; nor yet that of his having fallen a prey to wild beasts--the two sources of danger being, in those days, always coupled in the minds of our pioneer progenitors. The prints of the boy's bare feet were plainly enough to be seen in the path that led down the hill; but here, at the spring, without any sign of their having retraced themselves, they suddenly vanished. For once the hunter's clear-seeing eye and his dog's keen-scenting nose were utterly baffled. Those Manitou moccasins being, as you must remember, charmed, could be worn and leave no trace of their wearer behind them that sight of man or scent of dog could discern, be it footprint on the ground or odor in the air. What manner of disappearance might this be? All in a state of wonderment now, as well as distress, they hastened back to the house, if, happily, some nook or corner had been overlooked, where the boy had lain down and fallen asleep. They were pursuing this forlorn hope, when Elster found herself standing, without any will or volition of her own, directly in front of the old show bill, with her eyes fixed upon it, as if it had been an object she had never seen there before. Then it all came back to her mind, how that picture of the Indian boy and his Shetland pony had charmed Sprigg's fancy and set him to dreaming about red moccasins, and how strangely the whim had possessed him to go to the settlement, where he might make a display of his fantastic finery. This she told Jervis, and together they ran to the chest to see if the moccasins were really playing a part in the mysterious matter. Pale as death turned Jervis Whitney when he discovered they were gone. Backward the strong man staggered some paces, as had he been struck on the breast by a heavy fist, and, sinking down upon an oaken settee, exclaimed in a voice of horrified astonishment: "Oh, Nick of the Woods! Nick of the Woods!" That elfin scene in the forest had come flashing back to his memory, like a prophetic dream, the interpretation whereof was now to be looked for. "My son Manitou-Echo is burning to run a race with your son Sprigg." Thus had spoken the Manitou king; and fantastic as the words had seemed at the time, evident enough was it now that, couched in them, was a meaning or purpose deeper by far than the hunter had divined. Perhaps the trial of bodily strength, or moral virtue, or whatever it was, at which they hinted, had already begun; and their boy now the subject of some elfish freak for his follies, or the victim of some elfish retributions for his transgressions. Elster stood gazing down on her husband, where, with his face buried in his hands, he sat, repeating the singular exclamation which had escaped him on finding the moccasins missing. As yet, for some whimsical, elf-prompted reason or other, Jervis had told her nothing of his interview with Nick of the Woods, and whenever she had questioned him touching the moccasins he had answered that they had been sent to their boy from Fairyland, thus dodging the truth by telling the literal fact, knowing that she would treat it as a pleasantry. She was beginning to fear that the stroke had proved too much for the poor man's strength of mind, when, after remaining quite silent for some moments, he raised his head, and looking at her sorrowfully but calmly enough, addressed her: "Dear Elster, I have not broken my fast since morning. Let me have something to eat and I will set out for the fort at once. It is but four or five miles to the nearest house on the way, and you can easily walk with me that far, there to remain until my return. At present I see not what better course is left us to follow." A cold supper was set before him at once. While he was eating it Elster went and busied herself about the house, preparatory to their departure. The meal was soon dispatched, and when he had looked carefully to his rifle and hunting accoutrements, to reassure himself that all was in good order for service, Jervis went to assist his wife in making such disposition of their little household concerns as their absence should render necessary. To his surprise, he found her preparing to accompany him all the way. "Hardly, dear Elster!" said he. "The horses have leaped the fence and strayed out into the woods, so that I shall be obliged to go afoot, and for you to walk with me is quite out of the question. Twenty long miles--many of them rough and steep, all of them dark and dangerous! You could hardly endure it to the end." "If the child has walked it," rejoined Elster, "so may the mother; and if he has not, and is lost to us forever, then this lonely house is our home no longer! I return to it no more." Though of a gentle and yielding nature under ordinary circumstances, Elster could meet a great trial, like the present one, with a spirit firm and courageous enough; and knowing this, her husband forbore any further remonstrance to her determination. The sun had set and the moon was rising, when, having made their solitary dwelling as secure as possible, they set out on their melancholy journey. In those days the buffalo traces, as they were called, formed the only highways of the wilderness, and the one our poor friends were now following led, for the greater part of the way, through a dense and tangled forest, where the moonlight showed itself only in straggling beams and shed but a ghostly glimmer. At intervals the sombre wildness of the scene would be relieved by a bluegrass glade, all agleam with moonbeams and glistering dew drops, saving where flecked with the shadows of clumped or scattered trees. Pleasing, however, as was the contrast they presented to the savage solitudes around them, these bright spots left upon the spirit an impression of sadness quite peculiar. Each had so much the appearance of a well kept park or woodland pasture that the lonely wayfarers would sometimes find themselves all but expecting that the next turn of the road would bring them in sight of the stately mansion or comfortable farmhouse to which these beautiful grounds pertained. Nothing of the kind appearing there, the spot, from the very suggestiveness of the homelike, would seem to them more desolate than the most unhomelike parts of the forest. Often would they pause and call out loudly the name of their boy; the bare possibility that he might be near and hear them seemed too precious to be slighted. Saving this, and, from time to time, an inquiry of affectionate solicitude on the part of the husband, with the wife's answer of patient reassurance that she was not weary, the two poor hearts pursued their way in silence. In the course of every four or five miles they would come to a solitary cabin home like their own, where they would stop and rouse the sleeping inmates, to inquire if aught had been seen there of their boy. Twice or thrice they heard, a far way off in the darkness, sounds that came to their troubled ears like the cries of a child in distress or terror. But when they had paused to listen, and had sent the name of their loved one ringing far and wide, naught had heard they, but the screaming of a night bird wheeling high aloft, or, peradventure, the distant howling of a wolf abroad on his nightly foray. At such times, with a look of dumb, distressed perplexity, first up into their faces, then all around him, old Pow-wow would give a plaintive whine, as if fully conscious that all was not going well with his human friends, and that this unwonted journey had a sad reference, in some way, to his little master. Sometimes dropping down upon his haunches in the path, some distance in advance, and turning his muzzle pitifully up to the moon, the affectionate old fellow would howl outright, long and loud, nor leaving off until his master and mistress were well up with him again. Thus, in his poor, dumb way, would Pow-wow testify that he was their fellow-sufferer, grieving and sympathizing with them and longing so earnestly to do something to help and comfort them--only but show poor dog how he might set about it. CHAPTER XVIII. Pow-Wow Finds Him. The gray dawn was beginning to take the sun-red glow of morning, when, quite worn out with so long a walk, the anxious parents arrived at the stockade station--the center and rallying point of the settlements in that quarter of Kentucky. They had been indulging themselves in the forlorn hope that their boy, by some strange chance, might possibly have found his way to that place; but this vanished with the first look of wondering-inquiry that greeted their coming. Though no tongue could give them any tidings of the lost one, kind and sympathetic hearts were there for comfort, with willing hands and swift feet for help. Among the latter were several hunters, cunning in woodcraft, who could follow a trail, whether of man or beast, the livelong day; and over ground where nothing might be distinguished by the inexperienced eye but grass or leaves, sand, pebbles or solid rock. Forth on the humane errand they sped them, one and all, some to the northward, some to the southward; many to the eastward, but none to the westward. The little runaway's starting point had been in the East; he might have strayed away toward the North or toward the South, but it seemed hardly possible that he could have passed on by toward the West. They little imagined how far the wayward young feet had followed the setting sun! All day long they beat the tangled wilds. Of savage beasts, traces, more than enough, could they find, turn whither they might; and of savage men, two or three recent trails, one of them leading directly across the buffalo highway that traversed the forest between the settlements and Whitney's distant cabin. Late in the afternoon the questers began returning to the fort, dropping in, weary and disheartened, one after one. Some had pushed the search to the very threshold of the deserted home, and had observed how the boy's footprints, after tracing themselves along the path down the hillside, suddenly vanished, there at the spring, and never a sign anear the spot of living things besides, which could suggest an explanation of the mystery. What manner of disappearance might this be? That morning, after having snatched a brief repose from the fatigues of a day's chase and a night's journey, Jervis Whitney had started forth for a few hours after the rest to renew the search, taking leave of Elster at the fort gate. At sunset he returned, purposing that, if no tidings had been gathered, to beat the forest toward the West until dark. He found his wife where he had left her--where, indeed, she had remained through all the weary, dreary intervening hours--waiting and watching for his return. As the questers had come dropping in, she had read in each dejected face the answer to the question which her own had ceased to ask. She hastened forth to meet her husband, and as he sadly, tenderly folded her in his arms, she laid her head upon his rugged breast, and gave her pent-up sorrow relief in tears. But scarcely had her tears begun to flow, when suddenly she checked them, and with singular decision in manner and voice, exclaimed: "Come, Jervis! Come!" "Whither, dear Elster?" "I know not," replied she. "I have heard no voice, yet I feel that we are called! Come!" They went at once, as in obedience to a summons, which must be answered then or never. They went as led by a hand, which, to resist, were to tempt their own destruction. They saw themselves drawing--felt themselves drawn toward that side of the hill where, not a stone's throw in the rear of the fort, it abruptly ended in the lofty precipice, before mentioned. A few steps more and their feet had been on the very verge, when, between it and themselves, rang out a cry of thrilling horror, followed by peals of wild, unearthly laughter, which, beginning at the brow of the steep, swiftly descended along its sides, till in the edge of the forest, afar down there, they subsided into a wild, unearthly wail. Then in a moment all was still--not a tell-tale echo awaking to help the listening ear to determine what manner of sounds had broken the silence. Harrowed with horror and anguish, Jervis and Elster stood, and with no more power to move from the spot than the senseless stones that lay around them. Not a sign of life had they seen, where sounds of life they had heard. It was as if the vacant air had cried; then laughed, to mock itself for crying; then wailed, to chide itself for laughing. Old Pow-wow had followed cowering behind them. Now he bounded forward, and straight came bounding back again, with something in his mouth, which he laid at their feet. Pitiful heavens! The little coonskin cap! The next instant the dog had flung him sheer over the brink of the steep, and now, in a succession of huge leaps from ledge to ledge, was making his zig-zag way adown its sides, till, in the forest shadows far below, he disappeared. One moment more and his bark came ringing joyfully up to his friends--the sweetest, welcomest sound that had ever greeted their ears. "Pow-wow has found him! Wait here, Elster!" So saying, and moved by a will, not all his own, and sustained by a power, no more his own than had he been a child in his father's arms, the father followed the dog, making his way in the same zig-zag manner adown the perilous hill, till, in the dusky shadows at its base, he, too, had plunged. A few long, rapid strides, and he was at the spot whence Pow-wow's joyful barks had continued to resound. What found he there? The body, indeed, of his child; but whether as a waif unto life, or as a prize unto death--it were hard to tell. Stretched out on the ground, all ghastly it lay; the head toward him, and just beyond the naked feet--adjusted side by side, with their old air of easy self-assurance, the Manitou moccasins. As the father approached, the elfish little horrors, fetching a summerset aloft, as he had seen them do the time before, plumped themselves directly between him and his child, though vanishing the moment they touched the ground. But, with the vanishing, came a voice of more than mortal tenderness, and with the voice a perfume of more than earthly sweetness. "Jervis Whitney-- Whom we lend our moccasins red, Them we show how the erring are sped. Whom we lend our coronals green, Them we show how the erring are seen, When the right begins to fall, Hearts must bleed or lost is all." They who watched from above--for, by this time, many were there with Elster--had scarcely drawn the long, full breath, which follows a moment of breathless suspense, when the father, bearing a burden in his arms, reappeared at the base of the precipice. They called to him and pointed to the path that led obliquely around the hill, as being that by which he should ascend. A moment he paused and ran his eye along the circuitous way; but looking upward again to the group above him, and seeing Elster leaning over the dizzy brink, with arms outstretched, in piteous eagerness to clasp their loved one again to her heart, he paused no longer. To their unspeakable amazement, right up that huge and difficult steep, all burdened as he was, came the bold, strong man, with steps so light and swift that his ascent appeared as smooth and uninterrupted as the gliding shadow of a flying bird. Bold and strong, indeed, but that were a feat, if not beyond all human courage to dare, at least beyond all human strength to perform. "Oh! God of Love!" exclaimed the mother, as the father gained the summit. "But our child is dead! Our child is dead!" And with a piteous moan, the poor heart swooned away. Kind hands stayed her fall, and taking her up and bearing her into the fort, there laid her on a bed in grandpap's house. The same kind hands took the boy, whom, up to this moment, the father had held tenderly clasped to his rugged breast; took and laid him beside his senseless mother, his garments all torn to tatters and red with blood, which still trickled from many a wound. "After all, the child may not be dead," said a kind voice--young Ben Logan's mother. "See how he bleeds." And she laid her hand upon the unheaving breast, in the forlorn hope of finding the heart still beating. Then, after a moment of suspense, came the joyful announcement: "It beats! It beats! The child still lives!" The cry aroused the mother to consciousness. Clasping her child to her bosom, in an agony of pitying love and hopeless sorrow, again and again she cried: "Oh! God of Love! But our child is dead!" "No, Elster, dear, your darling is not dead," said another kind voice--little Bertha Bryant's mother. "Give him to us and we will wash and lave his wounds and bind them up with healing salves. See how freely they bleed. That could not be the case if he were dead." She suffered them to take him and do with him as they would; for herself, she still believed him dead. At the end of half an hour Jervis, who had gone with the women to assist in the work of resuscitation, returned to her and bade her be of good cheer; that the wounds, though many and grievous enough, did not seem to be deep and dangerous, and the signs of reviving life were growing every moment more and more apparent. Thus reassured, Elster arose, and from that time forward performed her part as beseemed the mother of the sufferer. CHAPTER XIX. Young Ben Logan. That morning, when the quest had begun, foremost of all the questers had gone forth young Ben Logan. Throughout the anxious day no one, saving the father of the lost boy, had shown such unremitting, unwearied diligence in the search as Ben, and that he had desisted at all was because the gathering shadows of evening had rendered further efforts unavailing. Young Ben Logan, it will be remembered, was the boy to whom poor Sprigg had been so eager to make a display of his red moccasins, even while confident that their glitter and gleam would set his young friend--the best young friend he had in the world--to dying of envy the moment they met his dazzled eyes. Ben was a big-bodied, soft-hearted, slow-thoughted lad, about sixteen years of age; bigger already, indeed, and stronger than the majority of grown-up men. He could handle a rifle like a veteran marksman, and, in the ways of forest life, could make himself as completely at home as a young Indian. He was greatly attached to Sprigg, and although the older by three or four years, considered his little friend as, in every way, his equal, excepting as regarded size, marksmanship and woodcraft. In return, Sprigg loved Ben as much as a boy so humored and spoilt, and, consequently, so wayward and selfish, was capable of loving anybody not exactly necessary to make Number One all comfortable and snug. He was perfectly aware of the high esteem in which his mental parts were held by his big chum and master's every look, word and act told you over and over that he was exactly of the same opinion, if not more so. Nor can we ourselves deny, having had frequent occasion to note the fact, that our hero was a boy of uncommon sprightliness of mind and liveliness of imagination, while Ben was somewhat heavy and slow in all his ways, except when all agog in the chase, and then he was as light and elastic as an Indian bow; as quick and keen as an Indian arrow. Such being the difference between them, the two cronies chimed as smoothly together as a pair of well agreeing fiddles, each, in turn, taking the lead of the other--Ben, when they were roaming the perilous solitudes of the forest; Sprigg, when they were besporting themselves within the safe precincts of the fort. Evening had deepened into night, when, all alone, weary and very sad, Ben Logan made his way back to the fort. Here, at the gate, being informed of the marvelous manner in which the quest had terminated, he hurried on to grandpap's house to see his little friend and learn what further particulars he might of the mysterious affair. His mother, hearing that he was coming, hastened to meet him at the door; hastened, because her son, being intended by nature for a man of huge proportions, was already provided with the full-grown foot to meet that end. Consequently, his fashion of traveling over the loose, board floors, we usually see in backwoods cabins, was of that horse-like kind peculiar to overgrown boys, and against which quiet old ladies are wont to protest as more in keeping with barns and bridges than with human dwellings. And now that she was a nurse, his mother must needs protest against the habit in question more earnestly than usual, representing the necessities of the case in a way so affectionate and anxious that the tender-hearted Ben felt himself growing tender-footed, even while yet he stood on the solid earth. It took her but a few minutes to tell him all she knew of Sprigg's story, and it was as much as Elster knew, or any one else, indeed, excepting Jervis Whitney himself. When he had heard it, the young hunter, big with wonder and pity, leaned his rifle against the wall beside the doorway, and, treading the floor as lightly as were he walking on thin ice, followed his mother into a back room, which had been assigned to the little sufferer. There, pale as the dead, and as senseless, he lay, and as motionless, saving the slightest breathing, which might encourage the hope that, in the contest between them, life still held the advantage over death. Every now and then a tremor, somewhat more perceptible than the breathing, would play for a moment over the lacerated limbs, like the flickering flame of an expiring lamp. Ben could remain no longer than just sufficed for one good look at his unfortunate little friend, as that was enough to call forth a blubbering outburst of pitiful feeling much too boisterous for a place like that, and quite as much to be protested against by the doctors and nurses as his horse-like tread. So he conveyed himself away with as little noise as a rumbling, puncheon floor would well allow a half-grown boy with full-grown feet. And gathering up his rifle as he passed out at the door, went crying home. Some people, especially the harder cases among the boys, may regard such an exhibition of feeling as more beseeming a faint-hearted girl than a bold-hearted young hunter. But you and I know too well what human nature ought to be than to think anything of the sort. We know that this tenderness of feeling--let them call it weakness if they will--was the best part of young Ben Logan's strength, and that, without it, the son of a white man's wife would have been no better than the son of a red man's squaw. Next morning, at rise of sun--you all know what a desperately early riser the sun is in the busy month of June--Ben was again at grandpap's house to learn how it was faring with his little friend, and to offer such help in the case as a boy might render. His mother, who, with Bertha Bryant's mother, had watched all night, met him at the door and told him that Sprigg, although still unconscious, showed some signs of improvement; his breathing was stronger and more regular, and the tremor about his limbs had nearly disappeared. Ben wished to know if it would not be advisable for him to go to the lick and shoot a fat, young buck for Sprigg. Sprigg's favorite dish was a venison ham chopped up and made into a pie, with rich, brown crust and plenty of good, cream gravy, and he ought to have it for his dinner to-morrow. His mother smiled at the suggestion, and answered that it would be many a day, she feared, before his little friend could be equal to such a strong diet. Well, he would go and shoot a buffalo for Sprigg. Sprigg was uncommonly fond of buffalo tongue, and might like to have some for his supper that night. No; buffalo tongue was not more to be thought of than venison pastry. Well, then, a fat, young bear; what could be more tender and delicate than the fat of a young bear, especially when the woods, as now, were full of wild honey? No; all too rich and strong for the present demands of the case. Should the little patient be found able to swallow just a few spoonfuls of weak squirrel broth, right glad and thankful should they be. So "Benjamin" might go and fetch a squirrel for Sprigg. "Benjamin" went and did as he was bidden, bringing down a squirrel within gunshot of the fort and sending it in forthwith to his mother. But this was far from satisfying "Benjamin," and he believed it would be far from satisfying Sprigg. As the station here had resulted in a settlement of considerable extent, game of the larger sort had grown very scarce in the immediate vicinity, thus obliging the hunter, who would pursue the chase on a scale beseeming the hunter's paradise, to betake him to the more unfrequented parts of the forest. So, to the distant lick went young Ben Logan, leading, Daniel Boone-like, a horse by the bridle to help him home with the spoils of the chase. He had taken counsel with himself and was resolved that Sprigg should have a fair start in the direction of recovery to health, and to this benevolent end a fat, young buck or buffalo must that day bite the dust; or, better still, as the woods were full of wild-honey, a fat, young bear. Squirrels and birds might do well enough for people in full health, where nature had only to hold her own; but in a case like Sprigg's where nature was exhausted, it was only the larger quadrupeds which could yield the nourishment sufficiently strengthening for certain and speedy recuperation. According to Ben's theory, a given quantity of bear's meat, for example, afforded some ten or twelve times as much nourishment as an equal quantity of squirrel's meat. That day a fat, young bear fell a sacrifice to Ben's physiological heresy; the next day a fat, young buck; a lordly buffalo on the third, and so on, and so on, for more than a week, with a smart sprinkling of squirrels and birds looking to the special wants of the doctors and nurses. Every morning he would furnish the squirrel or bird required of him; which, having done by way of compromise between his better judgment and his duty as a son, then away to the lick would he hie himself on his own responsibility for something better worth a hunter's notice. The good fellow had evidently taken Sprigg's case into his own hands, under an abiding conviction that nothing less than an heroic course of wild meat could bring it to a happy issue. Thus, while he was devoting all his powers of body and mind, and the shiny parts of a fortnight to the sustenance of one little sick boy, young Ben Logan had well nigh foundered the whole settlement on wild meat--the backbones, tongues and spareribs themselves being enough to surfeit the fort, consisting, though it did, of some ten or twelve families, all well stocked with children and dogs. How could poor Sprigg have ever imagined that a pair of red moccasins, or anything else, indeed, which might be named as very attractive to juvenile fancy, could stir up envy, to the dying extent, or to any extent whatever, in the simple, unselfish heart of his friend Ben? Ben would have admired the moccasins exceedingly; pronounced them beautiful, fine enough for the son of a Shawnee Sachem; fine enough, indeed, for Nick of the Woods himself; but to envy Sprigg for his finery would no more have entered his thoughts than to envy a redbird for his tail feathers, or a red man for his head feathers. Ben could have put those Manitou moccasins on and worn them whithersoever he pleased, and his guileless feet been as easy and safe in them as had they been shod with unenchanted, merchantable, split-leather, Yankee shoes. Ben could have followed the chase in those moccasins day after day, till he had rubbed and kicked them bare of all their gaudy heads; till he had snagged them full of holes and covered them over with barbarous patches of his own needlework, and never, in all that time, have missed his aim, or lost his way, or forgotten to say his prayers, for aught he could have seen in their glitter and gleam to daze and cheat him out of his sober senses. And why? Because Ben Logan was not a wild dreamer. In other words, because he was one of the best boys that ever lived; so good, indeed, that he could not have been more invincible to Manitou spells, even had he been armed with Tom Walker's pocket bible and worn it perpetually in his bosom. Nick of the Woods himself could never befuddle the wits of such a boy, even were he, too, minded to make the trial and exert his Manitou utmost to that end; though, to do him justice, the Manitou king was perfectly willing--glad, you may have it--to let Ben Logan alone. He knew very well that he could do nothing for the bettering of such a boy, which nature--best of mothers--had not done for him already. No need to set Ben's heart a-bleeding to develop the good that was in it, or to crumble up the evil. Now, there are people who, though given to swallowing their own camels, are just as given to straining at other people's gnats; and these of course, being incredulous as to what I have just affirmed, must need some further proof to remove their doubts. They shall have only to read what follows. One pleasant afternoon, as Ben Logan was ranging the wilderness, catering for his little sick friend, Nick of the Woods caught Will-o'-the-Wisp and Manitou-Echo amusing themselves at the young hunter's expense. They would set the trees and bushes to waving their tops and fluttering their leaves, where there was no wind; smoke to rising, where there was no fire; fire to burning, where there was no fuel; shadows to flitting and dodging about, where there were no visible forms; echoes to calling and answering each other, where there were no audible voices. Then would the elfish rogues fall to laughing and skipping about in the most extravagant manner to witness the big, young mortal's demonstrations of amazement: how he would open wide his eyes to stare this way, and wider still to stare that way; how he would cock first one ear, then the other, to listen; yes, and how he cocked his gun, too, ready to let fly the unerring bullet, the moment whatever it was--man, or varmint, or goblin--might dare to expose but so much as the head or tail of itself for a mark. "Imps!" cried the Manitou king, "let Ben Logan alone! There's nothing in the dreams of such a young mortal which calls for any of your good help. Were Ben a boy of a wild and brilliant fancy, say, like Sprigg, whose case we are putting through in a somewhat novel fashion, why, these pranks you are playing might not be deemed unseasonable, might even be approved; but you forget the nature of Manitou duty and go beyond the bounds of Manitou privilege, when you turn aside to bedevil a thoroughly honest human thing like Ben. To be sure, as I have just hinted, Ben is not a brilliant youth, nor shall ever be one, even though he should live to see his second childhood, and from that stage of mortal existence take a fresh start; nor is he likely ever to make a conspicuous figure in the world. What, though, does this signify to us Manitous? Such considerations, smacking, as they do, of human folly, are not the sort to influence the true Manitou way of viewing mankind, or the true Manitou way of dealing with human concerns. 'Tis enough for us that Ben is right-minded and true-hearted; that he keeps his dreams and fancies within beseeming limits, never letting them go gadding wide and loose from home; or, if he lets them go abroad at all, depend upon it, the ends he proposes to himself are well meant and unselfish, be they wise or simple. Therefore, it behooves us, as true Manitous, to treat this humble, honest lad with just as much consideration and respect as we were showing the boy Washington, some forty years ago, and are now showing the boy Tecumseh. "Then away with you, now, to Meg of the Hills and join her in her attendance on Little Bertha Bryant, the pretty young human thing, whose mind is so free from foolish fancies, whose heart so full of loving intentions that we can make her, and are making her, and shall continue to make her, an instrument to the good and happiness of the less worthy with whom her lot is cast. Away, ye imps! But mark ye before ye go, if ever I catch you making another innocent mortal the object of your impertinent pranks, I will reduce you, sure as fate, I will, to your original fog and moonshine, with just so little of you left as shall barely serve for echo and wisp." CHAPTER XX. Little Bertha Bryant. Who, with pretty, young eyes overflowing with soft, sweet tears, stood gazing at Sprigg and his mother, where they lay side by side together? Little Bertha. Who, with pretty, young hands, so kind and deft, hung the kettle over the fire, and, when the water was warmed, carried it to her mother to wash and lave Sprigg's wounds? Little Bertha. Who, with pretty, young hopes and fears, all in a bird-like flutter, hovered around till the latest grown-up bedtime, wishing and wishing that she might do something to make Sprigg open his eyes and smile--part his lips and speak? Little Bertha. Who, with pretty, young feet, so willing and nimble, ran to the gate next morning, and every morning thereafter for more than a week, to receive from Ben the squirrel or bird for Sprigg's broth; then to the spring to fetch a pail of good, cool water; then to a neighbor's house for some balsam; then somewhere else for something else, and so on and so on throughout the livelong summer day, and all for Sprigg? Little Bertha all the time; nobody but little Bertha! And who was little Bertha? Well, the answer to this question can only be given in superlatives, and even then it must still fall short of full expression. For little Bertha, you must know, was the sweetest-tempered, the truest-hearted, the clearest-headed, the purest-minded, the most helpful-handed, the most willing-footed--in short, the best and the nicest little backwoods damsel that ever wore linsey-woolsey frocks and homemade shoes in winter, and homespun cotton frocks and nothing at all on her feet in summer. But I see that, in this list, I had well nigh forgotten the most popular of all superlatives--"prettiest." So accustomed am I to squaring my estimate of beauty by the good, old adage, "he handsome is who handsome does," or "she beautiful is who beautiful does"--to employ a gender more appropriate to the case. Well, then, "the prettiest," withal, as you may easily believe when I tell you that her hair was so gold-like, her eyes so sky-like, her brow so lily-like, her cheeks so rose-like, her lips so cherry-like, and her form and motions so fairy-like, that Sleeping Beauty herself--of course, I mean before she fell asleep--would have envied little Bertha, even to the extent of wishing that she had been born in a backwoods cabin, instead of a royal palace. From what has just been said, it may fairly be inferred that, young as it was, little Bertha's life was already largely made up of daily duty, and that she found in them such real delight as to make her quite unconscious of deserving credit for performing them. But the duty in which she took the greatest delight was that of going every evening to the bluegrass glades, a mile away from the fort, to fetch the cows home to be milked and secured for the night. The glades, which were well set in grass and thickly mottled over with patches of white clover, both the spontaneous products of the soil, were separated from each other by narrow belts of forest growth, converging, for the most part, toward the base of a grass-coated, tree-crowned, exceedingly pleasant-looking hill, of sufficient height to command a fine view of the neighboring country. To the top of this hill, no matter where the cattle might be, Bertha always climbed before quitting the spot. I would not be understood as meaning that backwoods-man's daughter did this because she was a great admirer of fine landscapes. Intellectually, she may have been almost unconscious of their beauty; and yet it made her happy simply to sit up there for a half hour every evening and let the gladness in her young heart go forth to mingle itself with gladness of nature around her. The universal mother and friend, thus looked directly down upon, seems to assume a smile more directly responsive to the thoughts and emotions in the beholder's mind than when viewed from the general level. The little girl may have had but the faintest intimation of such an interchange; yet, depend upon it, had it not existed, she never would have troubled herself to clamber up the hill, excepting when the cattle were up there and too perverse to come down at her gentle call. On the evening following Sprigg's mysterious reappearance, Bertha, on going to the glades and climbing to the top of her favorite hill, found there an altogether unfamiliar object, the sight whereof made her two blue eyes dilate with wonder and delight. Beside the moss-grown tree trunk, where she always sat when up there, stood a small but exceedingly luxuriant bush, which must have been the growth of a single day, as she had not seen it there on the previous evening, nor the like of it in all her life. Upon the bush, besides foliage of vivid greenness, grew in in the greatest profusion a large flower of marvelous beauty, both as to its shape, so heart-like, and to its color, so blood-like. But what more especially still distinguished the flower was its perfume, which, though powerful enough to be perceptible all over the hill, was yet too delicate, too lily-like to be easily referred to a plant of such tropical richness, which had more the appearance of bleeding than of blooming. It was a sweetness so peculiar, so foreign to all common experience that to inhale it were enough to make you fancy that fairyland was blooming near, and fairy florists experimenting with their plants in mortal soil. The moment Bertha caught sight and scent of the flowers, there came, first into her mind, a vivid image of Sprigg, as she had left him lying at home, less like the living than the dead; and then, into her heart, a feeling that they were blooming there to no other end than for his restoration to life and health. Thus impressed--bespelled, it may be--the little girl, instead of lingering about the spot as usual, hastened to fill her apron with the offered good, stripping the bush to its last blossom. Then, bringing the cattle together in the shortest time the thing was ever done, without the help of a dog, she sent them trotting homeward with all their awkward might, leaving the patriarch of the herd, who was too stately or too stubborn to be stimulated out of a dignified walk, to follow on or stay behind, as suited his sulky old fancy best. Briskly had they started, more and more briskly on they went, the grandmotherly cows hobbling along in that peculiar, cross-legged trot, rather suggestive of rheumatism in the hocks and hips, and which limber-legged little boys, who follow at their heels, are mighty apt to mimic. Set were their big, mild eyes, all glassy with amazement--the sun a mile too high for milking time, not a sign in the sky to show for a coming thunder storm; not a yell, not a howl, not a scream in the forest to tell of Indian, wolf or panther. Arrived at home, Bertha turned the cows into the enclosure, where they were wont to be milked and secured for the night. Then hastening on to grandpap's house, she entered by a back door, which opened directly into the sick room, and stealing quietly up to the bedside, began softly strewing the fragrant contents of her apron, handful by handful, over and around the form of the unconscious boy. Scarcely were the flowers strewn, their perfume filling the room, when, slowly over the wan, young face, which until this moment had worn the fixed and pallid cast of death, came stealing a smile of solemn, innocent sweetness, such as we often see on the faces of sleeping infants. Faint, it is true, was the smile, yet perceptible enough to betoken that the spirit was still at home, and only waiting for its doors to be reopened, when it would again reveal itself as a living presence. All in the room observed the change, wondering and rejoicing; rejoicing, for, when it passed away, which it did more slowly than it had come, they could see that the smile had been there, by the more life-like expression it left upon the face. But Jervis Whitney was moved to wonderment more than all the rest; for the moment he caught the scent of the flowers, he remembered it to be the same as that which had met him at the foot of the hill the previous evening. Next afternoon, Bertha was off to the glades an hour before the usual time, and climbing at once to the top of the hill, was delighted to find that the bush had put forth fresh blossoms on every twig she had stripped the evening before, and evidently to no other end than to be stripped again for Sprigg's especial benefit. So it seemed to little Bertha; so it seems to us. The folks at home had hardly taken the second thought that she had gone for the cows, when here was Bertha back again, her cheeks as brightly red from her loving haste as the flowers she was strewing broadcast over and around her unconscious patient. Yes, and there it came again--that smile, less faint and sweeter still--and when it had passed away more slowly than before, more perceptible still was the life-like cast it left upon the countenance. Every evening, for seven days, was this repeated, the life-giving plant as often renewing its blossoms, and their vivifying effects on the patient becoming more and more apparent. Toward the third evening Sprigg had so far revived in body as to be able to toss himself about on the bed, and, in mind, so far as to be able to speak. And these manifestations of returning strength became each day more and more decided. When he spoke, however, it was to give utterance, in short and broken sentences, to wild and incoherent fancies, incomprehensible to those who listened, taking, as they did, shape and color from his present experiences; first, as an object of Manitou retribution, now as an object of Manitou regeneration. But always, the moment Bertha, returning all odorous from the glades, entered the room, the tossings and the ravings would cease and he would sink into a deep and peaceful sleep, and so remain throughout the livelong night. At length the imprisoned spirit became so susceptible to the mysterious flowers that the brightening of the wan, young face would begin ere Bertha, returning with a fresh culling of them, had well-nigh entered the house. Of course, this susceptibility comprehended Bertha, too, else she never could have been made the medium of such administration. While engaged in discharging her floral office, she appeared as one in happy trance, never speaking and apparently as oblivious of what was passing around her as Sprigg himself. Always, when she had finished strewing the flowers, she would take her station at the foot of the bed, where, with pretty little arms folded together and resting on the footboard, she would stand gazing fixedly into the unconscious, spirit-like face before her, with a look of dreamy, tender, solemn wonder in her innocent blue eyes, beautiful to behold. How could poor Sprigg have ever imagined that he had but to put on a pair of red moccasins to captivate the fancy and win the love of such a little angel as Bertha Bryant? Had she seen him so bedizened--"Fop-Indian!" "Jack-Monkey!" would have been the first thoughts to pop into her judicious little head, and Sprigg might have chased her till he had worn his red moccasins slip-shod, and no more have caught her had he, indeed, been a monkey, chasing a dove or a bird of paradise. That he was spared such a humiliation was because he had become by strange chance an object of Manitou interest, and was not allowed to carry out the ridiculous programme he had proposed to himself. What a pity it is that many of us grown-up Spriggs can not become objects of similar interest, to be dealt with in the like manner, even to the bleeding-heart degree, and made to abandon, perforce, many a purpose in life, which, when it is too late to escape the humiliation of its failure, or, worse, still, of its success, proves to be not a whit less paltry or preposterous than the programme our little hero had in view when he donned his red moccasins. CHAPTER XXI. The Manitou Butterfly. On the evening of the seventh day, hardly had Bertha deflowered the bush, when suddenly it burst again into bloom more glorious than ever before. Hardly had the flowers unfolded, when they resolved themselves into a blood-red mist, which quickly enveloped the whole bush, and when it had cleared away the Manitou arbor vitae had vanished--a thing too beautiful to be seen again in a lifetime. But now, when the last culling of that mysterious life-giving flower was strewn upon him, Sprigg not only smiled with brighter, more present intelligence than at any previous time, but opened his long-closed eyes. And how beautiful his eyes had grown! As uncloudedly clear, as innocently sweet, as those of an infant awaking from a long and untroubled slumber. Raising himself, unassisted, to his elbow, he began gazing about him, though with too dreamy a look for any clear perception of his surroundings. "I am going," said he, talking as dreamily as he looked, and beginning with the falsehood which he had sent back to his mother as he was running away from home--"I am going to our best spring, down there in the edge of the woods, to fetch dear Meg of the Hills a good, cool drink of water. Then I am going to grandpap's house with Nick of the Woods. But where is the fence, and the trees--where are they? And the bright sun? I am still asleep and only dreaming." So concluding, he lay quietly down again, and closing his eyes, remained perfectly still for some moments, as if to assure himself that he had concluded aright and was really asleep. In a little while, however, he recommenced his dreamy talk, which, with his eyes still closed, and occasional intervals of sleep-like silence, he kept up for many minutes. His words, to those who listened, seemed but the incoherent wandering of a feverish fancy. "They kiss me, embrace me--weep over me as though I were going to die. I think they mean it for Sprigg; but Sprigg is dead already--passed away into nothing. They have lost him and found me, though they do not seem to know the difference yet. That is the way, I think; or why should they keep on calling me for him? They shall never see their old Sprigg again. Never! Never!" A sleep-like pause. "Sprigg had a pair of red moccasins--long, long ago, when I was a little, a very little boy. I think he had them; and I think he put them on and wore them, far, far away, when he had been forbidden to do so. Yes, I am sure of it now; for I remember telling him how wrong he was doing, and that he ought not to think of such a thing. But he wouldn't listen to me; he would have his own way. Whither he went, he never knew to his dying day; for his eyes and thoughts were so bewitched by his moccasins that he quite forgot everything else; and, so, soon got completely lost. It was a wild and lonely place where Sprigg found himself when he came to his senses. A great hill, whose top was in a sky all burning and red with the light of the setting sun. Sprigg blamed the moccasins for his mishap; was very angry at them--jerked them from his feet and flung them away. But here they came right back again, walking, walking straight up to him. With the red moccasins came a red mist; and out of the mist would frightful shapes, with long, sharp claws, or long, sharp horns and fiery eyes, come stealing forth, one after one. They scared Sprigg almost to death, and would have torn him to pieces; but ever, just as they would be making to spring upon him, would the red moccasins dart in between--kick them in their ugly eyes and drive them back into the mist. "By and by Sprigg was moving swiftly through the dark forest--borne onward, he knew not how; and ever before him a great ball of dim, white light. The ball of light sank into the earth, growing brighter and brighter. Sprigg sank with it, deeper, deeper, till far down there he found himself in a world where there was no sun, no moon, and yet was it very bright. Thousands and thousands of little people, all going one way, went gliding swiftly by; so swiftly that they seemed to be on wings. Some of them were very funny to look at; some wild, some savage; but all were beautiful, and all were terrible. Sprigg was desperately afraid of the little people--'Manitous,' they called themselves. Though he need not have feared them; for, let them look as they might, they had no thought for him but love and to do him kindness. I told Sprigg the Manitous were loving him all the time, but he would not believe me. He was too bad to trust them or anybody else. "Sprigg was a liar--with a lie in his mouth had he sneaked off from home--sneaked off 'like a spit-thief dog.' The Manitous said so; I heard them say it. "And the Manitous told me how it had happened that Sprigg was such a bad boy; it was because his father and mother had loved him unwisely; and, as they had loved him, so had they trained him. They had made a fool of their boy by making a pet of him, as if he were a pretty little animal, and not a little human creature. They had humored his every whim, excused his every fault, until they had made him so vain, selfish and false that his heart must be made to bleed to bring him to his better self. Yes; and their hearts, too--all must be made to bleed before they could look for happy days again. "And there on the ground were the shadows of men and women, boys and girls--standing, walking or flitting about, or, all on a sudden, melting away into nothing--and never a human creature to be seen dead or alive. Sprigg's shadow was among them--and a spotted thing it was; so, indeed, were they all. How could such shadows be cast? Sprigg looked up. I tell you, he jumped! What was it he saw? Up there in the sky, where the sun ought to be, there he saw an eye--a great and terrible eye--that looked directly down on him--through him--for, though his body cast a shadow, it was no more in the light of that eye than the clearest glass. Not only through his body, but such a light it was, it shone through his very soul, and showed what a spotted thing it was--spotted all over with lies. To see that eye was to feel that it had been upon you all the days of your life. Yet, terrible as was its glance, love was in it, as well as light--love even for such as Sprigg; but that made him fear it all the more. I told Sprigg to trust the eye; and that he could not do so was because he was too bad a boy to put his trust anywhere. We are all afraid of the love which, without telling us, shows us how wicked we are. "Sprigg tried to hide from the eye, but he could put nothing between it and himself, which it could not pierce and make no more of than air. Then, in greater terror than ever, he ran from the eye--ran from the Manitous--ran, ran and ran; and now the red moccasins were again on his feet. He could turn them neither this way nor that, nor stop them, nor pull them off; they did with him as they chose. They fled, with the setting sun before them, and with frightful monsters following close behind. The monsters ran more swiftly than the moccasins; they chased Sprigg up into the sky--to the very edge of sunset--and there the moccasins leaped with him from a horrible brink, down, down into the shadows of death. Sprigg was dying, almost dead, when came old Pow-wow and barked over him for joy--licked his bloody face--licked his bleeding wounds. But Sprigg heard not the glad barking, though I did. And I heard something else that Sprigg did not--a tender and beautiful voice close beside him, that said: 'Bleed no more, poor heart! Bleed no more!' Then Sprigg died--passed away into nothing--chased by the Manitous out of the world. That is the way they do. You shall never see your old Sprigg again. Never! Never!! Never!!!" Here follows an interval of sleep-like silence, longer than any before. In silent wonderment, not unmixed with awe, they stood around him gazing upon his face, which, while so oblivious of outward things, was yet so brightly expressive of a purer, higher intelligence awaking within. It has been remarked that he was, in every way, a handsome boy, even when his face was wont to be more expressive of evil than of good. But with the great inward changes his whole nature had undergone, an outward change had taken place, which amounted almost to transfiguration--so spiritually beautiful now was his appearance. His words, however fantastic and incoherent they may have seemed to the others present, came burdened with a deep significance to his father, and to his mother, also; for, by this time, Jervis had told Elster of his singular interview with Nick of the Woods. A significance the deeper, since every word struck home to hearts, conscience-stricken and full of self-upbraiding. Long before the period of our first acquaintance with them had Jervis and Elster begun to feel and acknowledge to each other the grievous mistake they had made in the training of their son, bestowing upon him their abundant affection, untempered by that judicious and habitual exercise of controlling will, without which, parental love but forestalls the very ends it has nearest at heart--the good and the happiness of the offspring. Gold can not be too rich, where only ornament is the object in view; but it needs to be alloyed with silver to be made firm and consistent enough to meet the ends of uses. Their love, from very richness, had been of too soft and yielding a nature to fashion the character of their child into the thing of beauty for which its maker had designed it. Now, had he returned, as it were, from the dead, to upbraid them with the wrong they had done him. All unwittingly had he ministered the rebuke; perhaps, on being restored to his normal self, should never remember what he had done. Yet, for that very reason, all the more bitter was the reflection, since it showed how deep the wrong was, if his innermost soul could be cognizant of it and speak out in his vindication, while his more external nature was as yet incapable of knowing or comprehending it. What remorse they felt at the thought of the sore affliction, which, by their folly, they had brought upon his young life; what good resolutions they formed, looking to atonement and recompense; what prayers they offered up for forgiveness of the past, and for guidance in the future--must be left to the heart and conscience of every judicious parent to conceive. After some minutes the boy resumed, still with his eyes closed, the windows of the tenement shut, but the light from within shining through the translucent walls. "Some one is here, who goes and comes as goes and comes none else. Her step is light, her touch soft, her voice gentle and low. I love to have her near me. Where she is can come no evil thing. Wild dreams stand at the door, waiting for her to go away, when they come slipping in to dance around me, to laugh at me, to point the mocking finger at me--sometimes, to scowl and frown upon me. They are after Sprigg, to vex and frighten him, and think that I am he. But the moment she comes back, out they go skipping by another door--make all the haste they can to get away. They are afraid of her, as is every evil thing, because she is as God, in the beginning, made her--all love and truth. "Sometimes she comes, bringing with her the pleasant smell of the woods--the fresh, green, beautiful woods I love so much. She seems to bring with her the sky, too, so sunny her presence makes all around me; and once more I am happy--so full of rest and sleep. That smell of the woods--it never comes, but I feel as if Meg of the Hills must be near, with her crown of crimson flowers; so wonderful--it is bliss to see their beauty, life to breathe their sweetness. Surely she who goes and comes must have found these flowers and brought them to me! Else I had never been here where I am, this what I am. I think she must be near me now. I will see." So saying, and before he had fairly reopened his eyes, our Manitou butterfly, now nearly ready to spurn the chrysalis, raised himself again to his elbow and took another dreamy survey of the room. His eyes, however, seemed to find no object to rest on, until they met a pair as dreamy as themselves--the innocent, blue ones, there at the foot of his bed, through which a soul was looking so directly into his own that he could no longer but be cognizant of a fellow creature's presence. "Yes, there she is. But she looks like Bertha, and Bertha is not a little angel, like the one who goes and comes. Though, if she is not, it must be because the good angels have not yet taken her to themselves; for, now that I see her better, she looks enough like an angel to be the one who goes and comes. Can it be that Meg of the Hills has sent Bertha to me with these flowers, but for which--the life that is in them--I must have died. Yes, that's the reason why; at least, I think it is. "But, who are these?" Beginning at last to have some dim perception of his actual surroundings. "These are they who have kissed me, embraced me, wept over me, as though I were going to die. Will they do so still? I think not; for they mean it for Sprigg, and Sprigg is dead already--passed away into nothing. They shall never see their old Sprigg again--never, never, never! But they may call me Sprigg if they like. And this pretty woman here, who is laughing and crying both at once, I will call her mother. And this big man, who looks glad enough to laugh and sorry enough to cry, and can't do either, I will call him father." Sprigg never called them "pap" and "mam" again, the longest day he lived. Neither did Jervis and Elster ever again, the longest day they lived, say "my dear son," without putting in the fond words as much silver for will, as gold for love. "Yes, and that is just the way it really is, after all! Father, mother; yes, and grandpap, too, and grandmam, and others whose names I ought to know, but do not. All are here--none missing. No, not all, either; I do not see dear old Pow-wow. And I must see him. He will make me laugh, and I must laugh, or I may die yet. I thought I heard him bark but now." CHAPTER XXII. Pow-wow. Pow-wow had not barked within hearing of the fort since the evening he had found his little master down there at the foot of the precipice. He had gone and come, hastening back when he went, lingering when he came--a silent, sad and thoughtful dog. By some inscrutable operation of instinct he had soon discovered that the errands which led Ben and Bertha daily abroad had a reference in some way to the wants of his unfortunate little friend, and that, therefore, it was his bounden duty to lend a helping hand. Accordingly he had divided his time about equally between the two young people; helping the one about the wild herds of the forest, the other about the tame herds of the field. In the morning he would follow the young hunter to the distant lick, and, having acquitted himself in the chase, with his wonted address, he would hasten back to the fort, leaving his companion to follow at that plodding pace peculiar to two-footed animals, and so irksome to dogs, to accommodate themselves to which they must needs trot out, on a magnified scale, the ground plan of a straggling worm fence, with wide digression to right and left; now to sniff at a stump, then to bark down a sinkhole. In the afternoon he would accompany Bertha to the bluegrass glades, where he would take her charge so completely upon himself as to leave her nothing to do but clamber up the hill for a fresh culling of flowers, then follow him, as homeward he drove the cows. When not occupied thus, he would station himself on the porch at the door of the sick room, looking up wistfully into every face that passed him, in the poor, dumb, asking way, which so endears a dog to us when the shadow of death is on our home. He had never ventured to intrude himself into the house, but now that he was called, the grateful look and humble alertness with which he answered the summons testified how earnestly he had wished to do all along. Setting his feet as carefully on the floor as were he shod with heavy shoes, that, too, without a warning whisper in the ear from Ben's mother, he slowly walked up to the bedside and softly ran his huge head under the little hand, so white and wan, extended to greet and caress him. Pow-wow licked the hand in the dear old way, and the familiar sensation helped, not a little, to reassure the boy of his own identity and make him more present to the state of things around him. And it was strange how much more natural his voice and manner became the moment he began speaking to his old play-fellow; though what he spoke was hardly less fantastic or more coherent than the greater part of what he had spoken already. "Pow-wow, is it really you, old pard, and no mistake? And are we all alive and here at grandpap's house, and no dreaming about it? (Pausing to pat the old dog's head.) Pow-wow, did Nick of the Woods ever give you a pair of red moccasins? No, he never did, because he knew you weren't a fool. (Here closing his eyes and seeming for a moment to forget the dog.) Pow-wow, were you ever chased by the Manitous? No, you never were, for you never sneaked away from home with a lie in your mouth, like a spit-thief dog. (Again closing his eyes for a few moments, to open them again and add:) The Manitous chase nobody but bad people, and chase them only to make them good. (Pausing to play with the old dog's ear.) And so they have chased your old Sprigg, Pow-wow; chased him out of the world! You shall never see your old friend Sprigg again! Never! Never! Never!" (Now giving the old dog's ragged ear a certain pluck which had always been well understood between them.) At each repetition of his name the only part of his little master's speech which had any sound of English to his ear, Pow-wow would fall to wagging his tail in a hearty, emphatic manner, as were he, Chinaman-like, shaking hands with himself over the glad event of the day. But on receiving the pluck of the ear, in the dear old way, the dear old fellow, quick to take the hint, gave vent to a sort of double yelp, peculiar to him when in a waggish humor--a smothered nasal "boo-woo," so irresistibly ludicrous that it had always made Sprigg laugh, as now it did, right heartily. This is but the prelude to what needs must follow. Up he rears himself on his hind legs, snaps at the imaginary bone thrown up by an imaginary hand, catches it in his mouth, drops with it to the floor, and, stretching himself out at full length, pretends to gnaw what he pretends to hold between his paws. But this was Pow-wow's only accomplishment--fancy accomplishment, I mean--for he was a finished hunter and a finishing fighter, and we have seen for ourselves that he knew exactly what to do with cows when he went with a nice little girl to the pasture to help her drive them home. Therefore, finding himself at the end of his programme sooner than the occasion seemed to demand, he raised himself to his haunches and looked around him with a deprecating air, as if he would fain apologize for his deficiencies. Hardly, however, could the apology have been expressed in words, when up he bounces again to his hind feet and begins executing a series of antics, so fantastic and undog-like that they who witnessed them were quite as much astonished as amused. Jervis Whitney himself, than whom there was not a man in the hunter's paradise more deeply versed in dogs and their ways, and who thought he knew his own dog from head to tail and back again, was even more astonished than the rest. Had old Mother Hubbard and her far-famed dog risen from their honored graves and, presenting themselves before our friends, repeated the dear old programme, from the cupboard so bare, to the bier so sad, with the fruits and the flue, the tripe and the pipe, the wig and the jig, and all the other fondly remembered marvels between--scarcely could the effect have been more startling. Now, Pow-wow's antics on this occasion, unaccountable as they seemed to those who witnessed them, and must seem to the more sober class of my readers, admit of perfectly rational explanation, give them only Manitou ground to rest on. Nick of the Woods and Meg of the Hills, who knew as well as anybody--better, I fear, than many a human body--that there are few things more wholesome for us poor mortals than hearty, unrestrained, unrestrainable, innocent laughter, had decided between them that, in order to put his case beyond all human or superhuman possibility of relapse, Sprigg should have some hearty laughter. Accordingly, they had sent one of their dog-robed, dog-natured elves to tinker and conjure with Pow-wow's tail, and through that sensitive member, as a medium, telegraph, as it were, such fancies to his sober old noddle as should, for a brief space, set him quite beside himself. In other words, set him to acting the human, according to the monkey conception of the character. A conception so nearly suits an occasional specimen of the model race as scarcely to be deemed caricature. And Sprigg did laugh--laughed till his sore sides ached--laughed "fit to die," as they say, when they mean the very opposite--"fit to live." After such a laugh, Sprigg was in no more danger of dying than had all the doctors, with their doses; all the preachers, with their prayers, stood between him and the grave. Of course, everybody else was laughing; not but that they felt still more inclined to cry, so touching was it to witness the old dog's clumsy playfulness and the little sufferer's spasmodic merriment--for spasmodic it needs must be, as yet, though so hearty, heart-easing and wholesome. Indeed, there are few things more pathetical than the innocent mirth of the young heart, over whose dawning existence has already fallen, though but for a brief space, the shadow of the inevitable hour. And I will venture to affirm, upon the strength of my own experience and observation, that if you, my gentle reader, had been present and witnessed, without both tears and laughter, the scene I am describing, you would be as fit a subject for a "putting through" as ever was poor Sprigg; and that, sooner or later for your fuller humanizing, you must run the Manitou gauntlet. And whether you run it in red moccasins or in split-leather Yankee shoes, all one will it be to Nick of the Woods! CHAPTER XXIII. Young Ben Logan. Pow-wow was still performing, Sprigg still laughing, the rest of the company still in a maze of delighted bewilderment, when, home from the forest, in came rolling young Ben Logan. He had heard the good news at the gate, and now, as if feeling there was no further need of his being tender-footed, he came lumbering through the house, making every loose board he trod on a speaking witness to the joy of his heart. "Actions speak louder than words," so they say; and yet it does so happen sometimes, but very rarely, mind you, that what they say is a good deal louder than what they do. At sight of the young hunter, Pow-wow had cut short his antics, or, rather, was made to cut them short--the Manitou inspiration, to which they had been due, departing from him as suddenly as it had entered; and subsiding to his haunches, he became in an instant as quiet and solemn as a tumbler between cues. In the joy of the moment, Ben had forgotten to leave his rifle at the door, and now, with it in his left hand rested on the floor, he stood by the bedside of his strangely fated little friend, a heroic smell of gunpowder and buckskin boisterous in the air about him, and on his face a look of benignant wonderment, as he gazed down into the newly reopened eyes, whose light had so well nigh been lost in the shadows of death. Bright and clear as were the eyes turned up to his own, they were still hardly capable of more than a dreamy perception of what they looked on. Taking the little hand, so white and wan, in his own huge, powder-begrimed paw, and shaking it gently from side to side, in a wag-tail way, Ben, after some moments of silence, said: "Howd'y do, Sprigg?" "My name is Sprigg, then, sure enough?" "If it isn't I don't know the man I'm talking to; never did--stranger to me." "And is your name Ben Logan?" "If it isn't I don't know the man that's talking to you; never did--stranger to me." "And these two pretty people here, are they my father and mother, really, now?" "If they ain't so now, they never were so and never will be so, in this world." Delivered with much solemnity and some stress on "now" and "this." "And this place, where we all are, is it really grandpap's house, and no mistake?" "If it isn't you can't prove it by me. It's just where I left just such a house this morning, though it doesn't look much like the same place, either, with you wide awake in it, and old Pow-wow on his hind legs in it, and both so jolly." "And that little girl there, at the foot of my bed, is her name Bertha?" Here Ben paused before answering, regarding the person referred to with a look of some perplexity. "Well, she used to answer to that name, but here lately she don't answer to any when I call her; goes about like one in a traveling dream. There she stands, a-gazing at you with a far-off look in her eyes, as though you were on the other side of the Kentucky river, and not a living thing anear you. Bertha!" Here Ben elevated his voice a little. Bertha turned her eyes toward the speaker, though apparently with as little perception of his actual presence as though he were lying at the bottom of the river he had named. "There, you see how she does, and that's the way she's doing all the time. When she wakes up she won't know any more for a minute where she is than you did, before I told you. She's either in love, or fixing to be a ghost." What young Ben Logan meant by this concluding remark were hard to imagine; unless, indeed, he had in his mind the idea of a little angel, when he said "ghost." After receiving each answer, Sprigg would pause for a few moments to consider what he had heard and assure himself of its meaning before proceeding further. Now, after a somewhat longer pause than before, he put the startling question: "Ben, did you ever see Nick of the Woods?" To which he received the equally startling answer: "Well, if I didn't see him to-day, it wasn't because I didn't stare with all the eyes I had. I never saw the woods behave so in all my life before. There a tree, just one tree, would fall to waving its limbs and shaking its leaves, making the liveliest flutter, and all the rest of the trees as still as mice when the cat's about. And there went smoke a-rolling up in puffs as big as feather beds, and not a sign of fire to show for it, that I could see. And there went fire a-shooting up in flames higher than my head, and not the sign of a stick of wood to show for it, that I could see. And here went shadows, skipping and dodging about, and not the sign of a living thing to do the skipping and dodging, that I could see. And there were voices all about me--some on this side, others on that; some close at my ear, and others far away--all talking the strangest gibberish, and not the sign of a living thing to do the talking, that I could see." "Weren't you terribly frightened, Ben?" "Well, at first I did feel queer--just a little queer, up and down the back and about the roots of my hair--but just as I had cocked my gun, and was looking about me for something to let fly at--plump! It was all gone as quick as the blowing out of a candle. Then I felt a little better, and after a short while a great deal better--real good and easy. I don't know why, but it's just so." Each time, after giving his answer, and while Sprigg would be pausing to consider it, Ben would fill up the interval with another wag-tail shake of the hand he still held in his own, thereby lengthening out his answer with something he had omitted to express in words. Now, after two or three of the supplementary shakes, he did bethink him to put the something else in words. "But, Sprigg, you are looking a great deal better than I expected to find you. Though I needn't wonder so much at that, either, for they wanted to feed you on trash--squirrels and birds, and I wouldn't let 'em. Tell us--me and Pow-wow--how you liked the buffalo we brought home for you yesterday?" "Oh, very much, I am sure." "And the fat, young bear we brought you the day before yesterday?" "Better still, I am certain." "And the fat, young buck we brought you the day before that?" "Best of all; and if I didn't tell you so at the time it was because I was asleep and thinking about something else. And now I am beginning to find out what my heart has been trying to tell me all this while. I see it in Bertha's face. I see it in Ben's face--in the face of every one here--how good and kind you have been to me since I have been lying here; and I so undeserving. I should be thankful you had kept me alive, were it but to tell you how I love you all as I have never loved any one before." Now were the tears in his eyes, which, up to this moment, had been so bright and clear--tears that went on telling the gratitude and love which the lips had left but half expressed. Ben had already had some two or three little spells of filling up and choking down; of feeling soft and breathing hard, so touching was it, so touching is it always to witness the gratitude of the poor human heart to poor human love for poor human life; and this was just more than the good fellow could bear without some noise. Abruptly checking himself in the midst of another wag-tail shake, he laid the little hand on the bed as carefully as you would a glass of water on the table, right side up, and hurried out of the house like one who had overstayed his time and must rush to make ends meet. He went no farther, however, than just out of doors, where, finding room for his heart to expand in, roared out in a voice perfectly tremendous for one of his age: "Hurrah for General Washington! Hurrah for Colonel Boone! Hurrah for Sprigg!" And bang! went his gun. CHAPTER XXIV. Little Bertha. Up to this moment Bertha had remained a delighted, though half-unconscious, spectator of what was passing. While Sprigg was unbosoming, all unwittingly, his Manitou experiences, her innocent eyes, without losing their look of dreamy, solemn wonder, had gradually brightened with unwonted intelligence, mixed with delight, as were she beholding, in their truer and more benign aspect, the marvels which had revealed themselves to him in shapes of terror and retribution. Of course, what Bertha saw and heard she only comprehended in part what had been revealed; yet was she and ever would be the wiser and the happier for the seeing and the hearing. But now, with the young stentor's uncouth roar of joy, shaking the infant settlement from center to circumference, snapped was the Manitou spell, broken the Manitou dream. Gliding out of the house; away, like a bird, to the woods she fluttered, there, all unobserved, she fell to dancing about for very thankfulness and joy, the evening sunbeams dancing with her, as were she a sunbeam, too in human likeness. "Oh! could I but tell him, who loves little children, how thankful, how happy I am! But I'm only a little girl, and don't know how!" Thus spoke innocent Bertha, dancing all the while, and dancing all the blither for not knowing how to tell it--so ready is heaven to compensate our lackings when love is in our hearts. And yet she had told it better than she knew; for, though the body was dancing, the soul was kneeling; and such a soul, so lovely and so bright, that the good Manitous--those who were crowned with the crimson flowers, and those who wore the wings and plumes of beautiful birds--came flitting to her, drawn by sweet attraction. One minute, they joined hands and wheeled their unseen ring around the human innocent, their presence filling the air with perfume delectable to breathe. Then, suddenly parting, each at a tangent to the whirling circle, away they flew to bear the good news far and wide. And the good news went to many a father and many a mother; and, though it came from unseen lips, in unheard words, it left a shining in the eyes, a burning in the heart, which told it had been spoken; and many a son and daughter of the red race, looking westward, whispered: When thus smiles the setting sun, Lo! a Manitou race is run; All's well ended all's well done-- Wahkontonka wills it. Ever thus still sets the sun, Ever thus the race is run, Ever thus all things well done-- Wahkontonka wills it. 
43147	----	A World of Girls By L.T. Meade Published by The New York Book Company, New York. This edition dated 1910. A World of Girls, by L.T. Meade. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ A WORLD OF GIRLS, BY L.T. MEADE. CHAPTER ONE. "GOOD-BYE" TO THE OLD LIFE. "Me want to see Hetty," said an imperious baby voice. "No, no; not this morning, Miss Nan, dear." "Me do want to see Hetty," was the quick, impatient reply. And a sturdy indignant little face looked up at Nurse, to watch the effect of the last decisive words. Finding no affirmative reply on Nurse's placid face, the small lips closed firmly--two dimples came and went on two very round cheeks--the mischievous brown eyes grew full of laughter, and the next moment the little questioner had squeezed her way through a slightly open door, and was toddling down the broad stone stairs and across a landing to Hetty's room. The room door was open, so the truant went in. A bed with the bedclothes all tossed about, a half worn-out slipper on the floor, a very untidy dressing-table met her eyes, but no Hetty. "Me want Hetty, me do," piped the treble voice, and then the little feet commenced a careful and watchful pilgrimage, the lips still firmly shut, the dimples coming and going, and the eyes throwing many upward glances in the direction of Nurse and the nursery. No pursuit as yet, and great, great hope of finding Hetty somewhere in the down-stair regions. Ah, now, how good! those dangerous stairs had been descended, and the little voice calling in shrill tones for Hetty rang out in the wide hall. "Let her come to me," suddenly said an answering voice, and a girl of about twelve, dressed in deep mourning, suddenly opened the door of a small study and clasped the little one in her arms. "So you have found me, my precious, my dearest! Brave, plucky little Nan, you have got away from Nurse and found me out! Come into the study, now, darling, and you shall have some breakfast." "Me want a bicky, Hetty," said the baby voice; the round arms clasped Hester's neck, but the brown eyes were already travelling eagerly over the breakfast table in quest of spoil for those rosy little lips. "Here are two biscuits, Nan. Nan, look me in the face--here, sit steady on my knee; you lose me, don't you Nan?" "Course me do," said the child. "And I'm going away from you, Nan, darling. For months and months I won't see anything of you. My heart will be always with you, and I shall think of you morning, noon, and night. I love no one as I love you, Nan. You will think of me, and love me too; won't you, Nan?" "Me will," said Nan; "me want more bicky, Hetty." "Yes, yes," answered Hester; "put your arms tight round my neck, and you shall have sugar, too. Tighter than that, Nan, and you shall have two lumps of sugar--oh, yes, you shall--I don't care if it makes you sick-- you shall have just what you want the last moment we are together." Baby Nan was only too pleased to crumple up a crape frill and to smear a black dress with sticky little fingers for the sake of the sugar which Hetty plied her with. "More, Hetty," she said; "me'll skeeze 'oo vedy tight for more." On this scene Nurse unexpectedly entered. "Well, I never! and so you found your way all downstairs by yourself, you little toddle. Now, Miss Hetty, I hope you haven't been giving the precious lamb sugar; you know it never does suit the little dear. Oh, fie! baby; and what sticky hands! Miss Hetty, she has crumpled all your crape frills." "What matter?" said Hester. "I wanted a good hug, and I gave her three or four lumps. Babies won't squeeze you tight for nothing. There, my Nancy, go back to Nurse. Nurse, take her away; I'll break down in a minute if I see her looking at me with that little pout." Nurse took the child into her arms. "Good-bye, Miss Hester, dear. Try to be a good girl at school. Take my word, missy--things won't be as dark as they seem." "Good-bye, Nurse," said Hester hastily. "Is that you, father? are you calling me?" She gathered up her muff and gloves, and ran out of the little study where she had been making believe to eat breakfast. A tall, stern-looking man was in the hall, buttoning on an overcoat; a brougham waited at the door. The next moment Hester and her father were bowling away in the direction of the nearest railway station. Nan's little chubby face had faded from view. The old square grey house, sacred to Hester because of Nan, had also disappeared; the avenue even was past, and Hester closed her bright brown eyes. She felt that she was being pushed out into a cold world, and was no longer in the same snug nest with Nan. An intolerable pain was at her heart; she did not glance at her father, who during their entire drive occupied himself over his morning paper. At last they reached the railway station, and just as Sir John Thornton was handing his daughter into a comfortable first-class carriage, marked "For Ladies only," and was presenting her with her railway ticket and a copy of the last week's illustrated newspaper, he spoke-- "The guard will take care of you, Hester. I am giving him full directions, and he will come to you at every station, and bring you tea or any refreshment you may require. This train takes you straight to Sefton, and Mrs Willis will meet you, or send for you there. Good-bye, my love; try to be a good girl, and curb your wild spirits. I hope to see you very much improved when you come home at Midsummer. Good-bye, dear, good-bye. Ah, you want to kiss me--well, just one kiss. There-- oh, my dear! you know I have a great dislike to emotion in public." Sir John Thornton said this because a pair of arms had been flung suddenly round his neck, and two kisses imprinted passionately on his sallow cheek. A tear also rested on his cheek, but that he wiped away. CHAPTER TWO. TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. The train moved rapidly on its way, and the girl in one corner of the railway carriage cried silently behind her crape veil. Her tears were very subdued, but her heart felt sore, bruised, indignant; she hated the idea of school-life before her, she hated the expected restraints and the probable punishments; she fancied herself going from a free life into a prison, and detested it accordingly. Three months before, Hester Thornton had been one of the happiest, brightest, and merriest of little girls in ---shire; but the mother who was her guardian angel, who had kept the frank and spirited child in check without appearing to do so, who had guided her by the magical power of love and not in the least by that of fear, had met her death suddenly by means of a carriage accident, and Hester and baby Nan were left motherless. Several little brothers and sisters had come between Hester and Nan, but from various causes they had all died in their infancy, and only the eldest and youngest of Sir John Thornton's family remained. Hester's father was stern, uncompromising. He was a very just and upright man, but he knew nothing of the ways of children, and when Hester in her usual tom-boyish fashion climbed trees and tore her dresses, and rode bare-backed on one or two of his most dangerous horses, he not only tried a little sharp, and therefore useless, correction, but determined to take immediate steps to have his wild and rather unmanageable little daughter sent to a first-class school. Hester was on her way there now, and very sore was her heart, and indignant her impulses. Father's "good-bye" seemed to her to be the crowning touch to her unhappiness, and she made up her mind not to be good, not to learn her lessons, not to come home at Midsummer crowned with honours and reduced to an every-day and pattern little girl. No, she would be the same wild Hetty as of yore: and when father saw that school could do nothing for her, that it could never make her into a good and ordinary little girl, he would allow her to remain at home. At home there was, at least, Nan to love, and there was mother to remember. Hetty was a child of the strongest feelings. Since her mother's death she had scarcely mentioned her name. When her father alluded to his wife, Hester ran out of the room: when the servants spoke of their late mistress, Hester turned pale, stamped her feet, and told them to be quiet. "You are not worthy to speak of my mother," she electrified them all one day by exclaiming. "My mother is an angel now, and you--oh, you are not fit to breathe her name!" Only to one person would Hetty ever voluntarily say a word about the beloved dead mother, and that was to little Nan. Nan said her prayers, as she expressed it, to Hetty now; and Hetty taught her a little phrase to use instead of the familiar "God bless mother." She taught the child to say, "Thank God for making mother into a beautiful angel;" and when Nan asked what an angel was, and how the cosy mother she remembered could be turned into one, Hester was beguiled into a soft and tearful talk, and she drew several lovely pictures of white-robed angels, until the little child was satisfied and said-- "Me like that, Hetty--me'll be angel too, Hetty, same as mamma." These talks with Nan, however, did not come very often, and of late they had almost ceased, for Nan was only two and a half, and the strange sad fact remained that in three months she had almost forgotten her mother. Hester on her way to school this morning cried for some time, then she sat silent, her crape veil still down, and her eyes watching furtively her fellow-passengers. They consisted of two rather fidgety old ladies, who wrapped themselves in rugs, were very particular on the question of hot bottles, and watched Hester in their turn with considerable curiosity and interest. Presently one of them offered the little girl a sandwich, which she was too proud or too shy to accept, although by this time she was feeling extremely hungry. "You will, perhaps, prefer a cake, my dear?" said the good-natured little old lady. "My sister Agnes has got some delicious queen-cakes in her basket--will you eat one?" Hester murmured a feeble assent, and the queen-cake did her so much good that she ventured to raise her crape veil and to look around her. "Ah, that is much better," said the first little old lady. "Come to this side of the carriage, my love; we are just going to pass through a lovely bit of country, and you will like to watch the view. See; if you place yourself here, my sister Agnes's basket will be just at your feet, and you can help yourself to a queen-cake whenever you are so disposed." "Thank you," responded Hester, in a much more cheerful tone, for it was really quite impossible to keep up reserve with such a bright-looking little old lady; "your queen-cakes are very nice, and I liked that one, but one is quite enough, thank you. It is Nan who is so particularly fond of queen-cakes." "And who is Nan, my dear?" asked the sister to whom the queen-cakes specially belonged. "She is my dear little baby sister," said Hester in a sorrowful tone. "Ah, and it was about her you were crying just now," said the first lady, laying her hand on Hester's arm. "Never mind us, dear, we have seen a great many tears--a great many. They are the way of the world. Women are born to them. As Kingsley says--`women must weep.' It was quite natural that you should cry about your sweet little Nan, and I wish we could send her some of these queen-cakes that you say she is so fond of. Are you going to be long away from her, love?" "Oh, yes, for months and months," said Hester. "I did not know," she added, "that it was such a common thing to cry. I never used to." "Ah, you have had other trouble, poor child," glancing at her deep mourning frock. "Yes, it is since then I have cried so often. Please, I would rather not speak about it." "Quite right, my love, quite right," said Miss Agnes in a much brisker tone than her sister. "We will turn the conversation now to something inspiriting. Jane is quite right, there are plenty of tears in the world; but there is also a great deal of sunshine and heaps of laughter, merry laughter--the laughter of youth, my child. Now, I dare say, though you have begun your journey so sadly, that you are really bound on quite a pleasant little expedition. For instance, you are going to visit a kind aunt, or some one else who will give you a delightful welcome." "No," said Hester, "I am not. I am going to a dreadful place, and the thought of that, and parting from little Nan, are the reasons why I cried. I am going to prison--I am, indeed." "Oh, my dear love!" exclaimed both the little old ladies in a breath. Then Miss Agnes continued: "You have really taken Jane's breath away-- quite. Yes, Jane, I see that you are in for an attack of palpitation. Never mind her, dear, she palpitates very easily; but I think you must be mistaken, my love, in mentioning such an appalling word as `prison.' Yes, now I come to think of it, it is absolutely certain that you must be mistaken; for if you were going to such a terrible place of punishment you would be under the charge of a policeman. You are given to strong language, dear, like other young folk." "Well, I call it prison," continued Hester, who was rather flattered by all this bustle and Miss Jane's agitation; "it has a dreadful sound, hasn't it? I call it prison, but father says I am going to school--you can't wonder that I am crying, can you? Oh! what is the matter?" For the two little old ladies jumped up at this juncture, and gave Hetty a kiss apiece on her soft young lips. "My darling," they both exclaimed. "We are so relieved and delighted! your strong language startled us, and school is anything but what you imagine, dear. Ah, Jane! can you ever forget our happy days at school?" Miss Jane sighed and rolled up her eyes, and then the two commenced a vigorous catechising of the little girl. Really, Hester could not help feeling almost sunshiny before that long journey came to an end, for she and the Misses Bruce made some delightful discoveries. The little old ladies very quickly found out that they lived close to the school where Hetty was to spend the next few months. They knew Mrs Willis well-- they knew the delightful rambling, old-fashioned house where Hester was to live--they even knew two or three of the scholars: and they said so often to the little girl that she was going into a life of clover-- positive clover--that she began to smile, and even partly to believe them. "I am glad I shall be near you, at least," she said at last, with a frank sweet smile, for she had greatly taken to her kind fellow-travellers. "Yes, my dear," exclaimed Miss Jane. "We attend the same church, and I shall look out for you on Sunday, and," she continued, glancing first at her sister and then addressing Hester, "perhaps Mrs Willis will allow you to visit us occasionally." "I'll come to-morrow, if you like," said Hester. "Well, dear, well--that must be as Mrs Willis thinks best. Ah, here we are at Sefton at last. We shall look out for you in church on Sunday, my love." CHAPTER THREE. AT LAVENDER HOUSE. Hester's journey had really proved wonderfully agreeable. She had taken a great fancy to the little old ladies who had fussed over her and made themselves pleasant in her behalf. She felt herself something like a heroine as she poured out a little, just a little, of her troubles into their sympathising ears; and their cheerful remarks with regard to school and school-life had caused her to see clearly that there might be another and a brighter side to the gloomy picture she had drawn with regard to her future. But during the drive of two and a half miles from Sefton to Lavender House, Hester once more began to feel anxious and troubled. The Misses Bruce had gone off with some other passengers in a little omnibus to their small villa in the town, but Lavender House was some distance off, and the little omnibus never went so far. An old-fashioned carriage, which the ladies told Hester belonged to Mrs Willis, had been sent to meet her, and a man whom the Misses Bruce addressed as "Thomas" helped to place her trunk and a small portmanteau on the roof of the vehicle. The little girl had to take her drive alone, and the rather ancient horse which drew the old carriage climbed up and down the steep roads in a most leisurely fashion. It was a cold winter's day, and by the time Thomas had executed some commissions in Sefton, and had reached the gates of the avenue which led to Lavender House, it was very nearly dark. Hester trembled at the darkness, and when the gates were shut behind them by a rosy-faced urchin of ten, she once more began to feel the cruel and desolate idea that she was going to prison. They drove slowly down a long and winding avenue, and, although Hester could not see, she knew they must be passing under trees, for several times their branches made a noise against the roof of the carriage. At last they came to a standstill. The old servant scrambled slowly down from his seat on the box, and, opening the carriage-door, held out his hand to help the little stranger to alight. "Come now, missy," he said in cheering tones, "come out, and you'll be warm and snug in a minute. Dear, dear! I expect you're nearly froze up, poor little miss, and it _is_ a most bitter cold night." He rang a bell which hung by the entrance of a deep porch, and the next moment the wide hall door was flung open by a neat maid-servant, and Hester stepped within. "She's come," exclaimed several voices in different keys, and proceeding apparently from different quarters. Hester looked around her in a half-startled way, but she could see no one, except the maid, who smiled at her and said-- "Welcome to Lavender House, miss. If you'll step into the porter's room for one moment, there is a good fire there, and I'll acquaint Miss Danesbury that you have arrived." The little room in question was at the right-hand side of a very wide and cheerful hall, which was decorated in pale tints of green, and had a handsome encaustic-tiled floor. A blazing fire and two lamps made the hall look cheerful, but Hester was very glad to take refuge from the unknown voices in the porter's small room. She found herself quite trembling with shyness, and cold, and an indescribable longing to get back to Nan; and as she waited for Miss Danesbury and wondered fearfully who or what Miss Danesbury was, she scarcely derived any comfort from the blazing fire near which she stood. "Rather tall for her age, but I fear, I greatly fear, a little sulky," said a voice behind her; and when she turned round in an agony of trepidation and terror, she suddenly found herself face to face with a tall, kind-looking, middle-aged lad and also with a bright gipsy-looking girl. "Annie Forest, how very naughty of you to hide behind the door! You are guilty of disobedience in coming into the room without leave. I must report you, my dear; yes, I really must. You lose two good conduct marks for this, and will probably have thirty lines in addition to your usual quantity of French poetry." "But she won't tell on me, she won't, dear old Danesbury," said the girl; "she couldn't be so hard-hearted, the precious love, particularly as curiosity happens to be one of her own special little virtues! Take a kiss, Danesbury, and now, a you love me you'll be merciful!" The girl flitted away, and Miss Danesbury turned to Hester, whose face had changed from red to pale during this little scene. "What a horrid, vulgar, low-bred girl!" she exclaimed with passion, for in all the experiences of her short life Hester had never even imagined that personal remarks could be made of any one in their very presence. "I hope she'll get a lot of punishment--I hope you are not going to forgive her," she continued, for her anger had for the time quite overcome her shyness. "Oh, my dear, my dear! we should all be forgiving," exclaimed Miss Danesbury in her gentle voice. "Welcome to Lavender House, love; I am sorry I was not in the hall to receive you. Had I been, this little _rencontre_ would not have occurred. Annie Forest meant no harm, however--she's a wild little sprite, but affectionate. You and she will be the best friends possible by-and-by. Now, let me take you to your room; the gong for tea will sound in exactly five minutes, and I am sure you will be glad of something to eat." Miss Danesbury then led Hester across the hall and up some broad, low, thickly-carpeted stairs. When they had ascended two flights, and were standing on a handsome landing, she paused. "Do you see this baize door, dear?" she said. "This is the entrance to the school part of the house. This part that we are now in belongs exclusively to Mrs Willis, and the girls are never allowed to come here without leave. All the school-life is lived at the other side of this baize door, and a very happy life I assure you it is for those little girls who make up their minds to be brave and good. Now kiss me, my dear, and let me bid you welcome once again to Lavender House." "Are you our principal teacher, then?" asked Hester. "I? oh dear, no, my love. I teach the younger children English, and I look after the interests and comforts of all. I am a very useful sort of person, I believe, and I have a motherly heart, dear, and it is a way with little girls to come to me when they are in trouble. Now, my love, we must not chatter any longer. Take my hand, and let us get to your room as fast as possible." Miss Danesbury pushed open the baize door, and instantly Hester found herself in a different region. Mrs Willis's part of the house gave the impression of warmth, luxuriance, and even elegance of arrangement. At the other side of the door were long, narrow corridors, with snow-white, but carpetless floors, and rather cold, distempered walls. Miss Danesbury, holding the new pupil's hand, led her down two corridors, and past a great number of shut doors, behind which Hester could near suppressed laughter and eager, chattering voices. At last, however, they stopped at a door which had the number "32" written over it. "This is your bedroom, dear," said the English teacher, "and to-night you will not be sorry to have it alone. Mrs Willis received a telegram from Susan Drummond, your room-mate, this afternoon, and she will not arrive until to-morrow." However bare and even cold the corridors looked, the bedroom into which Hester was ushered by no means corresponded with this appearance. It was a small, but daintily-furnished little room. The floor was carpeted with green felt, the one window was hung with pretty draperies, and two little, narrow, white beds were arranged gracefully with French canopies. All the furniture in the room was of a minute description, but good of its kind. Beside each bed stood a mahogany chest of drawers. At two corresponding corners were marble washhand-stands, and even two pretty, toilet tables stood side by side in the recess of the window. But the sight that perhaps pleased Hester most was a small bright fire which burnt in the grate. "Now, dear, this is your room. As you have arrived first you can choose your own bed and your own chest of drawers. Ah, that is right, Ellen has unfastened your portmanteau; she will unpack your trunk to-night, and take it to the box-room. Now, dear, smooth your hair and wash your hands. The gong will sound instantly. I will come for you when it does." CHAPTER FOUR. LITTLE DRAWING-ROOMS AND LITTLE TIFFS. Miss Danesbury, true to her word, came to fetch Hester down to tea. They went down some broad carpetless stairs, along a wide stone hall, and then paused for an instant at a half-open door from which a stream of eager voices issued. "I will introduce you to your school-fellows, and I hope your future friends," said Miss Danesbury. "After tea you will come with me to see Mrs Willis--she is never in the school-room at tea-time. Mdlle. Perier or Miss Good usually superintends. Now, my dear, come along-- why, surely you are not frightened?" "Oh, please, may I sit near you?" asked Hester. "No, my love; I take care of the little ones, and they are at a table by themselves. Now, come in at once--the moment you dread will soon be over, and it is nothing, my love--really nothing." Nothing! never, as long as Hester lived, did she forget the supreme agony of terror and shyness which came over her as she entered that long, low, brightly-lighted room. The forty pairs of curious eyes which were raised inquisitively to her face became as torturing as forty burning suns. She felt an almost uncontrollable desire to run away and hide--she wondered if she could possibly keep from screaming aloud. In the end she found herself, she scarcely knew how, seated beside a gentle, sweet-mannered girl, and munching bread and butter which tasted drier than sawdust, and occasionally trying to sip something very hot and scalding which she vaguely understood went by the name of tea. The buzzing voices all chattering eagerly in French, and the occasional sharp, high-pitched reprimands coming in peremptory tones from the thin lips of Mdlle. Perier, sounded far off and distant--her head was dizzy, her eyes swam--the tired and shy child endured tortures. In after-days, in long after-years when the memory of Lavender House was to come back to Hetty Thornton as one of the sweetest, brightest episodes in her existence--in the days when she was to know almost every blade of grass in the gardens, and to be familiar with each corner of the old house, with each face which now appeared so strange, she might wonder at her feelings to-night, but never even then could she forget them. She sat at the table in a dream, trying to eat the tasteless bread and butter. Suddenly and swiftly the thick and somewhat stale piece of bread on her plate was exchanged for a thin, fresh, and delicately-cut slice. "Eat that," whispered a voice--"I know the other is horrid. It's a shame of Perier to give such stuff to a stranger." "Mdlle. Cecile, you are transgressing: you are talking English," came in a torrent of rapid French from the head of the table. "You lose a conduct mark, ma'amselle." The young girl who sat next Hester inclined her head gently and submissively, and Hester, venturing to glance at her, saw that a delicate pink had spread itself over her pale face. She was a plain girl; but even Hester, in this first moment of terror, could scarcely have been afraid of her, so benign was her expression, so sweet the glance from her soft, full brown eyes. Hester now further observed that the thin bread and butter had been removed from Cecil's own plate. She began to wonder why this girl was indulged with better food than the rest of her comrades. Hester was beginning to feel a little less shy, and was taking one or two furtive glances at her companions, when she suddenly felt herself turning crimson, and all her agony of shyness and dislike to her school-life returning. She encountered the full, bright, quizzical gaze of the girl who had made personal remarks about her in the porter's room. The merry black eyes of this gipsy maiden fairly twinkled with suppressed fun when they met hers, and the bright head even nodded audaciously across the table to her. Not for worlds would Hester return this friendly greeting--she still held to her opinion that Miss Forest was one of the most ill-bred people she had ever met, and, in addition to feeling a considerable amount of fear of her, she quite made up her mind that she would never be on friendly terms with so underbred a girl. At this moment grace was repeated in sonorous tones by a stern-looking person who sat at the foot of the long table, and whom Hester had not before noticed. Instantly the girls rose from their seats, and began to file in orderly procession out of the tea-room. Hester looked round in terror for the friendly Miss Danesbury, but she could not catch sight of her anywhere. At this moment, however, her companion of the tea-table touched her arm. "We may speak English now for half an hour," she said, "and most of us are going to the play-room. We generally tell stories round the fire upon these dark winter's nights. Would you like to come with me to-night? Shall we be chums for this evening?" "I don't know what `chums' are," said Hester; "but," she added, with the dawning of a faint smile on her poor, sad little face, "I shall be very glad to go with you." "Come then," said Cecil Temple, and she pulled Hester's hand within her arm, and walked with her across the wide stone hall, and into the largest room Hester had ever seen. Never, anywhere, could there have been a more delightful play-room than this. It was so large that two great fires which burned at either end were not at all too much to emit even tolerable warmth. The room was bright with three or four lamps which were suspended from the ceiling, the floor was covered with matting, and the walls were divided into curious partitions, which gave the room a peculiar but very cosy effect. These partitions consisted of large panels, and were divided by slender rails the one from the other. "This is my cosy corner," said Cecil, "and you shall sit with me in it to-night. You see," she added, "each of us girls has her own partition, and we can do exactly what we like in it. We can put our own photographs, our own drawings, our own treasures on our panels. Under each division is our own little work-table, and, in fact, our own individual treasures lie round us in the enclosure of this dear little rail. The centre of the room is common property, and you see what a great space there is round each fire-place where we can chatter and talk, and be on common ground. The fire-place at the end of the room near the door is reserved especially for the little ones, but we elder girls sit at the top. Of course you will belong to us. How old are you?" "Twelve," said Hester. "Oh, well, you are so tall that you cannot possibly be put with the little ones, so you must come in with us." "And shall I have a railed-in division and a panel of my own?" asked Hester. "It sounds a very nice arrangement. I hope my department will be close to yours, Miss?" "Temple is my name," said Cecil, "but you need not call me that. I am Cecil to all my friends, and you are my friend this evening, for you are my chum, you know. Oh, you were asking me about our departments--you won't have any at first, for you have got to earn it, but I will invite you to mine pretty often. Come now, let us go inside. Is not it just like the darlingest little drawing-room? I am so sorry that I have only one easy chair, but you shall have it to-night, and I will sit on this three-legged stool. I am saving up my money to buy another armchair, and Annie has promised to upholster it for me." "Is Annie one of the maids?" "Oh, dear, no!--she's dear old Annie Forest, the liveliest girl in the school. Poor darling, she's seldom out of hot water; but we all love her, we can't help it. Poor Annie, she hardly ever has the luxury of a department to herself, so she is useful all round. She's the most amusing and good-natured dear pet in Christendom." "I don't like her at all," said Hester; "I did not know you were talking of her--she is a most rude, uncouth girl." Cecil Temple, who had been arranging a small dark green table-cloth with daffodils worked artistically in each corner on her little table, stood up as the newcomer uttered these words, and regarded her fixedly. "It is a pity to draw hasty conclusions," she said. "There is no girl more loved in the school than Annie Forest. Even the teachers, although they are always punishing her, cannot help having a soft corner in their hearts for her. What can she possibly have done to offend you?--but oh!--hush--don't speak--she is coming into the room." As Cecil finished her rather eager defence of her friend, and prevented the indignant words which were bubbling to Hester's lips, a gay voice was heard singing a comic song in the passage--the play-room door was flung open with a bang, and Miss Forest entered the room with a small girl seated on each of her shoulders. "Hold on, Janny love; keep your arms well round me, Mabel. Now then, here we go--twice up the room and down again. No more, as I'm alive. I've got to attend to other matters than you." She placed the little girls on the floor amid peals of laughter, and shouts from several little ones to give them a ride too. The children began to cling to her skirts and to drag her in all directions, and she finally escaped from them with one dexterous bound which placed her in that portion of the play-room where the little ones knew they were not allowed to enter. Until her arrival the different girls scattered about the large room had been more or less orderly, chattering and laughing together, it is true, but in a quiet manner. Now the whole place appeared suddenly in an uproar. "Annie, come here--Annie, darling, give me your opinion about this-- Annie, my precious, naughty creature, come and tell me about your last scrape." Annie Forest blew several kisses to her adorers, but did not attach herself to any of them. "The Temple requires me," she said, in her sauciest tones; "my beloved friends, the Temple as usual is vouchsafing its sacred shelter to the stranger." In an instant Annie was kneeling inside the inclosure of Miss Temple's rail and laughing immoderately. "You dear stranger!" she exclaimed, turning round and gazing full into Hester's shy face, "I do declare I have been punished for the intense ardour with which I longed to embrace you. Has she told you, Cecil darling, what I did in her behalf? How I ventured beyond the sacred precincts of the baize door and hid inside the porter's room? Poor dear, she jumped when she heard my friendly voice, and as I spoke Miss Danesbury caught me in the very act. Poor old dear, she cried when she complained of me, but duty is Danesbury's motto; she would go to the stake for it, and I respect her immensely. I have got my twenty lines of that horrible French poetry, to learn--the very thought almost strangles me, and I foresee plainly that I shall do something terribly naughty within the next few hours; I must, my love--I really must. I have just come here to shake hands with Miss Thornton, and then I must away to my penance. Ah, how little I shall learn, and how hard I shall think! Welcome to Lavender House, Miss Thornton; look upon me as your devoted ally, and if you have a spark of pity in your breast, feel for the girl whom you got into a scrape the very moment you entered these sacred walls." "I don't understand you," said Hester, who would not hold out her hand, and who was standing up in a very stiff, shy, and angular position. "I think you were very rude to startle me, and make personal remarks the very moment I came into the house." "Oh, dear!--I only said you were tall, and looked rather sulky, love-- you did, you know, really." "It was very rude of you," repeated Hester, turning crimson, and trying to keep back her tears. "Well, my dear, I meant no harm; shake hands, now, and let us make friends." But Hester felt either too shy or too miserable to yield to this request--she half turned her back, and leaned against Miss Temple's panel. "Never mind her," whispered gentle Cecil Temple; but Annie Forest's bright face had darkened ominously--the school favourite was not accustomed to having her advances flung back in her face. She left the room singing a defiant, naughty song, and several of the girls who had overheard this scene whispered one to the other-- "She can't be at all nice--she would not even shake hands with Annie. Fancy her turning against our Annie in that way!" CHAPTER FIVE. THE HEAD-MISTRESS. Annie Forest had scarcely left the room before Miss Danesbury appeared with a message for Hester, who was to come with her directly to see Mrs Willis. The poor shy girl felt only too glad to leave behind her the cruel, staring, and now by no means approving eyes of her school-mates. She had overheard several of their whispers, and felt rather alarmed at her own act. But Hester, shy as she was, could be very tenacious of an idea. She had taken a dislike to Annie Forest, and she was quite determined to be true to what she considered her convictions--namely, that Annie was underbred and common, and not at all the kind of girl whom her mother would have cared for her to know. The little girl followed Miss Danesbury in silence. They crossed the stone hall together, and now passing through another baize door, found themselves once more in the handsome entrance-hall. They walked across this hall to a door carefully protected from all draughts by rich plush curtains, and Miss Danesbury, turning the handle, and going a step or two into the room, said in her gentle voice-- "I have brought Hester Thornton to see you, Mrs Willis, according to your wish." Miss Danesbury then withdrew, and Hester ventured to raise her eyes and to look timidly at the head-mistress. A tall woman, with a beautiful face and silvery white hair, came instantly to meet her, laid her two hands on the girl's shoulders, and then, raising her shy little face, imprinted a kiss on her forehead. "Your mother was one of my earliest pupils, Hester," she said, "and you are--no--" after a pause, "you are not very like her. You are her child, however, my dear, and as such you have a warm welcome from me. Now, come and sit by the fire, and let us talk." Hester did not feel nearly so constrained with this graceful and gracious lady as she had done with her school-mates. The atmosphere of the room recalled her beloved mother's boudoir at home. The rich, dove-coloured satin dress, the cap made of Mechlin lace which softened and shaded Mrs Willis's silvery hair, appeared homelike to the little girl, who had grown up accustomed to all the luxuries of wealth. Above all, the head-mistress's mention of her mother drew her heart toward the beautiful face, and attracted her toward the rich, full tones of a voice which could be powerful and commanding at will. Mrs Willis, notwithstanding her white hair, had a youthful face, and Hester made the comment which came first to her lips-- "I did not think you were old enough to have taught my mother." "I am sixty, dear, and I have kept this school for thirty years. Your mother was not the only pupil who sent her children to be taught by me when the time came. Now, you can sit on this stool by the fire and tell me about your home. Your mother--ah, poor child, you would rather not talk about her just yet. Helen's daughter must have strong feelings-- ah, yes; I see, I see. Another time, darling, when you know me better. Now tell me about your little sister, and your father. You do not know, perhaps, that I am Nan's godmother?" After this the head-mistress and the new pupil had a long conversation. Hester forgot her shyness; her whole heart had gone out instantly to this beautiful woman who had known, and loved, and taught her mother. "I will try to be good at school," she said at last; "but, oh, please, Mrs Willis, it does not seem to me to-night as if school-life could be happy." "It has its trials, Hester; but the brave and the noble girls often find this time of discipline one of the best in their lives--good at the time, very good to look back on by-and-by. You will find a miniature world around you; you will be surrounded by temptations; and you will have rare chances of proving whether your character can be strong and great and true. I think, as a rule, my girls are happy, and as a rule they turn out well. The great motto of life here, Hester, is earnestness. We are earnest in our work, we are earnest in our play. A half-hearted girl has no chance at Lavender House. In play-time, laugh with the merriest, my child: in school-hours, study with the most studious. Do you understand me?" "I try to, a little," said Hester, "but it seems all very strange just now." "No doubt it does, and at first you will have to encounter many perplexities and to fight many battles. Never mind, if you have the right spirit within you, you will come out on the winning side. Now, tell me, have you made any acquaintances as yet among the girls?" "Yes--Cecil Temple has been kind to me." "Cecil is one of my dearest pupils; cultivate her friendship, Hester-- she is honourable, she is sympathising. I am not afraid to say that Cecil has a great heart." "There is another girl," continued Hester, "who has spoken to me. I need not make her my friend, need I?" "Who is she, dear?" "Miss Forest--I don't like her." "What! our school favourite. You will change your mind, I expect--but that is the gong for prayers. You shall come with me to chapel, to-night, and I will introduce you to Mr Everard." CHAPTER SIX. "I AM UNHAPPY." Between forty and fifty young girls assembled night and morning for prayers in the pretty chapel which adjoined Lavender House. This chapel had been reconstructed from the ruins of an ancient priory, on the site of which the house was built. The walls, and even the beautiful eastern window, belonged to a far-off date. The roof had been carefully reared in accordance with the style of the east window, and the whole effect was beautiful and impressive. Mrs Willis was particularly fond of her own chapel. Here she hoped the girls' best lessons might be learned, and here she had even once or twice brought a refractory pupil, and tried what a gentle word or two spoken in these old and sacred walls might effect. Here, on wet Sundays the girls assembled for service; and here, every evening at nine o'clock, came the vicar of the large parish to which Lavender House belonged, to conduct evening prayers. He was an old man, and a great friend of Mrs Willis's, and he often told her that he considered these young girls some of the most important members of his flock. Here Hester knelt to-night. It is to be doubted whether in her confusion, and in the strange loneliness which even Mrs Willis had scarcely removed, she prayed much. It is certain she did not join in the evening hymn, which, with the aid of an organ and some sweet girl-voices, was beautifully and almost pathetically rendered. After evening prayers had come to an end, Mrs Willis took Hester's hand and led her up to the old, white-headed vicar. "This is my new pupil, Mr Everard, or rather I should say, our new pupil. Her education depends as much on you as on me." The vicar held out his hands, and took Hester's within them, and then drew her forward to the light. "This little face does not seem quite strange to me," he said. "Have I ever seen you before, my dear?" "No, sir," replied Hester. "You have seen her mother," said Mrs Willis--"Do you remember your favourite pupil, Helen Anstey, of long ago?" "Ah! indeed--indeed! I shall never forget Helen. And are you her child, little one?" But Hester's face had grown white. The solemn service in the chapel, joined to all the excitement and anxieties of the day, had strung up her sensitive nerves to a pitch higher than she could endure. Suddenly, as the vicar spoke to her, and Mrs Willis looked kindly down at her new pupil, the chapel seemed to reel round, the pupils one by one disappeared, and the tired girl only saved herself from fainting by a sudden burst of tears. "Oh, I am unhappy," she sobbed, "without my mother! Please, please, don't talk to me about my mother." She could scarcely take in the gentle words which her two friends said to her, and she hardly noticed when Mrs Willis did such a wonderful thing as to stoop down and kiss a second time the lips of a new pupil. Finally she found herself consigned to Miss Danesbury's care, who hurried her off to her room, and helped her to undress and tucked her into her little bed. "Now, love, you shall have some hot gruel. No, not a word. You ate little or no tea, to-night--I watched you from my distant table. Half your loneliness is caused by want of food--I know it, my love; I am a very practical person. Now, eat your gruel, and then shut your eyes and go to sleep." "You are very kind to me," said Hester, "and so is Mrs Willis, and so is Mr Everard, and I like Cecil Temple--but, oh. I wish Annie Forest was not in the school!" "Hush, my dear, I implore of you. You pain me by these words. I am quite confident that Annie will be your best friend yet." Hester's lips said nothing, but her eyes answered "Never" as plainly as eyes could speak. CHAPTER SEVEN. A DAY AT SCHOOL. If Hester Thornton went to sleep that night under a sort of dreamy, hazy impression that school was a place without a great deal of order, with many kind and sympathising faces, and with some not so agreeable; if she went to sleep under the impression that she had dropped into a sort of medley, that she had found herself in a vast new world where certain personages exercised undoubtedly a strong moral influence, but where on the whole a number of other people did pretty much what they pleased-- she awoke in the morning to find her preconceived ideas scattered to the four winds. There was nothing of apparent liberty about the Lavender House arrangements in the early morning hours. In the first, place, it seemed quite the middle of the night when Hester was awakened by a loud gong, which clanged through the house and caused her to sit up in bed in a considerable state of fright and perplexity. A moment or two later a neatly-dressed maid-servant came into the room with a can of hot water; she lit a pair of candles on the mantelpiece, and, with the remark that the second gong would sound in half an hour, and that all the young ladies would be expected to assemble in the chapel at seven o'clock precisely, she left the room. Hester pulled her pretty little gold watch from under her pillow, and saw with a sigh that it was now half-past six. "What odious hours they keep in this horrid place!" she said to herself. "Well, well, I always did know that school would be unendurable." She waited for five minutes before she got up, and then she dressed herself languidly, and, if the truth must be told, in a very untidy fashion. She managed to be dressed by the time the second gong sounded, but she had only one moment to give to her private prayers. She reflected, however, that this did not greatly matter as she was going down to prayers immediately in the chapel. The service in the chapel the night before had impressed her more deeply than she cared to own, and she followed her companions downstairs with a certain feeling of pleasure at the thought of again seeing Mr Everard and Mrs Willis. She wondered if they would take much notice of her this morning, and she thought it just possible that Mr Everard, who had looked at her so compassionately the night before, might be induced, for the sake of his old friendship with her mother, to take her home with him to spend the day. She thought she would rather like to spend a day with Mr Everard, and she fancied he was the sort of person who would influence her and help her to be good. Hester fancied that if some very interesting and quite out of the common person took her in hand, she might be formed into something extremely noble--noble enough even to forgive Annie Forest. The girls all filed into the chapel, which was lighted as brightly and cheerily as the night before; but Hester found herself placed on a bench far down in the building. She was no longer in the place of honour by Mrs Willis's side. She was one of a number, and no one looked particularly at her or noticed her in any way. A shy young curate read the morning prayers; Mr Everard was not present, and Mrs Willis, who was, walked out of the chapel when prayers were over without even glancing in Hester's direction. This was bad enough for the poor little dreamer of dreams, but worse was to follow. Mrs Willis did not speak to Hester, but she did stop for an instant beside Annie Forest. Hester saw her lay her white hand on the young girl's shoulder and whisper for an instant in her ear. Annie's lovely gipsy face flushed a vivid crimson. "For your sake, darling," she whispered back; but Hester caught the words, and was consumed by a fierce jealousy. The girls went into the school-room, where Mdlle. Perier gave a French lesson to the upper class. Hester belonged to no class at present, and could look around her, and have plenty of time to reflect on her own miseries, and particularly on what she now considered the favouritism shown by Mrs Willis. "Mr Everard at least will read through that girl," she said to herself; "he could not possibly endure any one so loud. Yes, I am sure that my only friend at home, Cecilia Day, would call Annie very loud. I wonder Mrs Willis can endure her. Mrs Willis seems so ladylike herself, but--Oh, I beg your pardon, what's the matter?" A very sharp voice had addressed itself to the idle Hester. "But, mademoiselle, you are doing nothing! This cannot for a moment be permitted. Pardonnez-moi, you know not the French? Here is a little easy lesson. Study it, mademoiselle, and don't let your eyes wander a moment from the page." Hester favoured Mdlle. Perier with a look of lofty contempt, but she received the well-thumbed lesson-book in absolute silence. At eight o'clock came breakfast, which was nicely served, and was very good and abundant. Hester was thoroughly hungry this morning, and did not feel so shy as the night before. She found herself seated between two strange girls, who talked to her a little and would have made themselves friendly had she at all encouraged them to do so. After breakfast came half an hour's recreation, when, the weather being very bad, the girls again assembled in the cosy play-room. Hester looked round eagerly for Cecil Temple, who greeted her with a kind smile, but did not ask her into her inclosure. Annie Forest was not present, and Hester breathed a sigh of relief at her absence. The half-hour devoted to recreation proved rather dull to the newcomer. Hester could not understand her present world. To the girl who had been brought up practically as an only child in the warm shelter of a home, the ways and doings of school-girl life were an absolute enigma. Hester had no idea of unbending or of making herself agreeable. The girls voted her to one another stiff and tiresome, and quickly left her to her own devices. She looked longingly at Cecil Temple; but Cecil, who could never be knowingly unkind to any one, was seizing the precious moments to write a letter to her father, and Hester presently wandered down the room and tried to take an interest in the little ones. From twelve to fifteen quite little children were in the school, and Hester wondered with a sort of vague half-pain if she might see any child among the group the least like Nan. "They will like to have me with them," she said to herself. "Poor little dots, they always like big girls to notice them, and didn't they make a fuss about Miss Forest last night! Well, Nan is fond enough of me, and little children find out so quickly what one is really like." Hester walked boldly into the group. The little dots were all as busy as bees, were not the least lonely, or the least shy, and very plainly gave the intruder to understand that they would prefer her room to her company. Hester was not proud with little children--she loved them dearly. Some of the smaller ones in question were beautiful little creatures, and her heart warmed to them for Nan's sake. She could not stoop to conciliate the older girls, but she could make an effort with the babies. She knelt on the floor and took up a headless doll. "I know a little girl who had a doll like that," she said. Here she paused and several pairs of eyes were fixed on her. "Poor dolly's b'oke," said the owner of the headless one in a tone of deep commiseration. "You _are_ such a breaker, you know, Annie," said Annie's little five-year-old sister. "Please tell us about the little girl what had the doll wifout the head," she proceeded, glancing at Hester. "Oh, it was taken to a hospital, and got back its head," said Hester quite cheerfully; "it became quite well again, and was a more beautiful doll than ever." This announcement caused intense wonder and was certainly carrying the interest of all the little ones. Hester was deciding that the child who possessed the headless doll _had_ a look of Nan about her dark brown eyes, when suddenly there was a diversion--the play-room door was opened noisily, banged-to with a very loud report, and a gay voice sang out-- "The fairy queen has just paid me a visit. Who wants sweeties from the fairy queen?" Instantly all the little feet had scrambled to the perpendicular, each pair of hands was clapped noisily, each little throat shouted a joyful-- "Here comes Annie!" Annie Forest was surrounded, and Hester knelt alone on the hearth-rug. She felt herself colouring painfully--she did not fail to observe that two laughing eyes had fixed themselves with a momentary triumph on her face; then, snatching up a book, which happened to lie close, she seated herself with her back to all the girls, and her head bent over the page. It is quite doubtful whether she saw any of the words, but she was at least determined not to cry. The half-hour so wearisome to poor Hester came to an end, and the girls, conducted by Miss Danesbury, filed into the school-room and took their places in the different classes. Work had now begun in serious earnest. The school-room presented an animated and busy scene. The young faces with their varying expressions betokened on the whole the preponderance of an earnest spirit. Discipline, not too severe, reigned triumphant. Hester was not yet appointed to any place among these busy workers, but while she stood wondering, a little confused, and half intending to drop into an empty seat which happened to be close, Miss Danesbury came up to her. "Follow me, Miss Thornton," she said, and she conducted the young girl up the whole length of the great school-room, and pushed aside some baize curtains which concealed a second smaller room, where Mrs Willis sat before a desk. The head-mistress was no longer dressed in soft pearl-grey and Mechlin lace. She wore a black silk dress, and her white cap seemed to Hester to add a severe tone to her features. She neither shook hands with the new pupil nor kissed her, but said instantly in a bright though authoritative tone-- "I must now find out as quickly as possible what you know, Hester, in order to place you in the most suitable class." Hester was a clever girl, and passed through the ordeal of a rather stiff examination with considerable ability. Mrs Willis pronounced her English and general information quite up to the usual standard for girls of her age--her French was deficient, but she showed some talent for German. "On the whole I am pleased with your general intelligence, and I think you have good capacities, Hester," she said in conclusion. "I shall ask Miss Good, our very accomplished English teacher, to place you in the third-class. You will have to work very hard, however, at your French, to maintain your place there. But Mdlle. Perier is kind and painstaking, and it rests with yourself to quickly acquire a conversational acquaintance with the language. You are aware that, except during recreation, you are never allowed to speak in any other tongue. Now, go back to the school-room, my dear." As Mrs Willis spoke she laid her finger on a little silver gong which stood by her side. "One moment, please," said Hester, colouring crimson, "I want to ask you a question, please." "Is it about your lessons?" "No--oh, no; it is--" "Then pardon me, my dear," uttered the governess, "I sit in my room every evening from eight to half-past, and I am then at liberty to see a pupil on any subject which is not trifling. Nothing but lessons are spoken of in lesson hours, Hester. Ah, here comes Miss Good. Miss Good, I should wish you to place Hester Thornton in the third-class. Her English is up to the average. I will see Mdlle. Perier about her at twelve o'clock." Hester followed the English teacher into the great school-room, took her place in the third-class, at the desk which was pointed out to her, was given a pile of new books, and was asked to attend to the history lesson which was then going on. Notwithstanding her confusion, a certain sense of soreness, and some indignation at what she considered Mrs Willis's altered manner, she acquitted herself with considerable spirit, and was pleased to see that her class companions regarded her with some respect. An English literature lecture followed the history, and here again Hester acquitted herself with _eclat_. The subject to-day was "Julius Caesar," and Hester had read Shakespeare's play over many times with her mother. But when the hour came for foreign languages, her brief triumph ceased. Lower and lower did she fall in her school-fellows' estimation, as she stumbled through her truly English-French. Mdlle. Perier, who was a very fiery little woman, almost screamed at her--the girls coloured and nearly tittered. Hester hoped to recover her lost laurels in German, but by this time her head ached, and she did very little better in the German which she loved than in the French which she detested. At twelve o'clock she was relieved to find that school was over for the present, and she heard the English teacher's voice desiring the girls to go quickly to their rooms, and to assemble in five minutes' time in the great stone hall, equipped for their walk. The walk lasted for a little over an hour, and was a very dreary penance to poor Hester, as she was neither allowed to run, race, nor talk a word of English. She sighed heavily once or twice, and several of the girls who looked at her curiously agreed with Annie Forest that she was decidedly sulky. The walk was followed by dinner; then came half an hour of recreation in the delightful play-room, and eager chattering in the English tongue. At three o'clock the school assembled once more; but now the studies were of a less severe character, and Hester spent one of her first happy half-hours over a drawing lesson. She had a great love for drawing, and felt some pride in the really beautiful copy which she was making of the stump of an old gnarled oak-tree. Her dismay, however, was proportionately great when the drawing-master drew his pencil right across her copy. "I particularly requested you not to sketch in any of the shadows, Miss Thornton. Did you not hear me say that my lesson to-day was in outline? I gave you a shaded piece to copy in outline--did you not understand?" "This is my first day at school," whispered back poor Hester, speaking in English in her distress. Whereupon the master smiled, and even forgot to report her for her transgression of the French tongue. Hester spent the rest of that afternoon over her music lesson. The music-master was an irascible little German, but Hester played with some taste, and was therefore not too severely rapped over the knuckles. Then came tea and another half-hour of recreation, which was followed by two silent hours in the school-room, each girl bent busily over her books in preparation for the next day's work. Hester studied hard, for she had made up her mind to be the intellectual prodigy of the school. Even on this first day, miserable as it was, she had won a few plaudits for her quickness and powers of observation. How much better could she work when she had really fallen into the tone of the school, and understood the lessons which she was now so carefully preparing! During her busy day she had failed to notice one thing: namely, the absence of Annie Forest. Annie had not been in the school-room, had not been in the play-room; but now, as the clock struck eight, she entered the school-room with a listless expression, and took her place in the same class with Hester. Her eyes were heavy, as if she had been crying, and when a companion touched her, and gave her a sympathising glance, she shook her head with a sorrowful gesture, but did not speak. Glasses of milk and slices of bread and butler were now handed round to the girls, and Miss Danesbury asked if any one would like to see Mrs Willis before prayers. Hester half sprang to her feet, but then sat down again. Mrs Willis had annoyed her by refusing to break her rules and answer her question during lesson hours. No, the silly child resolved that she would not trouble Mrs Willis now. "No one to-night, then?" said Miss Danesbury, who had noticed Hester's movement. Suddenly Annie Forest sprang to her feet. "I'm going, Miss Danesbury," she said. "You need not show me the way; I can find it alone." With her short, curly hair falling about her face, she ran out of the room. CHAPTER EIGHT. "YOU HAVE WOKEN ME TOO SOON." When Hester reached her bedroom after prayers on that second evening, she was dismayed to find that she no longer could consider the pretty little bedroom her own. It had not only an occupant, but an occupant who had left untidy traces of her presence on the floor, for a stocking lay in one direction and a muddy boot sprawled in another. The newcomer had herself got into bed, where she lay with a quantity of red hair tossed about on the pillow, and a heavy freckled face turned upward, with the eyes shut and the mouth slightly open. As Hester entered the room, from these parted lips came unmistakable and loud snores. She stood still dismayed. "How terrible!" she said to herself--"oh, what a girl! and I cannot sleep in the room with any one who snores--I really cannot!" She stood perfectly still, with her hands clasped before her, and her eyes fixed with almost ludicrous dismay on this unexpected trial. As she gazed, a fresh discovery caused her to utter an exclamation of horror aloud. The newcomer had curled herself up comfortably in _her_ bed. Suddenly, to her surprise, a voice said very quietly, without a flicker of expression coming over the calm face, or the eyes even making an effort to open-- "Are you my new school-mate?" "Yes," said Hester, "I am sorry to say I am." "Oh, don't be sorry, there's a good creature; there's nothing to be sorry about. I'll stop snoring when I turn on my side--it's all right. I always snore for half an hour to rest my back, and the time is nearly up. Don't trouble me to open my eyes, I am not the least curious to see you. You have a cross voice, but you'll get used to me after a bit." "But you're in my bed," said Hester. "Will you please to get into your own?" "Oh, no, don't ask me; I like your bed best. I slept in it the whole of last term. I changed the sheets myself, so it does not matter. Do you mind putting my muddy boots outside the door, and folding up my stockings? I forgot them, and I shall have a bad mark if Danesbury comes in. Good-night--I'm turning on my side--I won't snore any more." The heavy face was now only seen in profile, and Hester, knowing that Miss Danesbury would soon appear to put out the candle, had to hurry into the other bed as fast as she could; something impelled her, however, to take up the muddy boots with two very gingerly fingers, and place them outside the door. She slept better this second night, and was not quite so startled the next morning when the remorseless gong aroused her from slumber. The maid-servant came in as usual to light the candles, and to place two cans of hot water by the two wash-handstands. "You are awake, miss?" she said to Hester. "Oh, yes," replied Hester almost cheerfully. "Well, that's all right," said the servant. "Now I must try and rouse Miss Drummond, and she always takes a deal of waking; and if you don't mind, miss, it will be an act of kindness to call out to her in the middle of your own dressing--that is, if I don't wake her effectual." With these words, the housemaid approached the bed where the red-haired girl lay again on her back, and again snoring loudly. "Miss Drummond, wake, miss; it's half-past six. Wake up, miss--I have brought your hot water." "Eh?--what?" said the voice in the bed sleepily; "don't bother me, Hannah--I--I've determined not to ride this morning; go away--" then more sleepily, and in a lower key, "Tell Percy he can't bring the dogs in here." "I ain't neither your Hannah, nor your Percy, nor one of the dogs," replied the rather irate Alice--"There, get up, miss, do. I never see such a young lady for sleeping, never." "I won't be bothered," said the occupant of the bed, and now she turned deliberately on her side and snored more loudly than ever. "There's no help for it," said Alice: "I have to do it nearly every morning, so don't you be startled, miss. Poor thing, she would never have a good conduct mark but for me. Now then, here goes. You needn't be frightened, miss--she don't mind it the least bit in the world." Here Alice seized a rough Turkish towel, placed it under the sleepy head with its shock of red hair, and, dipping a sponge in a basin of icy cold water, dashed it on the white face. This remedy proved effectual; two large pale blue eyes opened wide, a voice said in a tranquil and unmoved tone-- "Oh, thank you, Alice. So I'm back at this horrid, detestable school again?" "Get your feet well on the carpet, Miss Drummond, before you falls off again," said the servant. "Now then, you'd better get dressed as fast as possible, miss--you have lost five minutes already." Hester, who had laughed immoderately during this little scene, was already up and going through the processes of her toilet. Miss Drummond, seated on the edge of her bed, regarded her with sleepy eyes. "So you are my new room-mate?" she said--"What's your name?" "Hester Thornton," replied Hetty with dignity. "Oh--I'm Susy Drummond--you may call me Susy if you like." Hester made no response to this gracious invitation. Miss Drummond sat motionless, gazing down at her toes. "Had not you better get dressed?" said Hester after a long pause, for she really feared the young lady would fall asleep where she was sitting. Miss Drummond started. "Dressed! So I will, dear creature. Have the sweet goodness to hand me my clothes." "Where are they?" asked Hester rather crossly, for she did not care to act as lady's-maid. "They are over there, on a chair, in that lovely heap with a shawl flung over them. There, toss them this way--I'll get into them somehow." Miss Drummond did manage to get into her garments; but her whole appearance was so heavy and untidy when she was dressed, that Hester by the very force of contrast felt obliged to take extra pains with her own toilet. "Now, that's a comfort," said Susan, "I'm in my clothes. How bitter it is! There's one comfort, the chapel will be warm. I often catch forty winks in chapel--that is, if I'm lucky enough to get behind one of the tall girls, where Mrs Willis won't see me. It does seem to me," continued Susan in a meditative tone, "the strangest thing why girls are not allowed sleep enough." Hester was pinning a clean collar round her neck when Miss Drummond came up close, leaned over the dressing-table, and regarded her with languid curiosity. "A penny for your thoughts. Miss Prunes and Prism." "Why do you call me that?" said Hester angrily. "Because you look like it, sweet. Now, don't be cross, little pet--no one ever yet was cross with sleepy Susy Drummond. Now, tell me, love, what had you for breakfast yesterday?" "I'm sure I forget," said Hester. "You _forget_?--how extraordinary! You're sure that it was not buttered scones? We have them sometimes, and I tell you they are enough even to keep a girl awake. Well, at least you can let me know if the eggs were very stale, and the coffee very weak, and whether the butter was second-rate Dorset, or good and fresh. Come now--my breakfast is of immense importance to me, I assure you." "I dare say," answered Hester. "You can see for yourself this morning what is on the table--I can only inform you that it was good enough for me, and that I don't remember what it was." "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Susan Drummond, "I'm afraid she has a little temper of her own--poor little room-mate. I wonder if chocolate-creams would sweeten that little temper?" "Please don't talk--I'm going to say my prayers," said Hester. She did kneel down, and made a slight effort to ask God to help her through the day's work and the day's play. In consequence, she rose from her knees with a feeling of strength and sweetness which even the feeblest prayer when uttered in earnest can always give. The prayer-gong now sounded, and all the girls assembled in the chapel. Miss Drummond was greeted by many appreciative nods, and more than one pair of longing eyes gazed in the direction of her pockets, which stuck out in the most ungainly fashion. Hester was relieved to find that her room-mate did not share her class in school, nor sit anywhere near her at table. When the half-hour's recreation after breakfast arrived, Hester, determined to be beholden to none of her school-mates for companionship, seated herself comfortably in an easy chair, with a new book. Presently she was startled by a little stream of lollipops falling in a shower over her head, down her neck, and into her lap. She started up with an expression of disgust. Instantly Miss Drummond sank into the vacated chair. "Thank you, love," she said, in a cosy, purring voice. "Eat your lollipops, and look at me; I'm going to sleep. Please pull my toe when Danesbury comes in. Oh, fie! Prunes and Prisms--not so cross--eat your lollipops; they will sweeten the expression of that--little--face." The last words came out drowsily. As she said "face," Miss Drummond's languid eyes were closed--she was fast asleep. CHAPTER NINE. WORK AND PLAY. In a few days Hester was accustomed to her new life. She fell into its routine, and in a certain measure won the respect of her fellow-pupils. She worked hard, and kept her place in class, and her French became a little more like the French tongue and a little less like the English. She showed marked ability in many of her other studies, and the mistresses and masters spoke well of her. After a fortnight spent at Lavender House, Hester had to acknowledge that the little Misses Bruce were right, and that school might be a really enjoyable place for some girls. She would not yet admit that it could be enjoyable for her. Hester was too shy, too proud, too exacting to be popular with her school-fellows. She knew nothing of school-girl life--she had never learned the great secret of success in all life's perplexities, the power to give and take. It never occurred to Hester to look over a hasty word, to take no notice of an envious or insolent look. As far as her lessons were concerned she was doing well; but the hardest lesson of all, the training of mind and character, which the daily companionship of her school-fellows alone could give her, in this lesson she was making no way. Each day she was shutting herself up more and more from all kindly advances, and the only one in the school whom she sincerely and cordially liked was gentle Cecil Temple. Mrs Willis had some ideas with regard to the training of her young people which were peculiarly her own. She had found them successful, and, during her thirty years' experience, had never seen reason to alter them. She was determined to give her girls a great deal more liberty than was accorded in most of the boarding-schools of her day. She never made what she called impossible rules; she allowed the girls full liberty to chatter in their bedrooms; she did not watch them during play-hours; she never read the letters they received, and only superintended the specimen home letter which each girl was required to write once a month. Other head-mistresses wondered at the latitude she allowed her girls, but she invariably replied-- "I always find it works best to trust them. If a girl is found to be utterly untrustworthy. I don't expel her, but I request her parents to remove her to a more strict school." Mrs Willis also believed much in that quiet half-hour each evening, when the girls who cared to come could talk to her alone. On these occasions she always dropped the school-mistress and adopted the _role_ of the mother. With a very refractory pupil she spoke in the tenderest tones of remonstrance and affection at these times. If her words failed--if the discipline of the day and the gentle sympathy of these moments at night did not effect their purpose, she had yet another expedient--the vicar was asked to see the girl who would not yield to this motherly influence. Mr Everard had very seldom taken Mrs Willis's place. As he said to her, "Your influence must be the mainspring. At supreme moments I will help you with personal influence, but otherwise, except for my nightly prayers with your girls, and my weekly class, and the teachings which they with others hear from my lips Sunday after Sunday, they had better look to you." The girls knew this rule well, and the one or two rare instances in the school history where the vicar had stepped in to interfere, were spoken of with bated breath and with intense awe. Mrs Willis had a great idea of bringing as much happiness as possible into young lives. It was with this idea that she had the quaint little compartments railed off in the play-room. "For the elder girls," she would say, "there is no pleasure so great as having, however small the spot, a little liberty hall of their own. In her compartment each girl is absolute monarch. No one can enter inside the little curtained rail without her permission. Here she can show her individual taste, her individual ideas. Here she can keep her most-prized possessions. In short, her compartment in the play-room is a little home to her." The play-room, large as it was, admitted of only twenty compartments; these compartments were not easily won. No amount of cleverness attained them; they were altogether dependent on conduct. No girl could be the honourable owner of her own little drawing-room until she had distinguished herself by some special act of kindness and self-denial. Mrs Willis had no fixed rule on this subject. She alone gave away the compartments, and she often made choice of girls on whom she conferred this honour in a way which rather puzzled and surprised their fellows. When the compartment was won it was not a secure possession. To retain it depended also on conduct; and here again Mrs Willis was absolute in her sway. More than once the girls had entered the room in the morning to find some favourite's furniture removed and her little possessions taken carefully down from the walls, the girl herself alone knowing the reason for this sudden change. Annie Forest, who had been at Lavender House for four years, had once, for a solitary month of her existence, owned her own special drawing-room. She had obtained it as a reward for an act of heroism. One of the little pupils had set her pinafore on fire. There was no teacher present at the moment--the other girls had screamed and run for help, but Annie, very pale, had caught the little one in her arms and had crushed out the flames with her own hands. The child's life was spared, the child was not even hurt, but Annie was in the hospital for a week. At the end of a week she returned to the school-room and play-room as the heroine of the hour. Mrs Willis herself kissed her brow, and presented her in the midst of the approving smiles of her companions with the prettiest drawing-room of the sets. Annie retained her honourable post for one month. Never did the girls of Lavender House forget the delights of that month. The fantastic arrangements of the little drawing-room filled them with ecstasies. Annie was truly Japanese in her style--she was also intensely liberal in all her arrangements. In the tiny space of this little inclosure wild pranks were perpetrated, ceaseless jokes made up. From Annie's drawing-room issued peals of exquisite mirth. She gave afternoon tea from a Japanese set of tea-things. Outside her drawing-room always collected a crowd of girls, who tried to peep over the rail or to draw aside the curtains. Inside the sacred spot certainly reigned chaos, and one day Miss Danesbury had to fly to the rescue, for in a fit of mad mirth Annie herself had knocked down the little Japanese tea-table, the tea-pot and tea-things were in fragments on the floor, and the tea and milk poured in streams outside the curtains. Mrs Willis sent for Annie that evening, and Miss Forest retired from her interview with red eyes and a meek expression. "Girls," she said, in confidence that night, "good-bye to Japan. I gave her leave to do it--the care of an empire is more than I can manage." The next day the Japanese drawing-room had been handed over to another possessor, and Annie reigned as queen over her empire no more. Mrs Willis, anxious at all times that her girls should be happy, made special arrangements for their benefit on Sunday. Sunday was by no means dull at Lavender House--Sunday was totally unlike the six days which followed it. Even the stupidest girl could scarcely complain of the severity of Sunday lessons--even the merriest girl could scarcely speak of the day as dull. Mrs Willis made an invariable rule of spending all Sunday with her pupils. On this day she really unbent--on this day she was all during the long hours, what she was during the short half-hour on each evening in the week. On Sunday she neither reproved nor corrected. If punishment or correction were necessary, she deputed Miss Good or Miss Danesbury to take her place. On Sunday she sat with the little children round her knee, and the older girls clustering about her. Her gracious and motherly face was like a sun shining in the midst of these young girls. In short, she was like the personified form of Goodness in their midst. It was necessary, therefore, that all those who wished to do right should be happy on Sunday, and only those few who deliberately preferred evil should shrink from the brightness of this day. It is astonishing how much a sympathising and guiding spirit can effect. The girls at Lavender House thought Sunday the shortest day in the week. There were no unoccupied or dull moments--school toil was forgotten--school punishment ceased, to be resumed again if necessary on Monday morning. The girls in their best dresses could chatter freely in English--they could read their favourite books--they could wander about the house as they pleased: for on Sunday the two baize doors were always wide-open, and Mrs Willis's own private suite of rooms was ready to receive them. If the day was fine they walked to church, each choosing her own companion for the pleasant walk; if the day was wet there was service in the chapel, Mr Everard always conducting either morning or evening prayers. In the afternoon the girls were allowed to do pretty much as they pleased, but after tea there always came a delightful hour, when the elder girls retired with their mistress into her own special boudoir, and she either told them stories or sang to them as only she could sing. At sixty years of age Mrs Willis still possessed the most sympathetic and touching voice those girls had ever listened to. Hester Thornton broke down completely on her first Sunday at Lavender House when she heard her school-mistress sing "The Better Land." No one remarked on her tears, but two people saw them; for her mistress kissed her tenderly that night, and said a few strong words of help and encouragement, and Annie Forest, who made no comment, had also seen them, and wondered vaguely if this new and disagreeable pupil had a heart after all. On Sunday night Mrs Willis herself went round to each little bed and gave a mother-kiss to each of her pupils--a mother-kiss and a murmured blessing; and in many breasts resolves were then formed which were to help the girls through the coming week. Some of these resolves, made not in their own strength, bore fruit in long after-years. There is no doubt that very few girls who lived long enough at Lavender House ever in after-days found their Sundays dull. CHAPTER TEN. VARIETIES. Without any doubt, wild, naughty, impulsive Annie Forest was the most popular girl in the school. She was always in scrapes--she was scarcely ever out of hot water--her promises of amendment were truly like the proverbial pie-crust: but she was so lovable, so kind-hearted, so saucy and piquant and pretty, that very few could resist the nameless charm which she possessed. The little ones adored Annie, who was kindness itself to them; the bigger girls could not help admiring her fearlessness and courage; the best and noblest girls in the school tried to influence her for good. She was more or less an object of interest to every one; her courage was of just the sort to captivate school-girls, and her moral weakness was not observed by these inexperienced young eyes. Hester alone, of all the girls who for a long time had come to Lavender House, failed to see any charm in Annie. She began by considering her ill-bred, and when she found she was the school favourite, she tossed her proud little head and determined that she for one would never be subjugated by such a naughty girl. Hester could read character with tolerable clearness; she was an observant child--very observant, and very thoughtful for her twelve years; and as the little witch Annie had failed to throw any spell over her, she saw her faults far more clearly than did her companions. There is no doubt that this brilliant, charming, and naughty Annie had heaps of faults; she had no perseverance; she was all passion and impulse; she could be the kindest of the kind, but from sheer thoughtlessness and wildness she often inflicted severe pain, even on those she loved best. Annie very nearly worshipped Mrs Willis, she had the most intense adoration for her, she respected her beyond any other human being. There were moments when the impulsive and hot-headed child felt that she could gladly lay down her life for her school-mistress. Once the mistress was ill, and Annie curled herself up all night outside her door, thereby breaking rules, and giving herself a severe cold; but her passion and agony were so great that she could only be soothed by at last stealing into the darkened room and kissing the face she loved. "Prove your love to me, Annie, by going downstairs and keeping the school rules as perfectly as possible," whispered the teacher. "I will--I will never break a rule again as long as I live, if you get better, Mrs Willis," responded the child. She ran downstairs with her resolves strong within her, and yet in half an hour she was reprimanded for wilful and desperate disobedience. One day Cecil Temple had invited a select number of friends to afternoon tea in her little drawing-room. It was the Wednesday half-holiday, and Cecil's tea, poured into the tiniest cups and accompanied by thin wafer biscuits, was of the most _recherche_ quality. Cecil had invited Hester Thornton, and a tall girl who belonged to the first-class and whose name was Dora Russell, to partake of this dainty beverage. They were sitting round the tiny tea-table, on little red stools with groups of flowers artistically painted on them, and were all three conducting themselves in a most ladylike and refined manner, when Annie Forest's curly head and saucy face popped over the inclosure, and her voice said eagerly-- "Oh, may I be permitted to enter the shrine?" "Certainly, Annie," said Cecil, in her most cordial tones. "I have got another cup and saucer, and there is a little tea left in the tea-pot." Annie came in, and ensconced herself cosily on the floor. It did not matter in the least to her that Hester Thornton's brow grew dark, and that Miss Russell suddenly froze into complete indifference to all her surroundings. Annie was full of a subject which excited her very much; she had suddenly discovered that she wanted to give Mrs Willis a present, and she wished to know if any of the girls would like to join her. "I will give her the present this day week," said excitable Annie. "I have quite made up my mind. Will any one join me?" "But there is nothing special about this day week, Annie," said Miss Temple. "It will neither be Mrs Willis's birthday, nor Christmas Day, nor New Year's Day, nor Easter Day. Next Wednesday will be just like any other Wednesday. Why should we make Mrs Willis a present?" "Oh, because she looks as if she wanted one, poor dear. I thought she looked sad this morning; her eyes drooped and her mouth was down at the corners. I am sure she's wanting something from us all by now, just to show that we love her, you know." "Pshaw!" here burst from Hester's lips. "Why do you say that?" said Annie, turning round with her bright eyes flashing. "You've no right to be so contemptuous when I speak about our--our head-mistress. Oh, Cecil," she continued, "do let us give her a little surprise--some spring flowers, or something just to show her that we love her." "But _you_ don't love her," said Hester, stoutly. Here was throwing down the gauntlet with a vengeance! Annie sprang to her feet and confronted Hester with a whole torrent of angry words. Hester firmly maintained her position. She said over and over again that love proved itself by deeds, not by words; that if Annie learned her lessons, and obeyed the school rules, she would prove her affection for Mrs Willis far more than by empty protestations. Hester's words were true, but they were uttered in an unkind spirit, and the very flavour of truth which they possessed caused them to enter Annie's heart and to wound her deeply. She turned, not red, but very white, and her large and lovely eyes grew misty with unshed tears. "You are cruel," she gasped, rather than spoke, and then she pushed aside the curtains of Cecil's compartment and walked out of the play-room. There was a dead silence among the three girls when she left them. Hester's heart was still hot, and she was still inclined to maintain her own position, and to believe she had done right in speaking in so severe a tone to Annie. But even she had been made a little uneasy by the look of deep suffering which had suddenly transformed Annie's charming childish face into that of a troubled and pained woman. She sat down meekly on her little three-legged stool and, taking up her tiny cup and saucer, sipped some of the cold tea. Cecil Temple was the first to speak. "How could you?" she said, in an indignant voice for her. "Annie is not the girl to be driven, and, in any case, it is not for you to correct her. Oh, Mrs Willis would have been so pained had she heard you--you were not _kind_, Miss Thornton. There, I don't wish to be rude, but I fear I must leave you and Miss Russell--I must try and find Annie." "I'm going back to my own drawing-room," said Miss Russell, rising to her feet. "Perhaps," she added, turning round with a very gracious smile to Hester, "you will come and see me there, after tea, this evening." Miss Russell drew aside the curtains of Cecil Temple's little room, and disappeared. Hester, with her eyes full of tears, now turned eagerly to Cecil. "Forgive me, Cecil," she exclaimed. "I did not mean to be unkind, but it is really quite ridiculous the way you all spoil that girl--you know as well as I do that she is a very naughty girl. I suppose it is because of her pretty face," continued Hester, "that you are all so unjust, and so blind to her faults." "You are prejudiced the other way, Hester," said Cecil in a more gentle tone. "You have disliked Annie from the first. There, don't keep me--I must go to her now. There is no knowing what harm your words may have done. Annie is not like other girls. If you knew her story, you would perhaps be kinder to her." Cecil then ran out of her drawing-room, leaving Hester in sole possession of the little tea-things and the three-legged stools. She sat and thought for some time; she was a girl with a great deal of obstinacy in her nature, and she was not disposed to yield her own point, even to Cecil Temple; but Cecil's words had, nevertheless, made some impression on her. At tea-time that night, Annie and Cecil entered the room together. Annie's eyes were as bright as stars, and her usually pale cheeks glowed with a deep colour. She had never looked prettier--she had never looked so defiant, so mischievous, so utterly reckless. Mdlle. Perier fired indignant French at her across the table. Annie answered respectfully, and became demure in a moment; but even in the short instant in which the governess was obliged to lower her eyes to her plate, she had thrown a look so irresistibly comic at her companions, that several of them had tittered aloud. Not once did she glance at Hester although she occasionally looked boldly in her direction; but when she did so, her versatile face assumed a blank expression, as if she were seeing nothing. When tea was over, Dora Russell surprised the members of her own class by walking straight up to Hester, putting her hand inside her arm, and leading her off to her own very refined-looking little drawing-room. "I want to tell you," she said, when the two girls found themselves inside the small inclosure, "that I quite agree with you in your opinion of Miss Forest. I think you were very brave to speak to her as you did to-day. As a rule, I never trouble myself with what the little girls in the third-class do, and of course Annie seldom comes under my notice; but I think she is a decidedly spoiled child, and your rebuff will doubtless do her a great deal of good." These words of commendation, coming from tall and dignified Miss Russell, completely turned poor Hester's head. "Oh, I am so glad you think so!" she stammered, colouring high with pleasure. "You see," she added, assuming a little tone of extra refinement, "at home I always associated with girls who were perfect ladies." "Yes, any one can see that," remarked Miss Russell approvingly. "And I do think Annie underbred," continued Hester. "I cannot understand," she added, "why Miss Temple likes her so much." "Oh, Cecil is so amiable; she sees good in every one," answered Miss Russell. "Annie is evidently not a lady, and I am glad at last to find some one of the girls who belong to the middle school capable of discerning this fact. Of course, we of the first-class have nothing whatever to say to Miss Forest, but I really think Mrs Willis is not acting quite fairly by the other girls when she allows a young person of that description into the school. I wish to assure you, Miss Thornton, that you have at least my sympathy, and I shall be very pleased to see you in my drawing-room now and then." As these last words were uttered, both girls were conscious of a little rustling sound not far away. Miss Russell drew back her curtain, and asked very sharply, "Who is there?" but no one replied, nor was there any one in sight, for the girls who did not possess compartments were congregated at the other end of the long play-room, listening to stories which Emma Marshall, a clever elder girl, was relating for their benefit. Miss Russell talked on indifferent subjects to Hester, and at the end of the half-hour the two entered the class-room side by side, Hester's little head a good deal turned by this notice from one of the oldest girls in the school. As the two walked together into the school-room, Susan Drummond, who, tall as she was, was only in the fourth class, rushed up to Miss Forest, and whispered something in her ear. "It is just as I told you," she said, and her sleepy voice was quite wide awake and animated. Annie Forest rewarded her by a playful pinch on her cheek; then she returned to her own class, with a severe reprimand from the class teacher, and silence reigned in the long room, as the girls began to prepare their lessons as usual for the next day. Miss Russell took her place at her desk in her usual dignified manner. She was a clever girl, and was going to leave school at the end of next term. Hers was a particularly fastidious, but by no means great nature--she was the child of wealthy parents, she was also well-born, and because of her money, and a certain dignity and style which had come to her as nature's gifts, she held an influence, though by no means a large one, in the school. No one particularly disliked her, but no one, again, ardently loved her. The girls in her own class thought it well to be friendly with Dora Russell, and Dora accepted their homage with more or less indifference. She did not greatly care for either their praise or blame. Dora possessed in a strong degree that baneful quality, which more than anything else precludes the love of others--she was essentially selfish. She sat now before her desk, little guessing how she had caused Hester's small heart to beat by her patronage, and little suspecting the mischief she had done to the girl by her injudicious words. Had she known, it is to be doubted whether she would have greatly cared. She looked through the books which contained her tasks for the next day's work, and, finding they did not require a great deal of preparation, put them aside, and amused herself during the rest of preparation time with a story-book, which she artfully concealed behind the leaves of some exercises. She knew she was breaking the rules, but this fact did not trouble her, for her moral nature was, after all, no better than poor Annie's, and she had not a tenth of her lovable qualities. Dora Russell was the soul of neatness and order. To look inside her school-desk was a positive pleasure; to glance at her own neat and trim figure was more or less of a delight. Hers were the whitest hands in the school, and hers the most perfectly kept and glossy hair. As the preparation hour drew to a close, she replaced her exercises and books in exquisite order in her school-desk and shut down the lid. Hester's eyes followed her as she walked out of the school-room, for the head class never had supper with the younger girls. Hester wondered if she would glance in her direction; but Miss Russell had gratified a very passing whim when she condescended to notice and praise Hester, and she had already almost forgotten her existence. At bed-time that night Susan Drummond's behaviour was at the least extraordinary. In the first place, instead of being almost overpoweringly friendly with Hester, she scarcely noticed her; in the next place, she made some very peculiar preparations. "What _are_ you doing on the floor, Susan?" inquired Hetty in an innocent tone. "That's nothing to you," replied Miss Drummond, turning a dusky red, and looking annoyed at being discovered. "I do wish," she added, "that you would go round to your side of the room and leave me alone; I sha'n't have done what I want to do before Danesbury comes in to put out the candle." Hester was not going to put herself out with any of Susan Drummond's vagaries; she looked upon sleepy Susan as a girl quite beneath her notice, but even she could not help observing her, when she saw her sit up in bed a quarter of an hour after the candles had been put out, and in the flickering firelight which shone conveniently bright for her purpose, fasten a piece of string first round one of her toes, and then to the end of the bed-post. "What _are_ you doing?" said Hester again, half laughing. "Oh, what a spy you are!" said Susan. "I want to wake, that's all; and whenever I turn in bed that string will tug at my toe, and, of course, I'll rouse up. If you were more good-natured, I'd give the other end of the string to you; but, of course, that plan would never answer." "No, indeed," replied Hester; "I am not going to trouble myself to wake you. You must trust to your sponge of cold water in the morning, unless your own admirable device succeeds." "I'm going to sleep now, at any rate," answered Susan; "I'm on my back, and I'm beginning to snore; good-night." Once or twice during the night Hester heard groans from the self-sacrificing Susan, who, doubtless, found the string attached to her foot very inconvenient. Hester, however, slept on when it might have been better for the peace of many in the school that she should have awakened. She heard no sound when, long before day, sleepy Susan stepped softly out of bed, and wrapping a thick shawl about her, glided out of the room. She was away for over half an hour, but she returned to her chamber and got into bed without in the least disturbing Hester. In the morning she was found so soundly asleep that even the sponge of cold water could not arouse her. "Pull the string at the foot of the bed, Alice," said Hester: "she fastened a string to her toe, and twisted the other end round the bed-post, last night--pull it, Alice, it may effect its purpose." But there was no string now round Susan Drummond's foot, nor was it found hanging to the bed-post. CHAPTER ELEVEN. WHAT WAS FOUND IN THE SCHOOL-DESK. The next morning, when the whole school were assembled, and all the classes were getting ready for the real work of the day, Miss Good, the English teacher, stepped to the head of the room, and, holding a neatly bound volume of "Jane Eyre" in her hand, begged to know to whom it belonged. There was a hush of astonishment when she held up the little book, for all the girls knew well that this special volume was not allowed for school literature. "The house maid who dusts the school-room found this book on the floor," continued the teacher. "It lay beside a desk near the top of the room. I see the name has been torn out, so I cannot tell who is the owner. I must request her, however, to step forward and take possession of her property. If there is the slightest attempt at concealment, the whole matter will be laid before Mrs Willis at noon to-day." When Miss Good had finished her little speech, she held up the book in its green binding and looked down the room. Hester did not know why her heart beat--no one glanced at her, no one regarded her; all eyes were fixed on Miss Good, who stood with a severe, unsmiling, but expectant face. "Come, young ladies," she said, "the owner has surely no difficulty in recognising her own property. I give you exactly thirty seconds more; then, if no one claims the book, I place the affair in Mrs Willis's hands." Just then there was a stir among the girls in the head class. A tall girl in dove-coloured cashmere, with a smooth head of golden hair, and a fair face which was a good deal flushed at this moment, stepped to the front, and said in a clear and perfectly modulated voice-- "I had no idea of concealing the fact that `Jane Eyre' belongs to me. I was only puzzled for a moment to know how it got on the floor. I placed it carefully in my desk last night. I think this circumstance ought to be inquired into." "Oh! oh!" came from several suppressed voices here and there through the room; "whoever would have supposed that Dora Russell would be obliged to humble herself in this way?" "Attention, young ladies!" said Miss Good; "no talking, if you please. Do I understand, Miss Russell, that `Jane Eyre' is yours?" "Yes, Miss Good." "Why did you keep it in your desk--were you reading it during preparation?" "On, yes, certainly." "You are, of course, aware that you were breaking two very stringent rules of the school. In the first place, no story-books are allowed to be concealed in a school-desk, or to be read during preparation. In the second place, this special book is not allowed to be read at any time in Lavender House. You know these rules, Miss Russell?" "Yes, Miss Good." "I must retain the book--you can return now to your place in class." Miss Russell bowed sedately, and with an apparently unmoved face, except for the slightly deepened glow on her smooth cheek, resumed her interrupted work. Lessons went off as usual, but during recreation the mystery of the discovered book was largely discussed by the girls. As is the custom of school-girls, they took violent sides in the matter--some rejoicing in Dora's downfall, some pitying her intensely. Hester was, of course, one of Miss Russell's champions, and she looked at her with tender sympathy when she came with her haughty and graceful manner into the school-room, and her little heart beat with a vague hope that Dora might turn to her for sympathy. Dora, however, did nothing of the kind. She refused to discuss the affair with her companions, and none of them quite knew what Mrs Willis said to her, or what special punishment was inflicted on the proud girl. Several of her school-fellows expected that Dora's drawing-room would be taken away from her, but she still retained it; and after a few days the affair of the book was almost forgotten. There was, however, an uncomfortable and an uneasy spirit abroad in the school. Susan Drummond, who was certainly one of the most uninteresting girls in Lavender House, was often seen walking with and talking to Miss Forest. Sometimes Annie shook her pretty head over Susan's remarks; sometimes she listened to her; sometimes she laughed and spoke eagerly for a moment or two, and appeared to acquiesce in suggestions which her companion urged. Annie had always been the soul of disorder--of wild pranks, of naughty and disobedient deeds--but, hitherto, in all her wildness she had never intentionally hurt any one but herself. Hers was a giddy and thoughtless, but by no means a bitter tongue--she thought well of all her school-fellows--and on occasions she could be self-sacrificing and good-natured to a remarkable extent. The girls of the head class took very little notice of Annie, but her other school-companions, as a rule, succumbed to her sunny, bright, and witty ways. She offended them a hundred times a day, and a hundred times a day was forgiven. Hester was the first girl in the third-class who had ever persistently disliked Annie and Annie, after making one or two overtures of friendship, began to return Miss Thornton's aversion; but she had never cordially hated her until the day they met in Cecil Temple's drawing-room and Hester had wounded Annie in her tenderest part by doubting her affection for Mrs Willis. Since that day there was a change very noticeable in Annie Forest--she was not so gay as formerly, but she was a great deal more mischievous-- she was not nearly so daring, but she was capable now of little actions slight in themselves, which yet were calculated to cause mischief and real unhappiness. Her sudden friendship with Susan Drummond did her no good, and she persistently avoided all intercourse with Cecil Temple, who hitherto had influenced her in the right direction. The incident of the green book had passed with no apparent result of grave importance, but the spirit of mischief which had caused this book to be found was by no means asleep in the school. Pranks were played in a most mysterious fashion with the girls' properties. Hester herself was the very next victim. She too was a neat and orderly child--she was clever and thoroughly enjoyed her school work. She was annoyed, therefore, and dreadfully puzzled, by discovering one morning that her neat French exercise-book was disgracefully blotted, and one page torn across. She was severely reprimanded by Mdlle. Perier for such gross untidiness and carelessness, and when she assured the governess that she knew nothing whatever of the circumstance, that she was never guilty of blots, and had left the book in perfect order the night before, the French lady only shrugged her shoulders, made an expressive gesture with her eyebrows, and plainly showed Hester that she thought the less she said on that subject the better. Hester was required to write out her exercise again, and she fancied she saw a triumphant look in Annie Forest's eyes as she left the school-room, where poor Hester was obliged to remain to undergo her unmerited punishment. "Cecil," called Hester, in a passionate and eager voice, as Miss Temple was passing her place. Cecil paused for a moment. "What is it, Hetty?--oh, I am so sorry you must stay in this lovely bright day." "I have done nothing wrong," said Hester; "I never blotted this exercise-book; I never tore this page. It is most unjust not to believe my word; it is most unjust to punish me for what I have not done." Miss Temple's face looked puzzled and sad. "I must not stay to talk to you now, Hester," she whispered; "I am breaking the rules. You can come to my drawing-room by-and-by, and we will discuss this matter." But Hester and Cecil, talk as they would, could find no solution to the mystery. Cecil absolutely refused to believe that Annie Forest had anything to do with the matter. "No," she said, "such deceit is not in Annie's nature. I would do anything to help you, Hester; but I can't, and I won't, believe that Annie tried deliberately to do you any harm." "I am quite certain she did," retorted Hester, "and from this moment I refuse to speak to her until she confesses what she has done and apologises to me. Indeed, I have a great mind to go and tell everything to Mrs Willis." "Oh, I would not do that," said Cecil; "none of your school-fellows would forgive you if you charged such a favourite as Annie with a crime which you cannot in the least prove against her. You must be patient, Hester, and if you are, I will take your part, and try to get at the bottom of the mystery." Cecil, however, failed to do so. Annie laughed when the affair was discussed in her presence, but her clear eyes looked as innocent as the day, and nothing would induce Cecil to doubt Miss Forest's honour. The mischievous sprite, however, who was sowing such seeds of unhappiness in the hitherto peaceful school was not satisfied with two deeds of daring; for a week afterwards Cecil Temple found a book of Mrs Browning's, out of which she was learning a piece for recitation, with its cover half torn off, and, still worse, a caricature of Mrs Willis sketched with some cleverness and a great deal of malice on the title-page. On the very same morning, Dora Russell, on opening her desk, was seen to throw up her hands with a gesture of dismay. The neat composition she had finished the night before was not to be seen in its accustomed place, but in a corner of the desk were two bulky and mysterious parcels, one of which contained a great junk of rich plum-cake, and the other some very sticky and messy "Turkish delight;" while the paper which enveloped these luxuries was found to be that on which the missing composition was written. Dora's face grew very white--she forgot the ordinary rules of the school, and, leaving her class, walked down the room, and interrupted Miss Good, who was beginning to instruct the third-class in English grammar. "Will you please come and see something in my desk, Miss Good?" she said in a voice which trembled with excitement. It was while she was speaking that Cecil found the copy of Mrs Browning mutilated, and with the disgraceful caricature on its title-page. Startled as she was by this discovery, and also by Miss Russell's extraordinary behaviour, she had presence of mind enough to hide the sight which pained her from her companions. Unobserved, in the strong interest of the moment, for all the girls were watching Dora Russell and Miss Good, she managed to squeeze the little volume into her pocket. She had indeed received a great shock, for she knew well that the only girl who could caricature in the school was Annie Forest. For a moment her troubled eyes sought the ground, but then she raised them and looked at Annie. Annie, however, with a particularly cheerful face, and her bright dark eyes full of merriment, was gazing in astonishment at the scene which was taking place in front of Miss Russell's desk. Dora, whose enunciation was very clear, seemed to have absolutely forgotten herself; she disregarded Miss Good's admonitions, and declared stoutly that at such a moment she did not care what rules she broke. She was quite determined that the culprit who had dared to desecrate her composition, and put plum-cake and "Turkish delight" into her desk, should be publicly exposed and punished. "The thing cannot go on any longer, Miss Good," she said; "there is a girl in this school who ought to be expelled from it, and I for one declare openly that I will not submit to associate with a girl who is worse than unladylike. If you will permit me, Miss Good, I will carry these things at once to Mrs Willis, and beg of her to investigate the whole affair, and bring the culprit to justice, and to turn her out of the school." "Stay, Miss Russell," exclaimed the English teacher, "you strangely and completely forget yourself. You are provoked. I own, but you have no right to stand up and absolutely hoist the flag of rebellion in the faces of the other girls. I cannot excuse your conduct. I will myself take away these parcels which were found in your desk, and will report the affair to Mrs Willis. She will take what steps she thinks right in bringing you to order, and in discovering the author of this mischief. Return instantly to your desk, Miss Russell; you strangely forget yourself." Miss Good left the room, having removed the plum-cake and "Turkish delight" from Dora Russell's desk, and lessons continued as best they could under such exciting circumstances. At twelve o'clock that day, just as the girls were preparing to go up to their rooms to get ready for their usual walk, Mrs Willis came into the school-room. "Stay one moment, young ladies," said the head-mistress in that slightly vibrating and authoritative voice of hers. "I have a word or two to say to you all. Miss Good has just brought me a painful story of wanton and cruel mischief. There are fifty girls in this school, who, until lately, lived happily together. There is now one girl among the fifty whose object it is to sow seeds of discord and misery among her companions. Miss Good has told me of three different occasions on which mischief has been done to different girls in the school. Twice Miss Russell's desk has been disturbed, once Miss Thornton's. It is possible that other girls may also have suffered who have been noble enough not to complain. There is, however, a grave mischief, in short, a moral disease in our midst. Such a thing is worse than bodily illness--it must be stamped out instantly and completely at the risk of any personal suffering. I am now going to ask you, girls, a simple question, and I demand instant truth without any reservation. Miss Russell's desk has been tampered with--Miss Thornton's desk has been tampered with. Has any other girl suffered injury--has any other girl's desk been touched?" Mrs Willis looked down the long room--her voice had reached every corner, and the quiet, dignified, and deeply-pained expression in her fine eyes was plainly visible to each girl in the school. Even the little ones were startled and subdued by the tone of Mrs Willis's voice, and one or two of them suddenly burst into tears. Mrs Willis paused for a full moment, then she repeated her question. "I insist upon knowing the exact truth, my dear children," she said gently but with great decision. "My desk has also been tampered with," said Miss Temple in a low voice. Every one started when Cecil spoke, and even Annie Forest glanced at her with a half-frightened and curious expression. Cecil's voice indeed was so low, so shaken with doubt and pain, that her companions scarcely recognised it. "Come here, Miss Temple," said Mrs Willis. Cecil instantly left her desk and walked up the room. "Your desk has also been tampered with, you say?" repeated the head-mistress. "Yes, madam." "When did you discover this?" "To-day, Mrs Willis." "You kept it to yourself?" "Yes." "Will you now repeat in the presence of the school, and in a loud enough voice to be heard by all here, exactly what was done?" "Pardon me," answered Cecil, and now her voice was a little less agitated and broken, and she looked full into the face of her teacher, "I cannot do that." "You deliberately disobey me, Cecil?" said Mrs Willis. "Yes, madam." Mrs Willis's face flushed--she did not, however, look angry--she laid her hand on Cecil's shoulder and looked full into her eyes. "You are one of my best pupils, Cecil," she said tenderly. "At such a moment as this honour requires you to stand by your mistress. I must insist on your telling me here and now exactly what has occurred." Cecil's face grew whiter and whiter. "I cannot tell you," she murmured; "it breaks my heart, but I cannot tell you." "You have defied me, Cecil," said Mrs Willis in a tone of deep pain. "I must, my dear, insist on your obedience, but not now. Miss Good, will you take Miss Temple to the chapel? I will come to you, Cecil, in an hour's time." Cecil walked down the room crying silently. Her deep distress and her very firm refusal to disclose what she knew had made a great impression on her school-fellows. They all felt troubled and uneasy, and Annie Forest's face was very pale. "This thing, this wicked, mischievous thing has gone deeper than I feared," said Mrs Willis, when Cecil had left the room. "Only some very strong motive would make Cecil Temple behave as she is now doing. She is influenced by a mistaken idea of what is right; she wishes to shield the guilty person. I may as well tell you all, young ladies, that, dear as Cecil is to me, she is now under the ban of my severe displeasure. Until she confesses the truth and humbles herself before me, I cannot be reconciled to her. I cannot permit her to associate with you. She has done very wrong, and her punishment must be proportionately severe. There is one chance for her, however. Will the girl whom she is mistakenly, though generously, trying to shield, come forward and confess her guilt, and so release poor Cecil from the terrible position in which she has placed herself? By doing so, the girl who has caused all this misery will at least show me that she is trying to repent." Mrs Willis paused again, and now she looked down the room with a face of almost entreaty. Several pairs of eyes were fixed anxiously on her, several looked away, and many girls glanced in the direction of Annie Forest, who, feeling herself suspected, returned their glances with bold defiance, and instantly assumed her most reckless manner. Mrs Willis waited for a full minute. "The culprit is not noble enough," she said then. "Now, girls, I must ask each of you to come up one by one and deny or confess this charge. As you do so, you are silently to leave the school-room and go up to your rooms, and prepare for the walk which has been so painfully delayed. Miss Conway, you are at the head of the school, will you set the example?" One by one the girls of the head class stepped up to their teacher, and of each one she asked the same question-- "Are you guilty?" Each girl replied in the negative and walked out of the school-room. The second-class followed the example of the first, and then the third-class came up to their teacher. Several ears were strained to hear Annie Forest's answer, but her eyes were lifted fearlessly to Mrs Willis's face, and her "No!" was heard all over the room. CHAPTER TWELVE. IN THE CHAPEL. The bright light from a full noontide sun was shining in coloured bars through the richly-painted windows of the little chapel when Mrs Willis sought Cecil Temple there. Cecil's face was in many ways a remarkable one. Her soft brown eyes were generally filled with a steadfast and kindly ray. Gentleness was her special prerogative, but there was nothing weak about her--hers was the gentleness of a strong and pure and noble soul. To know Cecil was to love her. She was a motherless girl, and the only child of a most indulgent father. Colonel Temple was now in India, and Cecil was to finish her education under Mrs Willis's care, and then, if necessary, to join her father. Mrs Willis had always taken a special interest in this girl. She admired her for her great moral worth. Cecil was not particularly clever, but she was so studious, so painstaking, that she always kept a high place in class. She was without doubt a religious girl, but there was nothing of the prig about her. She was not, however, ashamed of her religion, and, if the fitting occasion arose, she was fearless in expressing her opinion. Mrs Willis used to call Cecil her "little standard-bearer," and she relied greatly on her influence over the third-class girls. Mrs Willis considered the third-class, perhaps, the most important in the school. She was often heard to say-- "The girls who fill this class have come to a turning-point--they have come to the age when resolves may be made for life, and kept. The good third-class girl is very unlikely to degenerate as she passes through the second and first classes. On the other hand, there is very little hope that the idle or mischievous third-class girl will mend her ways as she goes higher in the school." Mrs Willis's steps were very slow, and her thoughts extremely painful, as she entered the chapel to-day. Had any one else offered her defiance she would have known how to deal with the culprit, but Cecil would never have acted as she did without the strongest motive, and Mrs Willis felt more sorrowful than angry as she sat down by the side of her favourite pupil. "I have kept you waiting longer than I intended, my dear," she said. "I was unexpectedly interrupted, and I am sorry; but you have had more time to think, Cecil." "Yes, I have thought," answered Cecil, in a very low tone. "And, perhaps," continued her governess, "in this quiet and beautiful and sacred place, my dear pupil has also prayed?" "I have prayed," said Cecil. "Then you have been guided, Cecil," said Mrs Willis in a tone of relief. "We do not come to God in our distress without being shown the right way. Your doubts have been removed, Cecil; you can now speak fully to me; can you not, dear?" "I have asked God to tell me what is right," said Cecil. "I don't pretend to know. I am very much puzzled. It seems to me that more good would be done if I concealed what you asked me to confess in the school-room. My own feeling is that I ought not to tell you. I know this is great disobedience, and I am quite willing to receive any punishment you think right to give me. Yes, I think I am quite willing to receive _any_ punishment." Mrs Willis put her hand on Cecil's shoulder. "Ordinary punishments are not likely to affect you, Cecil," she said; "on you I have no idea of inflicting extra lessons, or depriving you of half-holidays, or even taking away your drawing-room. But there is something else you must lose, and that I know will touch you deeply--I must remove from you my confidence." Cecil's face grew very pale. "And your love, too?" she said, looking up with imploring eyes: "oh, surely not your love as well?" "I ask you frankly, Cecil," replied Mrs Willis, "can perfect love exist without perfect confidence? I would not willingly deprive you of my love, but of necessity the love I have hitherto felt for you must be altered--in short, the old love which enabled me to rest on you and trust you, will cease." Cecil covered her face with her hands. "This punishment is very cruel," she said. "You are right; it reaches down to my very heart. But," she added, looking up with a strong and sweet light in her face, "I will try and bear it, and some day you will understand." "Listen, Cecil," said Mrs Willis, "you have just told me you have prayed to God, and have asked Him to show you the right path. Now, my dear, suppose we kneel together, and both of us ask Him to show us the way out of this difficult matter. I want to be guided to use the right words with you, Cecil. You want to be guided to receive the instruction which I, as your teacher and mother-friend, would give you." Cecil and Mrs Willis both knelt down, and the head-mistress said a few words in a voice of great earnestness and entreaty; then they resumed their seats. "Now, Cecil," said Mrs Willis, "you must remember in listening to me that I am speaking to you as I believe God wishes me to. If I can convince you that you are doing wrong in concealing what you know from me, will you act as I wish in the matter?" "I long to be convinced," said Cecil, in a low tone. "That is right, my dear; I can now speak to you with perfect freedom. My words you will remember, Cecil, are now, I firmly believe, directed by God; they are also the result of a large experience. I have trained many girls. I have watched the phases of thought in many young minds. Cecil, look at me. I can read you like a book." Cecil looked up expectantly. "Your motive for this concealment is as clear as the daylight, Cecil. You are keeping back what you know because you want to shield some one. Am I not right, my dear?" The colour flooded Cecil's pale face. She bent her head in silent assent, but her eyes were too full of tears, and her lips trembled too much to allow her to speak. "The girl you want to defend," continued Mrs Willis, in that clear patient voice of hers, "is one whom you and I both love; is one for whom we both have prayed; is one for whom we would both gladly sacrifice ourselves if necessary--her name is--" "Oh, don't," said Cecil imploringly--"don't say her name; you have no right to suspect her." "I must say her name, Cecil dear. If you suspect Annie Forest, why should not I? You do suspect her, do you not, Cecil?" Cecil began to cry. "I know it," continued Mrs Willis. "Now, Cecil, we will suppose, terrible as this suspicion is, fearfully as it pains us both, that Annie Forest _is_ guilty. We must suppose for the sake of my argument that this is the case. Do you not know, my dear Cecil, that you are doing the falsest, cruellest thing by dear Annie in trying to hide her sin from me? Suppose, just for the sake of our argument, that this cowardly conduct on Annie's part was never found out by me; what effect would it have on Annie herself?" "It would save her in the eyes of the school," said Cecil. "Just so, but God would know the truth. Her next downfall would be deeper. In short, Cecil, under the idea of friendship you would have done the cruellest thing in all the world for your friend." Cecil was quite silent. "This is one way to look at it," continued Mrs Willis, "but there are many other points from which this case ought to be viewed. You owe much to Annie, but not all--you have a duty to perform to your other school-fellows. You have a duty to perform to me. If you possess a clue which will enable me to convict Annie Forest of her sin, in common justice you have no right to withhold it. Remember that while she goes about free and unsuspected some other girl is under the ban--some other girl is watched and feared. You fail in your duty to your school-fellows when you keep back your knowledge, Cecil. When you refuse to trust me, you fail in your duty to your mistress; for I cannot stamp out this evil and wicked thing from our midst unless I know all. When you conceal your knowledge, you ruin the character of the girl you seek to shield. When you conceal your knowledge, you go against God's express wish. There--I have spoken to you as He directed me to speak." Cecil suddenly sprang to her feet. "I never thought of all these things," she said. "You are right, but it is very hard, and mine is only a suspicion. Oh, do be tender to her, and--forgive me--may I go away now?" As she spoke, she pulled out the torn copy of Mrs Browning, laid it on her teacher's lap, and ran swiftly out of the chapel. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. TALKING OVER THE MYSTERY. Annie Forest sitting in the midst of a group of eager admirers, was chatting volubly. Never had she been in higher spirits, never had her pretty face looked more bright and daring. Cecil Temple, coming into the play-room, started when she saw her. Annie, however, instantly rose from the low hassock on which she had perched herself and, running up to Cecil, put her hand through her arm. "We are all discussing the mystery, darling," said she; "we have discussed it, and literally torn it to shreds, and yet never got at the kernel. We have guessed and guessed what your motive can be in concealing the truth from Mrs Willis, and we all unanimously vote that you are a dear old martyr, and that you have some admirable reason for keeping back the truth. You cannot think what an excitement we are in-- even Susy Drummond has stayed awake to listen to our chatter. Now, Cecil, do come and sit here in this most inviting little armchair, and tell us what our dear head-mistress said to you in the chapel. It did seem so awful to send you to the chapel, poor dear Cecil." Cecil stood perfectly still and quiet while Annie was pouring out her torrent of eager words; her eyes, indeed, did not quite meet her companion's, but she allowed Annie to retain her clasp of her arm, and she evidently listened with attention to her words. Now, however, when Miss Forest tried to draw her into the midst of the eager and animated group who sat round the play-room fire, she hesitated and looked longingly in the direction of her peaceful little drawing-room. Her hesitation, however, was but momentary. Quite silently she walked with Annie down the large play-room and entered the group of girls. "Here's your throne, Queen Cecil," said Annie trying to push her into the little armchair; but Cecil would not seat herself. "How nice that you have come, Cecil!" said Mary Pierce, a second-class girl. "I really think, we all think, that you were very brave to stand out against Mrs Willis as you did. Of course we are devoured with curiosity to know what it means; aren't we, Flo?" "Yes, we're in agonies," answered Flo Dunstan, another second-class girl. "You will tell exactly what Mrs Willis said, darling heroine?" proceeded Annie in her most dulcet tones. "You concealed your knowledge, didn't you? you were very firm, weren't you? dear, brave love!" "For my part, I think Cecil Temple the soul of brave firmness," here interrupted Susan Drummond. "I fancy she's as hard and firm in herself when she wants to conceal a thing as that rocky sweetmeat which always hurts our teeth to get through. Yes, I do fancy that." "Oh, Susy, what a horrid metaphor!" here interrupted several girls. One, however, of the eager group of school-girls had not opened her lips or said a word; that girl was Hester Thornton. She had been drawn into the circle by an intense curiosity; but she had made no comment with regard to Cecil's conduct. If she knew anything of the mystery she had thrown no light on it. She had simply sat motionless, with watchful and alert eyes and silent tongue. Now, for the first time, she spoke. "I think, if you will allow her, that Cecil has got something to say," she remarked. Cecil glanced down at her with a very brief look of gratitude. "Thank you, Hester," she said. "I won't keep you a moment, girls. I cannot offer to throw any light on the mystery which makes us all so miserable to-day; but I think it right to undeceive you with regard to myself. I have not concealed what I know from Mrs Willis. She is in possession of all the facts, and what I found in my desk this morning is now in her keeping. She has made me see that in concealing my knowledge I was acting wrongly, and whatever pain has come to me in the matter, she now knows all." When Cecil had finished her sad little speech she walked straight out of the group of girls, and, without glancing at one of them, went across the play-room to her own compartment. She had failed to observe a quick and startled glance from Susan Drummond's sleepy blue eyes, nor had she heard her mutter--half to her companions, half to herself--"Cecil is not like the rocky sweetmeat; I was mistaken in her." Neither had Cecil seen the flash of almost triumph in Hester's eyes, nor the defiant glance she threw at Miss Forest. Annie stood with her hands clasped, and a little frown of perplexity between her brows, for a moment; then she ran fearlessly down the play-room, and said in a low voice at the other side of Cecil's curtains-- "May I come in?" Cecil said "Yes," and Annie, entering the pretty little drawing-room, flung her arms round Miss Temple's neck. "Cecil," she exclaimed impulsively, "you're in great trouble. I am a giddy, reckless thing, I know, but I don't laugh at people when they are in real trouble. Won't you tell me all about it, Cecil?" "I will, Annie. Sit down there and I will tell you everything. I think you have a right to know, and I am glad you have come to me. I thought, perhaps--but no matter. Annie, can't you guess what I am going to say?" "No, I'm sure I can't," said Annie. "I saw for a moment or two to-day that some of those absurd girls suspected me of being the author of all this mischief. Now, you know, Cecil, I love a bit of fun beyond words. If there's any going on I feel nearly mad until I am in it; but what was done to-day was not at all in accordance with my ideas of fun. To tear up Miss Russell's essay and fill her desk with stupid plum-cake and Turkish delight seems to me but a sorry kind of jest. Now, if I had been guilty of that sort of thing, I'd have managed something far cleverer than that. If _I_ had tampered with Dora Russell's desk, I'd have done the thing in style. The dear, sweet, dignified creature should have shrieked in real terror. You don't know perhaps, Cecil, that our admirable Dora is no end of a coward. I wonder what she would have said if I had put a little nest of field-mice in her desk. I saw that the poor thing suspected me, as she gave way to her usual little sneer about the `underbred girl:' but, of course, _you_ know me, Cecil. Why, my dear Cecil, what is the matter? How white you are, and you are actually crying! What is it, Cecil? what is it, Cecil, darling?" Cecil dried her eyes quickly. "You know my pet copy of Mrs Browning's poems, don't you, Annie?" "Oh, yes, of course. You lent it to me one day. Don't you remember how you made me cry over that picture of little Alice, the over-worked factory girl? What about the book, Cecil?" "I found the book in my desk," said Cecil, in a steady tone, and now fixing her eyes on Annie, who knelt by her side--"I found the book in my desk, although I never keep it there; for it is quite against the rules to keep our recreation books in our school-desks, and you know, Annie, I always think it is so much easier to keep these little rules. They are matters of duty and conscience after all. I found my copy of Mrs Browning in my desk this morning with the cover torn off, and with a very painful and ludicrous caricature of our dear Mrs Willis sketched on the title-page." "What?" said Annie. "No, no; impossible." "You know nothing about it do you, Annie?" "I never put it there, if that's what you mean," said Annie. But her face had undergone a curious change. Her light and easy and laughing manner had altered. When Cecil mentioned the caricature she flushed a vivid crimson. Her flush had quickly died away, leaving her olive-tinted face paler than its wont. "I see," she said, after a long pause, "you, too, suspected me, Cecil, and that is why you tried to conceal the thing. You know that I am the only girl in the school who can draw caricatures, but did you suppose that I would show _her_ dishonour? Of course things look ugly for me, if this is what you found in your book; but I did not think that _you_ would suspect me, Cecil." "I will believe you, Annie," said Cecil eagerly. "I long beyond words to believe you. With all your faults, no one has ever yet found you out in a lie. If you look at me, Annie, and tell me honestly that you know nothing whatever about that caricature, I will believe you. Yes, I will believe you fully, and I will go with you to Mrs Willis and tell her that, whoever did the wrong, you are innocent in this matter. Say you know nothing about it, dear, dear Annie, and take a load off my heart." "I never put the caricature into your book, Cecil." "And you know nothing about it?" "I cannot say that; I never--never put it in your book." "Oh, Annie, exclaimed poor Cecil, you are trying to deceive me. Why won't you be brave? Oh, Annie, I never thought you would stoop to a lie!" "I'm telling no lie," answered Annie with sudden passion. "I do know something about the caricature, but I never put it into that book. There! you doubt me, you have ceased to believe me, and I won't waste any more words on the matter." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. "SENT TO COVENTRY." There were many girls in the school who remembered that dismal half-holiday--they remembered its forced mirth and its hidden anxiety; and as the hours flew by the suspicion that Annie Forest was the author of all the mischief grew and deepened. A school is like a little world, and popular opinion is apt to change with great rapidity. Annie was undoubtedly the favourite of the school; but favourites are certain to have enemies, and there were several girls unworthy enough and mean enough to be jealous of poor Annie's popularity. She was the kind of girl whom only very small natures could really dislike. Her popularity arose from the simple fact that hers was a peculiarly joyous and unselfish nature. She was a girl with scarcely any self-consciousness; those she loved, she loved devotedly; she threw herself with a certain feverish impetuosity into their lives, and made their interests her own. To get into mischief and trouble for the sake of a friend was an every-day occurrence with Annie. She was not the least studious; she had no one particular talent, unless it was an untrained and birdlike voice; she was always more or less in hot water about her lessons, always behindhand in her tasks, always leaving undone what she should do, and doing what she should not do. She was a contradictory, erratic creature--jealous of no one, envious of no one--dearly loving a joke, and many times inflicting pain from sheer thoughtlessness, but always ready to say she was sorry, always ready to make friends again. It is strange that such a girl as Annie should have enemies, but she had, and in the last few weeks the feeling of jealousy and envy which had always been smouldering in some breasts took more active form. Two reasons accounted for this: Hester's openly avowed and persistent dislike to Annie, and Miss Russell's declared conviction that she was underbred and not a lady. Miss Russell was the only girl in the first-class who had hitherto given wild little Annie a thought. In the first-class, to-day, Annie had to act the unpleasing part of the wicked little heroine. Miss Russell was quite certain of Annie's guilt; she and her companions condescended to discuss poor Annie and to pull all her little virtues to pieces, and to magnify her sins to an alarming extent. After two or three hours of judicious conversation, Dora Russell and most of the other first-class girls decided that Annie ought to be expelled, and unanimously resolved that they at least, would do what they could to "send her to Coventry." In the lower part of the school Annie also had a few enemies, and these girls, having carefully observed Hester's attitude toward her, now came up close to this dignified little lady, and asked her boldly to declare her opinion with regard to Annie's guilt. Hester, without the least hesitation, assured them that "of course Annie had done it." "There is not room for a single doubt on the subject," she said; "there--look at her now." At this instant Annie was leaving Cecil's compartment, and with red eyes, and hair, as usual, falling about her face, was running out of the play-room. She seemed in great distress; but, nevertheless, before she reached the door, she stopped to pick up a little girl of five, who was fretting about some small annoyance. Annie took the little one in her arms, kissed her tenderly, whispered some words in her ear, which caused the little face to light up with some smiles and the round arms to clasp Annie with an ecstatic hug. She dropped the child, who ran back to play merrily with her companions, and left the room. The group of middle-class girls still sat on by the fire, but Hester Thornton now, not Annie, was the centre of attraction. It was the first time in all her young life that Hester had found herself in the enviable position of a favourite; and without at all knowing what mischief she was doing, she could not resist improving the occasion, and making the most of her dislike for Annie. Several of those who even were fond of Miss Forest came round to the conviction that she was really guilty, and one by one, as is the fashion not only among school-girls but in the greater world outside, they began to pick holes in their former favourite. These girls, too, resolved that, if Annie were really so mean as maliciously to injure other girls' property and get them into trouble, she must be "sent to Coventry." "What's Coventry?" asked one of the little ones, the child whom Annie had kissed and comforted, now sidling up to the group. "Oh, a nasty place, Phena," said Mary Bell, putting her arm round the pretty child and drawing her to her side. "And who is going there?" "Why, I am afraid it is naughty Annie Forest." "She's not naughty! Annie sha'n't go to any nasty place. I hate you, Mary Bell." The little one looked round the group with flashing eyes of defiance, then wrenched herself away to return to her younger companions. "It was stupid of you to say that, Mary," remarked one of the girls. "Well," she continued, "I suppose it is all settled, and poor Annie, to say the least of it, is not a lady. For my own part, I always thought her great fun, but if she is proved guilty of this offence I wash my hands of her." "We all wash our hands of her," echoed the girls, with the exception of Susan Drummond, who, as usual, was nodding in her chair. "What do you say, Susy?" asked one or two--"you have not opened your lips all this lime." "I--eh?--what?" asked Susan, stretching herself and yawning, "oh, about Annie Forest--I suppose you are right, girls. Is not that the tea-gong? I'm awfully hungry." Hester Thornton went into the tea-room that evening feeling particularly virtuous, and with an idea that she had distinguished herself in some way. Poor foolish, thoughtless Hester, she little guessed what seed she had sown, and what a harvest she was preparing for her own reaping by-and-by. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. ABOUT SOME PEOPLE WHO THOUGHT NO EVIL. A few days after this Hester was much delighted to receive an invitation from her little friends, the Misses Bruce. These good ladies had not forgotten the lonely and miserable child whom they had comforted not a little during her journey to school six weeks ago. They invited Hester to spend the next half-holiday with them, and as this happened to fall on a Saturday, Mrs Willis gave Hester permission to remain with her friends until eight o'clock, when she would send the carriage to fetch her home. The trouble about Annie had taken place the Wednesday before, and all the girls' heads were full of the uncleared-up mystery when Hester started on her little expedition. Nothing was known; no fresh light had been thrown on the subject. Everything went on as usual within the school, and a casual observer would never have noticed the cloud which rested over that usually happy dwelling. A casual observer would have noticed little or no change in Annie Forest; her merry laugh was still heard, her light step still danced across the play-room floor, she was in her place in class, and was, if anything, a little more attentive and a little more successful over her lessons. Her pretty, piquant face, her arch expression, the bright, quick and droll glance which she alone could give, were still to be seen; but those who knew her well and those who loved her best saw a change in Annie. In the play-room she devoted herself exclusively to the little ones; she never went near Cecil Temple's drawing-room, she never mingled with the girls of the middle school as they clustered round the cheerful fire. At meal-times she ate little, and her room-fellow was heard to declare that she was awakened more than once in the middle of the night by the sound of Annie's sobs. In chapel, too, when she fancied herself quite unobserved, her face wore an expression of great pain; but if Mrs Willis happened to glance in her direction, instantly the little mouth became demure and almost hard, the dark eyelashes were lowered over the bright eyes, the whole expression of the face showed the extreme of indifference. Hester felt more sure than ever of Annie's guilt; but one or two of the other girls in the school wavered in this opinion, and would have taken Annie out of "Coventry" had she herself made the smallest advance toward them. Annie and Hester had not spoken to each other now for several days; but on this afternoon, which was a bright one in early spring, as Hester was changing her school-dress for her Sunday one, and preparing for her visit to the Misses Bruce, there came a light knock at her door. She said "Come in," rather impatiently, for she was in a hurry, and dreaded being kept. To her surprise Annie Forest put in her curly head, and then, dancing with her usual light movement across the room, she laid a little bunch of dainty spring flowers on the dressing-table beside Hester. Hester stared, first at the intruder and then at the early primroses. She passionately loved flowers, and would have exclaimed with ecstasy at these had anyone brought them in except Annie. "I want you," said Annie, rather timidly for her, "to take these flowers from me to Miss Agnes and Miss Jane Bruce. It will be very kind of you if you will take them. I am sorry to have interrupted you--thank you very much." She was turning away when Hester compelled herself to remark-- "Is there any message with the flowers?" "Oh, no--only Annie Forest's love. They'll understand." She turned half round as she spoke, and Hester saw that her eyes had filled with tears. She felt touched in spite of herself. There was something in Annie's face now which reminded her of her darling little Nan at home. She had seen the same beseeching, sorrowful look in Nan's brown eyes when she had wanted her friends to kiss her and take her to their hearts and love her. Hester would not allow herself, however, to feel any tenderness toward Annie. Of course she was not really a bit like sweet little Nan, and it was absurd to suppose that a great girl like Annie could want caressing and petting and soothing; still, in spite of herself, Annie's look haunted her, and she took great care of the little flower-offering, and presented it with Annie's message instantly on her arrival to the little old ladies. Miss Jane and Miss Agnes were very much pleased with the early primroses. They looked at one another and said-- "Poor dear little girl," in tender voices, and then they put the flowers into one of their daintiest vases, and made much of them, and showed them to any visitors who happened to call that afternoon. Their little house looked something like a doll's house to Hester, who had been accustomed all her life to large rooms and spacious passages; but it was the sweetest, daintiest, and most charming little abode in the world. It was not unlike a nest, and the Misses Bruce in certain ways resembled bright little robin redbreasts, so small, so neat, so chirrupy they were. Hester enjoyed her afternoon immensely; the little ladies were right in their prophecy, and she was no longer lonely at school. She enjoyed talking about her school-fellows, about her new life, about her studies. The Misses Bruce were decidedly fond of a gossip, but something which she could not at all define in their manner prevented Hester from retailing for their benefit any unkind news. They told her frankly at last that they were only interested in the good things which went on in the school, and that they found no pursuit so altogether delightful as finding out the best points in all the people they came across. They would not even laugh at sleepy, tiresome Susan Drummond; on the contrary, they pitied her, and Miss Jane wondered if the girl could be quite well, whereupon Miss Agnes shook her head, and said emphatically that it was Hester's duty to rouse poor Susy, and to make her waking life so interesting to her that she should no longer care to spend so many hours in the world of dreams. There is such a thing as being so kind-hearted, so gentle, so charitable as to make the people who have not encouraged these virtues feel quite uncomfortable. By the mere force of contrast they begin to see themselves something as they really are. Since Hester had come to Lavender House she had taken very little pains to please others rather than herself, and she was now almost startled to see how she had allowed selfishness to get the better of her. While the Misses Bruce were speaking, old longings, which had slept since her mother's death, came back to the young girl, and she began to wish that she could be kinder to Susan Drummond, and that she could overcome her dislike to Annie Forest. She longed to say something about Annie to the little ladies, but they evidently did not wish to allude to the subject. When she was going away, they gave her a small parcel. "You will kindly give this to your schoolfellow, Miss Forest, Hester dear," they both said, and then they kissed her, and said they hoped they should see her again: and Hester got into the old-fashioned school brougham, and held the brown-paper parcel in her hand. As she was going into the chapel that night, Mary Bell came up to her and whispered-- "We have not got to the bottom of that mystery about Annie Forest yet. Mrs Willis can evidently make nothing of her, and I believe Mr Everard is going to talk to her after prayers to-night." As she was speaking, Annie herself pushed rather rudely past the two girls; her face was flushed, and her hair was even more untidy than was its wont. "Here is a parcel for you, Miss Forest," said Hester, in a much more gentle tone than she was wont to use when she addressed this objectionable school-mate. All the girls were now filing into the chapel, and Hester should certainly not have presented the little parcel at that moment. "Breaking the rules, Miss Thornton," said Annie; "all right, toss it here." Then, as Hester failed to comply, she ran back, knocking her school-fellows out of place, and, snatching the parcel from Hester's hand, threw it high in the air. This was a piece of not only wilful audacity and disobedience, but it even savoured of the profane, for Annie's step was on the threshold of the chapel, and the parcel fell with a noisy bang on the floor some feet inside the little building. "Bring me that parcel, Annie Forest," whispered the stern voice of the head-mistress. Annie sullenly complied; but when she came up to Mrs Willis, her governess took her hand, and pushed her down into a low seat a little behind her. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. "AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS." The short evening service was over, and one by one, in orderly procession, the girls left the chapel. Annie was about to rise to her feet to follow her school-companions, when Mrs Willis stooped down and whispered something in her ear. Her face became instantly suffused with a dull red; she resumed her seat, and buried her face in both her hands. One or two of the girls noticed her despondent attitude as they left the chapel, and Cecil Temple looked back with a glance of such unutterable sympathy that Annie's proud, suffering little heart would have been touched could she but have seen the look. Presently the young steps died away, and Annie, raising her head, saw that she was alone with Mr Everard, who seated himself in the place which Mrs Willis had occupied by her side. "Your governess has asked me to speak to you, my dear," he said, in his kind and fatherly tones; "she wants us to discuss this thing which is making you so unhappy quite fully together." Here the clergyman paused, and, noticing a sudden wistful and soft look in the girl's brown eyes, he continued: "Perhaps, however, you have something to say to me which will throw light on this mystery?" "No, sir, I have nothing to say," replied Annie, and now again the sullen expression passed like a wave over her face. "Poor child," said Mr Everard. "Perhaps, Annie," he continued, "you do not quite understand me--you do not quite read my motive in talking to you to-night. I am not here in any sense to reprove you. You are either guilty of this sin, or you are not guilty. In either case I pity you; it is very hard, very bitter, to be falsely accused--I pity you much if this is the case; but it is still harder, Annie, still more bitter, still more absolutely crushing to be accused of a sin which we are trying to conceal. In that terrible case God Himself hides His face. Poor child, poor child, I pity you most of all if you are guilty." Annie had again covered her face, and bowed her head over her hands. She did not speak for a moment, but presently Mr Everard heard a low sob, and then another, and another, until at last her whole frame was shaken with a perfect tempest of weeping. The old clergyman, who had seen many strange phases of human nature, who had in his day comforted and guided more than one young school-girl, was far too wise to do anything to check this flow of grief. He knew Annie would speak more fully and more frankly when her tears were over. He was right. She presently raised a very tear-stained face to the clergyman. "I felt very bitter at your coming to speak to me," she began. "Mrs Willis has always sent for you when everything else has failed with us girls, and I did not think she would treat me so. I was determined not to say anything to you. Now, however, you have spoken good words to me, and I can't turn away from you. I will tell you all that is in my heart. I will promise before God to conceal nothing, if only you will do one thing for me." "What is that, my child?" "Will you believe me?" "Undoubtedly." "Ah, but you have not been tried yet. I thought Mrs Willis would certainly believe; but she said the circumstantial evidence was too strong--perhaps it will be too strong for you." "I promise to believe you, Annie Forest; if, before God, you can assure me that you are speaking the whole truth, I will fully believe you." Annie paused again, then she rose from her seat and stood a pace away from the old minister. "This is the truth before God," she said, as she locked her two hands together and raised her eyes freely and unshrinkingly to Mr Everard's face. "I have always loved Mrs Willis. I have reasons for loving her which the girls don't know about. The girls don't know that when my mother was dying she gave me into Mrs Willis's charge, and she said, `You must keep Annie until her father comes back.' Mother did not know where father was; but she said he would be sure to come back some day, and look for mother and me: and Mrs Willis said she would keep me faithfully until father came to claim me. That is four years ago, and my father has never come, nor have I heard of him, and I think, I am almost sure, that the little money which mother left must be all used up. Mrs Willis never says anything about money, and she did not wish me to tell my story to the girls. None of them know except Cecil Temple. I am sure some day father will come home, and he will give Mrs Willis back the money she has spent on me; but never, never, never can he repay her for her goodness to me. You see I cannot help loving Mrs Willis. It is quite impossible for any girl to have such a friend and not to love her. I know I am very wild, and that I do all sorts of mad things. It seems to me that I cannot help myself sometimes: but I would not willingly, indeed, I would not willingly hurt anybody. Last Wednesday, as you know, there was a great disturbance in the school. Dora Russell's desk was tampered with, and so was Cecil Temple's. You know, of course, what was found in both the desks. Mrs Willis sent for me, and asked me about the caricature which was drawn in Cecil's book. I looked at it and I told her the truth. I did not conceal one thing. I told her the whole truth as far as I knew it. She did not believe me. She said so. What more could I do then?" Here Annie paused, she began to unclasp and clasp her hands, and she looked full at Mr Everard with a most pleading expression. "Do you mind repeating to me exactly what you said to your governess?" he questioned. "I said this, sir. I said, `Yes, Mrs Willis, I did draw that caricature. You will scarcely understand how I, who love you so much, could have been so mad and ungrateful as to do anything to turn you into ridicule. I would cut off my right hand now not to have done it; but I did do it, and I must tell you the truth.' `Tell me, dear,' she said, quite gently then. `It was one wet afternoon about a fortnight ago,' I said to her; `a lot of us middle-school-girls were sitting together, and I had a pencil and some bits of paper, and I was making up funny little groups of a lot of us, and the girls were screaming with laughter, for somehow I managed to make the likeness that I wanted in each case.' It was very wrong of me, I know. It was against the rules; but I was in one of my maddest humours, and I really do not care what the consequences were. At last one of the girls said: `You won't dare to make a picture like that of Mrs Willis, Annie--you know you won't dare.' The minute she said that name I began to feel ashamed. I remembered I was breaking one of the rules, and I suddenly tore up all my bits of paper and flung them into the fire, and I said, `No, I would not dare to show her dishonour.' Well, afterwards, as I was washing my hands for tea up in my room, the temptation came over me so strongly that I felt I could not resist it, to make a funny little sketch of Mrs Willis. I had a little scrap of thin paper, and I took out my pencil and did it all in a minute. It seemed to me very funny, and I could not help laughing at it; and then I thrust it into my private writing-case, which I always keep locked, and I put the key in my pocket and ran downstairs. I forgot all about the caricature. I had never shown it to anyone. How it got into Cecil's book is more than I can say. When I had finished speaking Mrs Willis looked very hard at the book. `You are right,' she said; `this caricature is drawn on a very thin piece of paper, which has been cleverly pasted on the title-page.' Then, Mr Everard, she asked me a lot of questions. Had I ever parted with my keys? Had I ever left my desk unlocked? `No,' I said, `my desk is always locked, and my keys are always in my pocket. Indeed,' I added, `my keys were absolutely safe for the last week, for they went in a white petticoat to the wash, and came back as rusty as possible.' I could not open my desk for a whole week, which was a great nuisance. I told all this story to Mrs Willis, and she said to me, `You are positively certain that this caricature has been taken out of your desk by somebody else, and pasted in here? You are sure that the caricature you drew is not to be found in your desk?' `Yes,' I said; `how can I be anything but sure; these are my pencil marks, and that is the funny little turn I gave to your neck which made me laugh when I drew it. Yes; I am certainly sure.' "`I have always been told, Annie,' Mrs Willis said, `that you are the only girl in the school who can draw these caricatures. You have never seen an attempt at this kind of drawing amongst your school-fellows, or amongst any of the teachers?' "`I have never seen any of them try this special kind of drawing,' I said. `I wish I was like them. I wish I had never, never done it.' "`You have got your keys now?' Mrs Willis said. "`Yes,' I answered, pulling them all covered with rust out of my pocket. "Then she told me to leave the keys on the table, and to go upstairs and fetch down my little private desk. "I did so, and she made me put the rusty key in the lock and open the desk, and together we searched through its contents. We pulled out everything, or rather I did, and I scattered all my possessions about on the table, and then I looked up almost triumphantly at Mrs Willis. "`You see the caricature is not here,' I said, `somebody picked the lock and took it away.' "`This lock has not been picked,' Mrs Willis said, `and what is that little piece of white paper sticking out of the private drawer?' "`Oh, I forgot my private drawer,' I said; `but there is nothing in it-- nothing whatever,' and then I touched the spring, and pulled it open, and there lay the little caricature which I had drawn in the bottom of the drawer. There it lay, not as I had left it, for I had never put it into the private drawer. I saw Mrs Willis's face turn very white, and I noticed that her hands trembled. I was all red myself, and very hot, and there was a choking lump in my throat, and I could not have got a single word out even if I had wished to. So I began scrambling the things back into my desk, as hard as ever I could, and then I locked it, and put the rusty keys back in my pocket. "`What am I to believe now, Annie?' Mrs Willis said. "`Believe anything you like now,' I managed to say; and then I took my desk and walked out of the room, and would not wait even though she called me back. "That is the whole story, Mr Everard," continued Annie. "I have no explanation whatever to give. I did make the one caricature of my dear governess. I did not make the other. The second caricature is certainly a copy of the first, but I did not make it. I don't know who made it. I have no light whatever to throw on the subject. You see after all," added Annie Forest, raising her eyes to the clergyman's face, "it is impossible for you to believe me. Mrs Willis does not believe me, and you cannot be expected to. I don't suppose you are to be blamed. I don't see how you can help yourself." "The circumstantial evidence is very strong against you, Annie," replied the clergyman; "still, I promised to believe, and I have no intention of going back from my word. If, in the presence of God in this little church you would willingly and deliberately tell me a lie I should never trust human being again. No, Annie Forest, you have many faults, but you are not a liar. I see the impress of truth on your brow, in your eyes, on your lips. This is a very gainful mystery, my child; but I believe you. I am going to see Mrs Willis now. God bless you, Annie. Be brave, be courageous, don't foster malice in your heart to any unknown enemy. An enemy has truly done this thing, poor child; but God Himself will bring this mystery to light. Trust Him, my dear; and now I am going to see Mrs Willis." While Mr Everard was speaking, Annie's whole expressive face had changed; the sullen look had left it; the eyes were bright with renewed hope; the lips had parted in smiles. There was a struggle for speech, but no words came; the young girl stooped down and raised the old clergyman's withered hands to her lips. "Let me stay here a little longer," she managed to say at last; and then he left her. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. "THE SWEETS ARE POISONED." "I think, my dear madam," said Mr Everard to Mrs Willis, "that you must believe your pupil. She has not refused to confess to you from any stubbornness, but from, the simple reason that she has nothing to confess. I am firmly convinced that things are as she stated them, Mrs Willis. There is a mystery here which we neither of us can explain, but which we must unravel." Then Mrs Willis and the clergyman had a long and anxious talk together. It lasted for a long time, and some of its results at least were manifest the next morning, for, just before the morning's work began, Mrs Willis came to the large school-room, and, calling Annie Forest to her side, laid her hand on the young girl's shoulder. "I wish to tell you all, young ladies," she said, "that I completely and absolutely exonerate Annie Forest from having any part in the disgraceful occurrence which took place in this school-room a short time ago. I allude, of course, as you all know, to the book which was found tampered with in Cecil Temple's desk. Some one else in this room is guilty, and the mystery has still to be unravelled, and the guilty girl has still to come forward and declare herself. If she is willing at this moment to come to me here, and fully and freely confess her sin, I will quite forgive her." The head-mistress paused, and, still with her hand on Annie's shoulder, looked anxiously down the long room. The love and forgiveness which she felt shone in her eyes at this moment. No girl need have feared aught but tenderness from her just then. No one stirred; the moment passed, and a look of sternness returned to the mistress's fine face. "No," she said, in her emphatic and clear tones, "the guilty girl prefers waiting until God discovers her sin for her. My dear, whoever you are, that hour is coming, and you cannot escape from it. In the meantime, girls, I wish you all to receive Annie Forest as quite innocent. I believe in her, so does Mr Everard, and so must you. Anyone who treats Miss Forest except as a perfectly innocent and truthful girl incurs my severe displeasure. My dear, you may return to your seat." Annie, whose face was partly hidden by her curly hair during the greater part of this speech, now tossed it back, and raised her brown eyes with a look of adoration in them to her teacher. Mrs Willis's face, however, still looked harassed. Her eyes met Annie's, but no corresponding glow was kindled in them; their glance was just, calm, but cold. The childish heart was conscious of a keen pang of agony, and Annie went back to her lessons without any sense of exultation. The fact was this: Mrs Willis's judgment and reason had been brought round by Mr Everard's words, but in her heart of hearts, almost unknown to herself, there still lingered a doubt of the innocence of her wayward and pretty pupil. She said over and over to herself that she really now quite believed in Annie Forest, but then would come those whisperings from her pained and sore heart. "Why did she ever make a caricature of one who has been as a mother to her? If she made one caricature, could she not make another? Above all things, if _she_ did not do it, who did?" Mrs Willis turned away from these unpleasant whispers--she would not let them stay with her, and turned a deaf ear to their ugly words. She had publicly declared in the school her belief in Annie's absolute innocence, but at the moment when her pupil looked up at her with a world of love and adoration in her gaze, she found to her own infinite distress that she could not give her the old love. Annie went back to her companions, and bent her head over her lessons, and tried to believe that she was very thankful and very happy, and Cecil Temple managed to whisper a gentle word of congratulation to her, and at the twelve o'clock walk Annie perceived that a few of her school-fellows looked at her with friendly eyes again. She perceived now that when she went into the play-room she was not absolutely tabooed, and that, if she chose, she might speedily resume her old reign of popularity. Annie had, to a remarkable extent, the gift of inspiring love, and her old favourites would quickly have flocked back to their sovereign had she so willed it. It is certainly true that the girls to whom the whole story was known in all its bearings found it difficult to understand how Annie could be innocent; but Mr Everard's and Mrs Willis's assertions were too potent to be disregarded, and most of the girls were only too willing to let the whole affair slide from their minds, and to take back their favourite Annie to their hearts again. Annie, however, herself did not so will it. In the play-room she fraternised with the little ones who were alike her friends in adversity and sunshine; she rejected the overtures of her old favourites, but played, and romped, and was merry with the children of the sixth class. She even declined Cecil's invitation to come and sit with her in her drawing-room. "Oh, no," she said, "I hate being still; I am in no humour for a talk. Another time, Cecil, another time. Now then, Sybil, my beauty, get well on my back, and I'll be the willing dog carrying you round and round the room." Annie's face had not a trace of care or anxiety on it, but her eyes would not quite meet Cecil's, and Cecil sighed as she turned away, and her heart, too, began to whisper little, mocking, ugly doubts of poor Annie. During the half-hour before tea that evening Annie was sitting on the floor with a small child in her lap, and two other little ones tumbling about her, when she was startled by a shower of lollipops being poured over her head, down her neck, and into her lap. She started up and met the sleepy gaze of Susan Drummond. "That's to congratulate you, Miss," said Susan; "you're a very lucky girl to have escaped as you did." The little ones began putting Susan's lollipops vigorously into their mouths. Annie sprang to her feet, shaking the sticky sweetmeats out of her dress on to the floor. "What have I escaped from?" she asked, turning round and facing her companion haughtily. "Oh, dear me!" said Susan, stepping back a pace or two. "I--ah--" stifling a yawn--"I only meant you were very near getting into an ugly scrape. It's no affair of mine, I'm sure; only I thought you'd like the lollipops." "No, I don't like them at all," said Annie, "nor you either. Go back to your own companions, please." Susan sulkily walked away, and Annie stooped down on the floor. "Now, little darlings," she said, "you mustn't eat those. No, no, they are not good at all; and they have come from one of Annie's enemies. Most likely they are full of poison. Let us collect them all, every one, and we will throw them into the fire before we go to tea." "But I don't think there's any poison in them," said little Janie West in a regretful tone, as she gobbled down a particularly luscious chocolate cream; "they are all big, and fat, and bursty, and _so_ sweet, Annie, dear." "Never mind, Janie, they are dangerous sweeties all the same. Come, come, throw them into my apron, and I will run over and toss them into the fire, and we'll have time for a game of leap-frog before tea; oh, fie, Judy," as a very small fat baby began to whimper, "you would not eat the sweeties of one of Annie's enemies." This last appeal was successful. The children made a valiant effort, and dashed the tempting goodies into Annie's alpaca apron. When they were all collected, she marched up the play-room and in the presence of Susan Drummond, Hester Thornton, Cecil Temple, and several more of her school-companions, threw them into the fire. "So much for _that_ overture, Miss Drummond," she said, making a mock curtsey, and returning once more to the children. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. IN THE HAMMOCK. Just at this time the weather suddenly changed. After the cold and dreariness of winter came soft spring days--came longer evenings and brighter mornings. Hester Thornton found that, she could dress by daylight, then that she was no longer cold and shivering when she reached the chapel, then that she began intensely to enjoy her mid-day walk, then that she found her winter things a little too hot, until at last, almost suddenly it seemed to the expectant and anxious girls, glorious spring weather broke upon the world, the winds were soft and westerly, the buds swelled and swelled into leaf on the trees, and the flowers bloomed in the delightful old-fashioned gardens of Lavender House. Instantly, it seemed to the girls, their whole lives had altered. The play-room was deserted or only put up with on wet days. At twelve o'clock, instead of taking a monotonous walk on the roads, they ran races, played tennis, croquet, or any other game they liked best in the gardens. Later on in the day, when the sun was not so powerful, they took their walk; but even then they had time to rush back to their beloved shady garden for a little time before tea and preparation for their next day's work. Easter came this year about the middle of April, and Easter found these girls almost enjoying summer weather. How they looked forward to their few Easter holidays! what plans they made, what tennis matches were arranged, what games and amusements of all sorts were in anticipation! Mrs Willis herself generally went away for a few days at Easter; so did the French governess, and the school was nominally placed under the charge of Miss Good and Miss Danesbury. Mrs Willis did not approve of long Easter holidays; she never gave more than a week, and in consequence only the girls who lived quite near went home. Out of the fifty girls who resided at Lavender House about ten went away at Easter; the remaining forty stayed behind, and were often heard to declare that holidays at Lavender House were the most delightful things in the world. At this particular Easter time the girls were rather surprised to near that Mrs Willis had made up her mind not to go away as usual; Miss Good was to have a holiday, and Mrs Willis and Miss Danesbury were to look after the school. This was felt to be an unusual, indeed unheard-of, proceeding, and the girls commented about it a good deal, and somehow, without absolutely intending to do so, they began to settle in their own minds that Mrs Willis was staying in the school on account of Annie Forest, and that in her heart of hearts she did not absolutely believe in her innocence. Mrs Willis certainly gave the girls no reason to come to this conclusion; she was consistently kind to Annie, and had apparently quite restored her to her old place in her favour. Annie was more gentle than of old, and less inclined to get into scrapes; but the girls loved her far less in her present unnatural condition of reserve and good behaviour than they did in her old daring and hoydenish days. Cecil Temple always spent Easter with an old aunt who lived in a neighbouring town; she openly said this year that she did not wish to go away, but her governess would not allow her to change her usual plans, and she left Lavender House with a curious feeling of depression and coming trouble. As she was getting into the cab which was to take her to the station Annie flew to her side, threw a great bouquet of flowers which she had gathered into her lap, and, flinging her arms tightly round her neck, whispered suddenly and passionately: "Oh, Cecil, believe in me." "I--I--I don't know that I don't," said Cecil, rather lamely. "No, Cecil, you don't--not in your heart of hearts. Neither you nor Mrs Willis--you neither of you believe in me from the very bottom of your hearts; oh, it is hard!" Annie gave vent to a little sob, sprang away from Cecil's arms, and disappeared into a shrubbery close by. She stayed there until the sound of the retreating cab died away in the avenue, then, tossing back her hair, rearranging her rather tattered garden hat, and hastily wiping some tears from her eyes, she came out from her retreat, and began to look around her for some amusement. What should she do? Where should she go? How should she occupy herself? Sounds of laughter and merriment filled the air; the garden was all alive with gay young figures running here and there. Girls stood in groups under the horse chestnut tree--girls walked two and two up the shady walk at the end of the garden--little ones gambolled and rolled on the grass--a tennis match was going on vigorously, and the croquet ground was occupied by eight girls of the middle school. Annie was one of the most successful tennis players in the school; she had indeed a gift for all games of skill, and seldom missed her mark. Now she looked with a certain wistful longing toward the tennis-court; but, after a brief hesitation, she turned away from it and entered the shady walk at the farther end of the garden. As she walked along, slowly, meditatively, and sadly, her eyes suddenly lighted up. Glancing to one of the tall trees she saw a hammock suspended there which had evidently been forgotten during the winter. The tree was not yet quite in leaf, and it was very easy for Annie to climb up its branches, to readjust the hammock, and to get into it. After its winter residence in the tree this soft couch was found full of withered leaves, and otherwise rather damp and uncomfortable. Annie tossed the leaves on to the ground, and laughed as she swung herself gently backwards and forwards. Early as the season still was the sun was so bright and the air so soft that she could not but enjoy herself, and she laughed with pleasure, and only wished that she had a fairy tale by her side to help to soothe her off to sleep. In the distance she heard some children calling "Annie," "Annie Forest;" but she was far too comfortable and too lazy to answer them, and presently she closed her eyes and really did fall asleep. She was awakened by a very slight sound--by nothing more nor less than the gentle and very refined conversation of two girls, who sat under the oak-tree in which Annie's hammock swung. Hearing the voices, she bent a little forward, and saw that the speakers were Dora Russell and Hester Thornton. Her first inclination was to laugh, toss down some leaves, and instantly reveal herself: the next she drew back hastily, and began to listen with all her ears. "I never liked her," said Hester--"I never even from the very first pretended to like her. I think she is underbred, and not fit to associate with the other girls in the school-room." "She is treated with most unfair partiality," retorted Miss Russell in her thin and rather bitter voice. "I have not the smallest doubt, not the smallest, that she was guilty of putting those messes into my desk, of destroying my composition, and of caricaturing Mrs Willis in Cecil Temple's book. I wonder after that Mrs Willis did not see through her, but it is astonishing to what lengths favouritism will carry one. Mrs Willis and Mr Everard are behaving in a very unfair way to the rest of us in upholding this commonplace, disagreeable girl; but it will be to Mrs Willis's own disadvantage. Hester, I am, as you know, leaving school at Midsummer, and I shall certainly use all my influence to induce my father and mother not to send the younger girls here; they could not associate with a person like Miss Forest." "I never take much notice of her," said Hester; "but of course what you say is quite right, Dora. You have great discrimination, and your sisters might possibly be taken in by her." "Oh, not at all, I assure you; they know a true lady when they see her. However, they must not be imperilled. I will ask my parents to send them to Mdlle. Lablanche. I hear that her establishment is most _recherche_." "Mrs Willis is very nice herself, and so are most of the girls," said Hester, after a pause. Then they were both silent, for Hester had stooped down to examine some little fronds and moss which grew at the foot of the tree. After a pause, Hester said-- "I don't think Annie is the favourite she was with the girls." "Oh, of course not; they all, in their heart of hearts, know she is guilty. Will you come indoors, and have tea with me in my drawing-room, Hester?" The two girls walked slowly away, and presently Annie let herself gently out of her hammock and dropped to the ground. She had heard every word; she had not revealed herself, and a new and terrible--and, truth to say, absolutely foreign--sensation from her true nature now filled her mind. She felt that she almost hated those two who had spoken so cruelly, so unjustly of her. She began to trace her misfortunes and her unhappiness to the date of Hester's entrance into the school. Even more than Dora Russell did she dislike Hester; she made up her mind to revenge herself on both these girls. Her heart was very, very sore; she missed the old words, the old love, the old brightness, the old popularity; she missed the mother-tones in Mrs Willis's voice--her heart cried out for them, at night she often wept for them. She became more and more sure that she owed all her misfortunes to Hester, and in a smaller degree to Dora. Dora believed that she had deliberately insulted her, and injured her composition, when she knew herself that she was quite innocent of even harbouring such a thought, far less carrying it into effect. Well, now, she would really do something to injure both these girls, and perhaps the carrying out of her revenge would satisfy her sore heart. CHAPTER NINETEEN. CUP AND BALL. Just toward the end of the Easter holidays, Hester Thornton was thrown into a great tumult of excitement, of wonder, of half regret and half joy, by a letter which she received from her father. In this letter he informed her that he had made up his mind to break up his establishment for several years, to go abroad, and to leave Hester altogether under Mrs Willis's care. When Hester had read so far, she flung her letter on the table, put her head into her hands, and burst into tears. "Oh, how cruel of father!" she exclaimed; "how am I to live without ever going home--how am I to endure life without seeing my little Nan?" Hester cried bitterly; the strongest love of her nature was now given to this pretty and sweet little sister, and dismal pictures rose rapidly before her of Nan growing up without in the least remembering her-- perhaps, still worse, of Nan being unkindly treated and neglected by strangers. After a long pause, she raised her head, wiped her eyes, and resumed her letter. Now, indeed, she started with astonishment, and gave an exclamation of delight--Sir John Thornton had arranged that Mrs Willis was also to receive little Nan, although she was younger than any other child present in the school. Hester scarcely waited to finish her letter. She crammed it into her pocket, rushed up to Susan Drummond, and astonished that placid young lady by suddenly kissing her. "Nan is coming, Susy!" she exclaimed; "dear, darling, lovely little Nan is coming--oh, I am so happy!" She was far too impatient to explain matters to stolid Susan, and danced downstairs, her eyes sparkling and smiles on her lips. It was nothing to her now how long she stayed at school--her heart's treasure would be with her there, and she could not but feel happy. After breakfast Mrs Willis sent for her, and told her what arrangements were being made; she said that she was going to remove Susan Drummond out of Hester's bedroom, in order that Hester might enjoy her little sister's company at night. She spoke very gently, and entered with full sympathy into the girl's delight over the little motherless sister, and Hester felt more drawn to her governess than she had ever been. Nan was to arrive at Lavender House on the following evening, and for the first week her nurse was to remain with her until she got accustomed to her new life. The morning of the day of Nan's arrival was also the last of the Easter holidays, and Hester, awakening earlier than her wont, lay in bed, and planned what she would do to welcome the little one. The idea of having Nan with her continually had softened and touched Hester. She was not unhappy in her school-life--indeed, there was much in its monotonous, busy, and healthy occupation to stimulate and rouse the good in her. Her intellect was being vigorously exercised, and, by contact with her school-fellows, her character was being moulded; but the perfect harmony and brightness of the school had been much interrupted since Hester's arrival; her dislike to Annie Forest had been unfortunate in more ways than one, and that dislike, which was increasing each day, was hardening Hester's heart. But it was not hard this morning--all that was sweetest, and softest, and best in her had come to the surface--the little sister, whom her mother had left in her charge, was now to be her daily and hourly companion. For Nan's sake, then, she must be very good; her deeds must be gentle and kind, and her thoughts charitable. Hester had an instinctive feeling that baby eyes saw deep below the surface; Hester felt if Nan were to lose even a shadow of her faith in her she could almost die of shame. Hester had been very proud of Dora Russell's friendship. Never before had it been known in the school that a first-class girl took a third into such close companionship, and Hester's little head had been slightly turned by the fact. Her better judgment and her better nature had been rather blinded by the fascinations of this tall, graceful, satirical Dora. She had been weak enough to agree with Dora with her lips when in her heart of hearts she knew she was all wrong. By nature Hester was an honourable girl, with many fine traits in her character-- by nature Dora was small and mean and poor of soul. This morning Hester ran up to her favourite. "Little Nan is coming to-night," she said. Dora was talking at the moment to Miss Maitland, another first-class girl, and the two stared rather superciliously at Hester, and, after a pause, Dora said in her finest drawl-- "Who _is_ little Nan?" It was Hester's turn to stare, for she had often spoken of Nan to this beloved friend, who had listened to her narrative and had appeared to sympathise. "My little sister, of course," she exclaimed. "I have often talked to you about her, Dora. Are you not glad she is coming?" "No, my dear child, I can't say that I am. If you wish to retain my friendship, Hester, you must be careful to keep the little mite away from me; I can't bear small children." Hester walked away with her heart swelling, and she fancied she heard the two elder girls laughing as she left the play-room. Many other girls, however, in the school thoroughly sympathised with Hester, and amongst them no one was more delighted than Susan Drummond. "I am awfully good-natured not to be as cross as two sticks, Hetty," she exclaimed, "for I am being turned out of my comfortable room; and whose room do you suppose I am now to share? why, that little imp Annie Forest's." But Hester felt charitable, even toward Annie, on this happy day. In the evening little Nan arrived. She was a very pretty, dimpled, brown-eyed creature, of just three years of age. She had all the imperious ways of a spoilt baby, and, evidently, fear was a word not to be found in her vocabulary. She clung to Hester, but smiled and nodded to the other girls, who made advances to her, and petted her, and thought her a very charming baby. Beside Nan, all the other little girls in the school looked old. She was quite, two years the youngest, and it was soon very evident that she would establish that most imperious of all reigns--a baby reign--in the school. Hester fondled her and talked to her, and the little thing sat on her knee and stroked her face. "Me like 'oo, Hetty," she said several times, and she added many other endearing and pretty words which caused Hester's heart to swell with delight. She alone, of all the girls, had taken no notice of the new plaything. She walked to her usual corner, sat down on the floor, and began to play cup and ball for the benefit of two or three of the smallest children. Hester did not regard her in the least; she sat with Nan on her knee, stroking back her sunny curls, and remarking on her various charms to several of the girls who sat round her. "See, how pretty that dimple in her chin is," she said, "and oh, my pet, your eyes look wiser, and bigger, and saucier than ever. Look at me, Nan; look at your own Hetty." Nan's attention, however, was diverted by the gayly-painted cup and ball which Annie was using with her wonted dexterity. "Dat a pitty toy," she said, giving one quick and rather solemn glance at her sister, and again fixing her admiring gaze on the cup and ball. Annie Forest had heard the words, and she darted a sudden, laughing look at the little one. Annie's power over children was well-known. Nan began to wriggle on Hester's knee. "Dat a pitty lady," she said again, "and dat a pitty, tibby [little] toy; Nan go see." In an instant, before Hester could prevent her, she had trotted across the room, and was kneeling with the other children and shouting with delight over Annie's play. "She'll get her, you'll see, Hester," said one of the girls maliciously; "she'll soon be much fonder of Annie Forest than of you. Annie wins the heart of every little child in the school." "She won't win my Nan's from me," said Hester in a confident tone; but in spite of her words a great pang of jealousy had gone through her. She rose to her feet and followed her little sister. "Nan, you are sleepy, you must go to bed." "No, no, Hetty; me not s'eepy, me kite awake; go 'way, Hetty, Nan want to see the pitty tibby toy." Annie raised her eyes to Hester's. She did not really want to be unkind, and at that moment it had certainly never entered into her head to steal Hester's treasure from her, but she could not help a look of suppressed delight and triumph filling her eyes. Hester could scarcely bear the look; she stooped down, and taking one of Nan's little dimpled hands tried to drag her away. Instantly Annie threw the cup and ball on the floor. "The play is all over to-night, little darling," she said; "give Annie Forest one kiss, and run to bed with sister Hester." Nan, who had been puckering up her face to cry, smiled instantly; then she scrambled to her feet, and flung her little fat arms round Annie's neck. "Dat a vedy pitty p'ay," she said in a patronising tone, "and me like 'oo, me do." Then she gave her hand willingly to Hester, and trotted out of the play-room by her side. CHAPTER TWENTY. IN THE SOUTH PARLOUR. Immediately after Easter the real excitement of the school-year began. All the girls who had ambition, who had industry, and who had a desire to please distant fathers, mothers, or guardians, worked hard for that great day at Midsummer when Mrs Willis distributed her valuable prizes. From the moment of Hester's entrance into the school she had heard this day spoken of. It was, without doubt, the greatest day of the year at Lavender House. Smaller prizes were given at Christmas, but the great honours were always reserved for this long sunshiny June day, when Mrs Willis herself presented her marks of approbation to her successful pupils. The girls who had lived in the school for two or three years gave Hester vivid descriptions of the excitements, the pleasures, the delights of this day of days. In the first place, it was the first of the holidays, in the second it was spent almost from morning to night in the open air--for a great tent was erected on the lawn; and visitors thronged to Lavender House, and fathers and mothers, and aunts and uncles, arrived from a distance to witness the triumphs of the favoured children who had won the prizes. The giving away of the prizes was, of course, _the_ event of the day; but there were many other minor joys. Always in the evenings there was some special entertainment. These entertainments differed from year to year, Mrs Willis allowing the girls to choose them for themselves, and only making one proviso, that they must take all the trouble, and all the pains--in short, that they themselves must be the entertainers. One year they had tableaux vivants; another a fancy ball, every pretty dress of which had been designed by themselves, and many even made by their own industrious little fingers. Mrs Willis delighted in the interest and occupation that this yearly entertainment gave to her pupils, and she not only, encouraged them in their efforts to produce something very unique and charming, but took care that they should have sufficient time to work up their ideas properly. Always after Easter she gave the girls of the three first classes two evenings absolutely to themselves; and these they spent in a pretty room called the South Parlour, which belonged to Mrs Willis's part of the house, and was rarely used, except for these great preparations. Hester, therefore, after Easter found her days very full indeed. Every spare moment she devoted to little Nan, but she was quite determined to win a substantial prize, and she was also deeply interested in various schemes proposed in the South Parlour. With regard to prizes, Mrs Willis also went on a plan of her own. Each girl was expected to come up to a certain standard of excellence in all her studies, and if she fell very much below this standard she was not allowed to try for any prize; if she came up to it, she could select one subject, but only one, for competition. On the Monday after the Easter holidays the special subjects for the Midsummer prizes were given out, and the girls were expected to send in their answers as to the special prize they meant to compete for by the following Friday. When this day arrived Hester Thornton and Dora Russell both discovered that they had made the same choice--they were going to try for the English composition prize. This subject always obtained one of the most costly prizes, and several of the girls shook their heads over Hester's choice. "You are very silly to try for that, Hetty," they exclaimed, "for Mrs Willis has such queer ideas with regard to English composition. Of course, we go in for it in a general way, and learn the rules of grammar and punctuation, and so forth, but Mrs Willis says that school-girls' themes are so bad and affected, as a rule, and she says she does not think anyone will go in for her pet prize who has not natural ability. In consequence, she gives only one prize for composition between the three first classes. You had better change your mind, Hetty, before it is too late, for much older girls will compete with you, and there are several who are going to try." Hester, however, only smiled, and assured her eager friend that she would stick to her pet subject, and try to do the best she could. On the morning when the girls signified their choice of subject, Mrs Willis came into the school-room and made one of her little yearly speeches with regard to the right spirit in which her girls should try for these honours. The few and well-chosen words of the head-mistress generally roused those girls who loved her best to a fever of enthusiasm, and even Hester, who was comparatively a newcomer, felt a great wish, as she listened to that clear and vibrating voice and watched the many expressions which passed over the noble face, that she might find something beyond the mere earthly honour and glory of success in this coming trial. Having finished her little speech, Mrs Willis made several remarks with regard to the choice of subjects. She spoke of the English composition prize last, and here she heightened the interest and excitement which always hung around this special prize. Contrary to her usual rule, she would this year give no subject for an English theme. Each girl might choose what pleased her best. On nearing these words Annie Forest, who had been sitting by her desk looking rather dull and dejected, suddenly sprang to her feet, her face aglow, her eyes sparkling, and began whispering vigorously to Miss Good. Miss Good nodded, and, going up to Mrs Willis, said aloud that Annie had changed her mind, and that from not wishing to try for any of the prizes, she now intended to compete for the English composition. Mrs Willis looked a little surprised, but without any comment she immediately entered Annie's name in the list of competitors, and Annie sat down again, not even glancing at her astonished school-fellows, who could not conceal their amazement, for she had never hitherto shown the slightest desire to excel in this department. On the evening of this Friday the girls of the three first classes assembled for the first time in the South Parlour. Hitherto these meetings had been carried on in a systematic and business-like fashion. It was impossible for all the girls who belonged to these three large classes to assemble on each occasion. Careful selections, therefore, were, as a rule, made from their numbers. These girls formed a committee to superintend and carry on the real preparations for the coming treat, and the others only met when specially summoned by the committee to appear. As usual now the three classes found themselves in the South Parlour--as usual they chattered volubly, and started schemes, to reject them again with peals of laughter. Many ideas were put forward, to be cast aside as utterly worthless. No one seemed to have any very brilliant thought, and as the first step on these occasions was to select what the entertainment should be, proceedings seemed to come to a standstill. The fact was the most daring originator, the one whoso ideas were always flavoured with a spice of novelty, was absolutely silent. Cecil Temple, who had taken a seat near Annie, suddenly, bent forward and spoke to her aloud. "We have all said what we would like, and we none of us appear to have thought of anything at all worth having," she said; "but you have not spoken at all, Annie. Give us an idea, dear--you know you originated the fancy ball last year." Thus publicly appealed to, Annie raised her full brown eyes, glanced at her companions, not one of whom, with the exception of Cecil, returned her gaze fully; then, rising to her feet, she spoke in a slightly contemptuous tone. "These preparations seem to me to be much ado about nothing; they lake up a lot of our time, and the results aren't worth the trouble--I have nothing particular to say. Oh, well, yes, if you like--let's have blind man's buff and a magic lantern;" and then, dropping a mock curtsey to her companions, she dashed out of the South Parlour. "Insufferable girl!" said Dora Russell; "I wonder you try to draw her out, Cecil. You know perfectly that we none of us care to have anything to do with her." "I know perfectly that you are all doing your best to make her life miserable," said Cecil, suddenly and boldly. "No one in this school has obeyed Mrs Willis's command to treat Annie as innocent--you are practically sending her to Coventry, and I think it is unjust and unfair. You don't know, girls, that you are ruining poor Annie's happiness." "Oh, dear! she doesn't seem at all dull," said Miss West, a second-class girl. "I do think she's a hardened little wretch." "Little you know about her," said Cecil, the colour fading out of her pale face. Then, after a pause, she added, "The injustice of the whole thing is that in this treatment of Annie you break the spirit of Mrs Willis's command--you, none of you, certainly tell her that she is guilty, but you treat her as such." Here Hester Thornton said a daring thing. "I don't believe Mrs Willis in her heart of hearts considers Annie guiltless." These words of Hester's were laughed at by most of the girls, but Dora Russell gave her an approving nod, and Cecil, looking paler than ever, dropped suddenly into her seat, and no longer tried to defend her absent friend. "At any rate," said Miss Conway, who as the head girl of the whole school was always listened to with great respect. "It is unfortunate for the success of our entertainment that there should be all this discussion and bad feeling with regard to Miss Forest. For my own part, I cannot make out why the poor little creature should be hunted down, or what affair it is of ours whether she is innocent or not. If Mr Everard and Mrs Willis says she is innocent, is not that enough? The fact of her guilt or innocence can't hurt us one way or another. It is a great pity, however, for our own sakes, that we should be out with her now, for, whatever her faults, she is the only one of us who is ever gifted with an original thought. But, as we can't have her, let us set to work without her--we really can't waste the whole evening over this sort of talk." Discussions as to the coming pleasure were now again resumed with vigour, and after a great deal of animated arguing it was resolved that two short plays should be acted; that a committee should be immediately formed, who should select the plays, and apportion their various parts to the different actors. The committee selected included Miss Russell, Miss Conway, Hester Thornton, Cecil Temple, and two other girls of the second-class. The conference then broke up, but there was a certain sense of flatness over everything, and Cecil was not the only girl who sighed for the merry meetings of last year--when Annie had been the life and soul of all the proceedings, and when one brilliant idea after another with regard to the costumes for the fancy ball had dropped from her merry tongue. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. STEALING HEARTS. When Annie ran out of the South Parlour she found herself suddenly face to face with Mrs Willis. "Well, my dear child," said the head-mistress in her kindest voice, "where are you running to? But I suppose I must not ask; you are, of course, one of the busy and secret conclave in the South Parlour?" "No. I have left them," said Annie, bending her head, and after her usual habit when agitated, shaking her hair about her face. "Left them?" repeated Mrs Willis, "you mean, dear, that they have sent you for some message." "No. I am not one of them. May I go into the garden, Mrs Willis?" "Certainly, my dear." Annie did not even glance at her governess. She pushed aside the baize door, and found herself in the great stone hall which led to the play-room and school-room. Her garden hat hung on a peg in the hall, and she tossed it off its place, and holding it in her hand ran toward the side door which opened directly into the garden. She had a wild wish to get to the shelter of the forsaken hammock and there cry out her whole heart. The moment she got into the open air, however, she was met by a whole troop of the little children, who were coming in after their usual short exercise before going to bed. Miss Danesbury was with them, and when Annie ran out by the open door, she entered holding two little ones by the hands. Last in this group toddled Hester's little sister Nan. The moment she saw Annie her little face broke into smiles; she held out two hands eagerly, and fled to the young girl's side. "Where dat pitty toy?" she said, raising her round face to Annie's; "some one did buy dat toy, and it's vedy pitty, and me wants it--where's dat toy?" Annie stooped down, and spoke suddenly and impulsively to the little child. "You shall have the toy for your very own, Nan, if you will do something for me?" Nan's baby eyes looked straight into Annie's. "Me will," she said emphatically; "me want dat toy." "Put your arms round me, little darling, and give me a great, tight hug." This request was great fun to Nan, who squeezed her little arms round Annie's neck, and pressed her dimpled cheek to her lips. "Dere," she said triumphantly, "will dat do?" "Yes, you little treasure, and you'll try to love me, won't you?" "Me do," said Nan, in a solemn voice; but then Miss Danesbury called her, and she ran into the house. As Nan trotted into the house she put up her dimpled hand to wipe something from her round cheek--it was a tear which Annie Forest had left there. Annie herself, when all the little ones had disappeared, walked slowly and sadly down toward the shady walk. The sun had just set, and though it was now nearly May, and the evenings long, the wind was sufficiently cold to cause Annie to shiver in her thin house frock. At all times utterly fearless with regard to her health, she gave it no thought now, but entering the walk where she knew she should not be disturbed, she looked up at the hammock, and wondered whether she should climb into it. She decided, however, not to do so--the great and terrible weight of tears which had pressed close to her heart were relieved by Nan's embrace; she no longer cared to cry until she could cry no longer--the worst of her pain had been soothed by the sweet baby graciousness of the little one. Then there darted into poor Annie's sore heart and perplexed brain that dangerous thought and temptation which was to work so much future pain and trouble. She already loved little Nan, and Nan, as most children did, had taken a fancy to her. Annie stood still, and clasped her hands as the dark idea came to her to steal the heart of little Nan from Hester, and so revenge herself on her. By doing this she would touch Hester in her most vulnerable point--she would take from her what she valued most. The temptation came swiftly, and Annie listened to it, and thought how easy it would be to carry it into effect. She knew well that no little child could resist her when she chose to exercise her charms--it would be easy, easy work to make that part of Nan which was most precious all her own. Annie became fascinated by the idea; how completely then she would have revenged all her wrongs on Hester! Some day Hester would bitterly repent of her unjust prejudice toward her; some day Hester would come to her, and beg of her in agony to give her back her darling's love; ah! when that day came it would be her turn to triumph. She felt more than satisfied as the temptation grew upon her; she shut out persistently from her view all the other side of the picture; she would not let herself think that the work she was about to undertake was cruel and mean. Hester had been more than unjust, and she was going to punish her. Annie paced faster and faster up and down the shady walk, and whenever her resolution wavered, the memory of Hester's face as she had seen it the same night in the South Parlour came visibly back and strengthened it. Yes, her turn had come at last. Hester had contrived since her entrance into the school to make Annie's life thoroughly miserable. Well, never mind, it was Annie's turn now to make her wretched. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. IN BURN CASTLE WOOD. In concentrating her thoughts of revenge on Hester Annie ceased to trouble her head about Dora Russell. She considered Hester a crueller enemy than Dora. Hester belonged to her own set, worked in her own class, and would naturally, had things not turned out so unjustly, so unfairly, have been her friend, and not her enemy. Dora had nothing to say to Annie, and before Hester's advent into the school had scarcely noticed her existence. Annie therefore concentrated all her powers on punishing Hester. This gave her an aim and an occupation, and at first she felt that her revenge might give her real pleasure. Susan Drummond now shared Annie's bedroom, and Annie was rather startled one evening to hear this phlegmatic young person burst out into a strong tirade against Hester and Dora. Dora had managed, for some inexplicable reason, to offend Susan, and Susan now looked to Annie for sympathy, and boldly suggested that they should get up what she was pleased to call "a lark" between them for the punishment of this very dignified young lady. Annie had never liked Susan, and she now stared at her, and said in her quick way-- "You won't catch me helping you in any of your larks. I've had trouble enough on that score as it is." Susan gazed at her stupidly, and a dull read spread over her face. "But I thought you hated Dora and Hester," she said--"I'm sure they hate you." Annie was silent. "You do hate them, don't you?" persisted Miss Drummond. "It's nothing to you what I feel toward them, Susy," said Annie. "Please don't disturb me with any more of your chatter; I am very sleepy, and you are keeping me awake." Thus silenced, Susan had to content herself by turning on her back, and going into the land of dreams; but she was evidently a good deal surprised and disappointed, and began to entertain a certain respect, and even fear, of Annie, which had been hitherto unknown to her. Meanwhile Hester was very busy, very happy, and more satisfied--brighter and better employed than she had ever been in her life before. Nan's love satisfied the affectionate side of her nature, and all her intellect was strained to the utmost to win honours in the coming struggle. She had stuck firmly to her resolve to work for the English composition prize, and she firmly made up her own mind to leave no stone unturned to win it. What affection she, possessed for Miss Russell was not at all of a character to prevent her from thoroughly enjoying taking the prize out of her hands. Her love for Dora had been fed by vanity, and was not at all of a deep or noble character. She was some time carefully choosing the subject of her theme, and at last she resolved to write a brief historical description of the last days of Marie Antoinette. To write properly on this subject she had to read up a great deal, and had to find references in books which were not usually allowed as school-room property. Mrs Willis, however, always allowed the girls who were working for the English composition prize to have access to her rather extensive library, and here Hester was often to be found during play-hours. Two evenings in the week were also taken up in preparation for the coming plays, and as Hester was to take rather an important part in one, and a small character in another, she was obliged to devote herself to getting up her parts during the weekly half-holidays. Thus every moment was busy, and, except at night, she had little time to devote herself to Nan. Nan slept in a pretty crib in Hester's room, and each evening the young girl knelt down by her sister's side, and gazed at her with love which was almost motherly swelling in her breast. All that was best of Hester was drawn out at these moments; something greater than ambition--something far and away above school triumphs and school jealousies spoke then in her heart of hearts. These moments found her capable of being both sympathising and forgiving; these moments followed out in her daily life might have made Hester almost great. Now was the time, with her eyes full of tears and her lips trembling with emotion, for Annie Forest to have caught a glimpse of the divine in Hester; the hardness, the pride, the haughty spirit were all laid aside, and hers was the true child-heart as she knelt by the sleeping baby. Hester prayed earnestly at these moments, and, in truth, Nan did better for her than any sermon; better for her than even Mrs Willis's best influences. Nan was as the voice of God to her sister. Hester, in her very busy life, had no time to notice, however, a very slight and almost imperceptible change in bright little Nan. In the mornings she was in too great a hurry to pay much heed to the little one's chatter; in the afternoons she had scarcely an instant to devote to her, and when she saw her playing happily with the other children she was quite content, and always supposed that when a spare half-hour did come in her busy life Nan would rush to her with the old ecstasy, and give her the old devotion. One day, toward the end of a very fine May, the girls were all to go for a picnic to some woods about four miles away. They had looked forward for several days to this relaxation, and were in the highest state of delight and the wildest spirits. After an early dinner they were to drive in several large waggonettes to the place of _rendezvous_, where they were to be regaled with gypsy-tea, and were to have a few hours in the lovely Woods or Burn Castle, one of the show places of the neighbourhood. Mrs Willis had invited the Misses Bruce to accompany them, and they were all to leave the house punctually at two o'clock. The weather was wonderfully fine and warm, and it was decided that all the children, even Nan, should go. Perhaps none of the girls looked forward to this day's pleasure with greater joy than did Hester; she determined to make it a real holiday, and a real time of relaxation. She would forget her English theme; she would cease to worry herself about Marie Antoinette; she would cease to repeat her part in the coming play; and she would devote herself exclusively and determinedly to Nan's pleasure. She pictured the little one's raptures; she heard her gay shouts of joy, her ceaseless little rippling chatter, her baby glee, and, above all things, her intense happiness at being with her own Hetty for the greater part of a whole day. Hester would ride her on her shoulder, would race with her; all her usual, companions would be as nothing to her on this occasion, she would give herself up solely to Nan. As she was dressing that morning she said a word or two to the child about the coming treat. "We'll light a fire in the wood, Nan, and hang a kettle over it, and make tea--such good tea; won't it be nice?" Nan clapped her hands. "And may I take out my little ummabella (umbrella), case it might wain?" she asked anxiously. Hester flew to her and kissed her. "You funny darling!" she said. "Oh, we shall have such a day! You'll be with your own Hetty all day long--your own Hetty; won't you be glad?" "Me am," said Nan; "own Hetty, and own Annie; me am glad." Hester scarcely heard the last words, for the prayer-gong sounded, and she had to fly downstairs. At dinner time the girls were discussing who would go with each, and all were very merry and full of fun. "Miss Danesbury will take the little children," said Miss Good. "Mrs Willis says that all the little ones are to be in Miss Danesbury's charge." "Oh, please," said Hester suddenly, "may Nan come with me, Miss Good? She'll be so disappointed if she doesn't, and I'll take such care of her." Miss Good nodded a careless acquiescence, and Hester proceeded with her dinner, feeling thoroughly satisfied. Immediately after dinner the girls flew to their rooms to prepare for their expedition. Hastily opening a drawer, Hester pulled out a white frock, white pique pelisse, and washing hat for Nan--she meant her darling to look as charming as possible. "Oh, dear, Miss Danesbury should have brought her here by now," she said to herself impatiently, and then, hearing the crunching of carriage wheels on the drive, she flew to the bell and rang it. In a few moments one of the maids appeared. "Do you know where Miss Nan is, Alice? She is to go to Burn Castle with me, and I want to dress her, for it is nearly time to go." Alice looked a little surprised. "If you please, Miss," she said, "I think Miss Nan has just gone." "What do you mean, Alice? Miss Good said especially she was to go with me." "I know nothing about that, Miss; I only know that I saw Miss Forest carrying her downstairs in her arms about three minutes ago, and they went off in the waggonette with all the other little children and Miss Danesbury." Hester stood perfectly still, her colour changed from red to white; for full half a minute she was silent. Then, hearing voices from below calling to her, she said in a cold, quiet tone-- "That will do, Alice; thank you for letting me know." She turned to her drawer and put back Nan's white and pretty things, and also replaced a new and very becoming shady hat which she had meant to wear herself. In her old winter hat, and looking almost untidy for her, she walked slowly downstairs and took her place in the waggonette which was drawn up at the door. Cecil Temple and one or two other girls whom Hester liked very much were in the same waggonette, but she scarcely cared to talk to them, and only joined in their laughter by a strong effort. She was deeply wounded, but her keenest present desire was to hide any feelings of jealousy she had toward Annie from the quick eyes of her school-fellows. "Why," suddenly exclaimed Julia Morris, a particularly unobservant girl, "I thought you were going to bring that dear baby sister with you, Hester. Oh, I do hope there is nothing the matter with her." "Nan has gone on in the first waggonette with the little children," said Hester as cheerfully as she could speak, but she coloured slightly, and saw that Cecil was regarding her attentively. Susan Drummond exclaimed suddenly-- "I saw Annie Forest rushing down the stairs with little Nan, and Nan had her arms round her neck, and was laughing merrily. You need not be anxious about Nan, Hester; she was quite content to go with Annie." "I did not say I was anxious," replied Hester in a cold voice. "How very beautiful that avenue of beech trees is, Cecil!" "But Annie heard Miss Good say that you were to take Nan," persisted Julia Morris. "She could not but have noticed it, for you did flush up so, Hester, and looked so eager. I never saw anyone more in earnest about a trifle in my life; it was impossible for Annie not to have heard." "The great thing is that Nan is happy," said Hester in a fretted voice. "Do let us change the subject, girls." Cecil instantly began talking about the coming plays, and soon the conversation became of an absorbing character, and Hester's voice was heard oftener than the others, and she laughed more frequently than her companions. For all this forced merriment, however, Cecil did not fail to observe that when Hester got to the place of meeting at Burn Castle she looked around her with a quick and eager glance. Then the colour faded from her face, and her eyes grew dim. That look of pain on Hester's face was quite enough for kind-hearted Cecil. She had thrown herself on the grass with an exclamation of delight, but in an instant she was on her feet. "Now, of course, the first thing is to find little Nan," she said; "she'll be missing you dreadful, Hetty." Cecil held out her hand to Hester to run with her through the wood, but, to her surprise, Hester drew back. "I'm tired," she said; "I daresay we shall find Nan presently. She is sure to be safe, as she is under Miss Danesbury's care." Cecil made no remark, but set off by herself to find the little children. Presently, standing on a little knoll, and putting her two hands round her lips, so as to form a speaking trumpet, she shouted to Hester. Hester came slowly and apparently unwillingly toward her, but when she got to the foot of the knoll, Cecil flew down, and, taking her by the hand, ran with her to the top. "Oh, do come quick!" she exclaimed; "it is such a pretty sight." Down in the valley about fifty yards away were the ten or twelve little children who formed the infant portion of the school. Miss Danesbury was sitting at some distance off quietly reading, and the children, decked with flowers, and carrying tall grasses and reeds in their hands, were flying round and round in a merry circle, while in their midst, and the centre of attraction, stood Annie, whose hat was tossed aside, and whose bright, curling hair was literally crowned with wild flowers. On Annie's shoulder stood little Nan, carefully and beautifully poised, and round Nan's wavy curls was a starry wreath of wood-anemones. Nan was shouting gleefully and clapping her hands, while Annie balanced her slightest movement with the greatest agility, and kept her little feet steady on her shoulders with scarcely an effort. As the children ran round and round Annie she waltzed gracefully backwards and forwards to meet them, and they all sang snatches of nursery rhymes. When Cecil and Hester appeared they had reached in their varied collection-- "Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall." Here Nan exclaimed, in her clear, high-pitched voice-- "Me no fall, Annie," and the small children on the ground clapped their hands and blew kisses to her. "Isn't it pretty? Isn't Annie sweet with children?" said Cecil, looking round to Hester with all the admiration she felt for her friend shining in her face. The expression, however, which Hester wore at that moment really startled Cecil: she was absolutely colourless, and presently she called aloud in a harsh, strained voice-- "Be careful of her! How wicked of you to put her like that on your shoulder! She will fall--yes, I know she will fall; oh, do be careful!" Hester's voice startled the children, who ceased sinking and dancing: Annie made a hasty step forward, and one little voice alone kept singing out the words-- "Humpty Dumpty got a great fall!" when there was a crash and a cry, and Nan, in some inexplicable way, had fallen backwards from Annie's shoulders. In one instant Hester was in the midst of the group. "Don't touch her," she said, as Annie flew to pick up the child, who, falling with some force on her head, had been stunned; "don't touch her--don't dare! It was your doing; you did it on purpose--you wished to do it!" "You are unjust," said Annie, in a low tone. "Nan was perfectly safe until you startled her. Like all the rest you are unjust. Nan would have come to no harm if you had not spoken." Hester did not vouchsafe another word. She sat on the ground with the unconscious and pretty little flower-crowned figure laid across her lap; she was terrified, and thought in her inexperience that Nan must be dead. At the first mention of the accident Cecil had flown to fetch some water, and when she and Miss Danesbury applied it to little Nan's temples, she presently sighed, and opened her brown eyes wide. "I hope--I trust she is not much hurt," said Miss Danesbury; "but I think it safest to take her home at once. Cecil, dear, can you do anything about fetching a waggonette round to the stile at the entrance of the wood? Now the puzzle is, who is to take care of the rest of the little children? If only they were under Miss Good's care, I should breathe more easily." "I am going home with Nan," said Hester, in a hard voice. "Of course, my love: no one would think of parting you from your little sister," said the governess soothingly. "If you please, Miss Danesbury," said Annie, whose face was quite as pale as Hester's, and her eyes heavy as though she longed to cry, "will you trust me with the little ones? If you do, I will promise to take them straight to Miss Good, and to be most careful of them." Miss Danesbury's gentle and kind face looked relieved. "Thank you, Annie--of course I trust you, dear. Take the children at once to the meeting-place under the great oak, and wait there until Miss Good appears." Annie suddenly sprang forward, and threw her arms round Miss Danesbury's neck. "Miss Danesbury, you comfort me," she said, in a kind of stifled voice, and then she ran off with the children. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. "HUMPTY DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL." All the stupor and languor which immediately followed Nan's fall passed off during her drive home; she chatted and laughed, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. Hester turned with a relieved face to Miss Danesbury. "My little darling is all right, is she not?" she said. "Oh, I was so terrified--oh, how thankful I am no harm has been done!" Miss Danesbury did not return Hester's full gaze; she attempted to take little Nan on her knee, but Nan clung to Hetty. Then she said-- "You must be careful to keep the sun off her, dear--hold your parasol well down--just so. That is better. When we get home, I will put her to bed at once. Please God, there _is_ nothing wrong; cut one cannot be too careful." Something in Miss Danesbury's manner affected Hester strangely; she clasped Nan's slight baby form closer and closer to her heart, and no longer joined in the little one's mirth. As the drive drew to a close, Nan again ceased talking, and fell into a heavy sleep. Miss Danesbury's face grew graver and graver, and, when the waggonette drew up at Lavender House, she insisted on lifting the sleeping child out of Hester's arms, and carrying her up to her little crib. When Nan's little head was laid on the cool pillow, she again opened her eyes, and instantly asked for a drink. Miss Danesbury gave her some milk and water, but the moment she drank it she was sick. "Just as I feared," said the governess; "there is some little mischief-- not much, I hope--but we must instantly send for the doctor." As Miss Danesbury walked across the room to ring the bell, Hester followed her. "She's not in danger?" she whispered in a hoarse voice; "if she is, Annie is guilty of murder." "Don't, my dear," said the governess; "you must keep quiet for Nan's sake. Please God, she will soon be better. All I really apprehend is a little excitement and feverishness, which will pass off in a few days with care. Hester, my dear, I suddenly remember that the house is nearly empty, for all the servants are also enjoying a holiday. I think I must send you for Dr Mayflower. The waggonette is still at the door. Drive at once to town, my dear, and ask the coachman to take you to Number 10, The Parade. If you are very quick, you will catch Dr Mayflower before he goes out on his afternoon rounds." Hester glanced for half an instant at Nan, but her eyes were again closed. "I will take the best care of her," said the governess in a kind voice; "don't lose an instant, dear." Hester snatched up her hat and flew downstairs. In a moment she was in the waggonette, and the driver was speedily urging his horses in the direction of the small town of Sefton, two miles and a half away. Hester was terrified now--so terrified, in such an agony, that she even forgot Annie; her hatred toward Annie became of secondary importance to her. All her ideas, all her thoughts, were swallowed up in the one great hope--Should she be in time to reach Dr Mayflower's house before he set off on his afternoon rounds? As the waggonette approached Sefton she buried her face in her hands and uttered a sharp inward cry of agony. "Please God, let me find the doctor!" It was a real prayer from her heart of hearts. The waggonette drew up at the doctor's residence, to discover him stepping into his brougham. Hester was a shy child, and had never seen him before; but she instantly raised her voice, and almost shouted to him--"You are to come with me; please, you are to come at once. Little Nan is ill--she is hurt. Please, you are to come at once." "Eh! young lady?" said the round-faced doctor. "Oh! I see; you are one of the little girls from Lavender House. Is anything wrong there, dear?" Hester managed to relate what had occurred; whereupon the doctor instantly opened the door of the waggonette. "Jump out, young lady," he said; "I will drive you back in my brougham. Masters," addressing his coachman, "to Lavender House." Hester sat back in the soft-cushioned carriage, which bowled smoothly along the road. It seemed to her impatience that the pace at which they went was not half quick enough--she longed to put her head out of the window to shout to the coachman to go faster. She felt intensely provoked with the doctor, who sat placidly by her side reading a newspaper. Presently she saw that his eyes were fixed on her. He spoke in his quietest tones. "We always take precisely twenty minutes to drive from the Parade to Lavender House--twenty minutes, neither more nor less. We shall be there now in exactly ten minutes." Hester tried to smile, but failed; her agony of apprehension grew and grew. She breathed more freely when they turned into the avenue. When they stopped at the wide stone porch, and the doctor got out, she uttered a sigh of relief. She took Dr Mayflower herself up to Nan's room. Miss Danesbury opened the door, the doctor went inside, and Hester crouched down on the landing and waited. It seemed to her that the good physician would never come out. When he did she raised a perfectly blanched face to his, she opened her lips, tried to speak, but no words would come. Her agitation was so intense that the kind-hearted doctor took instant pity on her. "Come into this room, my child," he said. "My dear, you will be ill yourself if you give way like this. Pooh! pooh! this agitation is extreme--is uncalled for. You have got a shock. I shall prescribe a glass of sherry at once. Come downstairs with me, and I will see that you get one." "But how is she, sir--how is she?" poor Hester managed to articulate. "Oh! the little one--sweet, pretty, little darling. I did not know she was your sister--a dear little child. She got an ugly fall, though-- came on a nasty place." "But, please, sir, how is she? She--she--she is not in danger?" "Danger? by no means, unless you put her into it. She must be kept very quiet, and, above all things, not excited. I will come to see her again to-morrow morning. With proper care she ought to be quite herself in a few days. Ah! now you've got a little colour in your cheek, come down with me and have that glass of sherry, and you will feel all right." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. ANNIE TO THE RESCUE. The picnic-party arrived home late. The accident to little Nan had not shortened the day's pleasure, although Mrs Willis, the moment she heard of it, had come back; for she entered the hall just as the doctor was stepping into his carriage. He gave her his opinion, and said that he trusted no further mischief, beyond a little temporary excitement, had been caused. He again, however, spoke of the great necessity of keeping Nan quiet, and said that her school-fellows must not come to her, and that she must not be excited in any way. Mrs Willis came into the great hall where Hester was standing. Instantly she went up to the young girl, and put her arm around and drew her to her side. "Darling," she said, "this is a grievous anxiety for you; no words can express my sorrow and my sympathy; but the doctor is quite hopeful, Hester, and, please God, we shall soon have the little one as well as ever." "You are really sorry for me?" said Hester, raising her eyes to the head-mistress's face. "Of course, dear; need you ask?" "Then you will have that wicked Annie Forest punished--well punished-- well punished." "Sometimes, Hester," said Mrs Willis very gravely, "God takes the punishment of our wrongdoings into His own hands. Annie came home with me. Had you seen her face as we drove together you would not have asked _me_ to punish her." "Unjust, always unjust," muttered Hester, but in so low a voice that Mrs Willis did not hear the words. "Please may I go to little Nan?" she said. "Certainly, Hester--some tea shall be sent up to you presently." Miss Danesbury arranged to spend that night in Nan's room. A sofa bed was brought in for her to lie on, for Mrs Willis had yielded to Hester's almost feverish entreaties that she might not be banished from her little sister. Not a sound reached the room where Nan was lying-- even the girls took off their shoes as they passed the door--not a whisper came to disturb the sick child. Little Nan slept most of the evening, only sometimes opening her eyes and looking up drowsily when Miss Danesbury changed the cold application to her head. At nine o'clock there came a low tap at the room door. Hester went to open it; one of her school-fellows stood without. "The prayer-gong is not to be sounded to-night. Will you come to the chapel now? Mrs Willis sent me to ask." Hester shook her head. "I cannot," she whispered; "tell her I cannot come." "Oh, I am so sorry?" replied the girl; "is Nan very bad?" "I don't know: I hope not. Good-night." Hester closed the room door, took off her dress, and began very softly to prepare to get into bed. She put on her dressing-gown, and knelt down as usual to her private prayers. When she got on her knees, however, she found it impossible to pray; her brain felt in a whirl, her feelings were unprayerlike; and with the temporary relief of believing Nan in no immediate danger came such a flood of hatred toward Annie as almost frightened her. She tried to ask God to make Nan better--quite well; but even this petition seemed to go no way--to reach no one--to fall flat on the empty air. She rose from her knees, and got quietly into bed. Nan lay in that half-drowsy and languid state until midnight. Hester, with all her very slight expedience of illness, thought that as long as Nan was quiet she must be getting better; but Miss Danesbury was by no means so sure, and, notwithstanding the doctor's verdict, she felt anxious about the child. Hester had said that she could not sleep; but at Miss Danesbury's special request she got into bed, and before she knew anything about it was in a sound slumber. At midnight, when all the house was quiet, and Miss Danesbury kept a lonely watch by the sick child's pillow, there came a marked change for the worse in the little one. She opened her feverish eyes wide and began to call out piteously; but her cry now was, not for Hester, but for Annie. "Me want my Annie," she said over and over, "me do, me do. No, no; go 'way, naughty Daybury, me want my Annie; me do want her." Miss Danesbury felt puzzled and distressed. Hester, however, was awakened by the piteous cry, and sat up in bed. "What is it, Miss Danesbury?" she asked. "She is very much excited, Hester; she is calling for Annie Forest." "Oh, that is quite impossible," said Hester, a shudder passing through her. "Annie can't come here. The doctor specially said that none of the girls were to come near Nan." "Me want Annie; me want my own Annie," wailed the sick child. "Give me my dressing-gown, please, Miss Danesbury, and I will go to her," said Hester. She sprang out of bed, and approached the little crib. The brightness of Nan's feverish eyes was distinctly seen. She looked up at Hester, who bent over her; then she uttered a sharp cry and covered her little face. "Go 'way, go 'way, naughty Hetty--Nan want Annie; Annie sing, Annie p'ay with Nan--go 'way, go 'way, Hetty." Hester's heart was too full to allow her to speak; but she knelt by the crib and tried to take one of the little hot hands in hers. Nan, however, pushed her hands away, and now began to cry loudly. "Annie!--Annie!--Annie! me want 'oo; Nan want 'oo--poor tibby Nan want 'oo, Annie!" Miss Danesbury touched Hester on her shoulder. "My dear," she said, "the child's wish must be gratified. Annie has an extraordinary power over children, and under the circumstances I shall take it upon me to disobey the doctor's directions. The child must be quieted at all hazards. Run for Annie, dear--you know her room. I had better stay with little Nan, for, though she loves you best, you don't soothe her at present--that is often so with a fever case." "One moment," said Hester. She turned again to the little crib. "Hetty is going to fetch Annie for Nan. Will Nan give her own Hetty one kiss?" Instantly the little arms were flung round Hester's neck. "Me like 'oo now, dood Hetty. Go for Annie, dood Hetty." Instantly Hester ran out of the room. She flew quickly down the long passage, and did not know what a strange little figure she made as the moon from a large window at one end fell full upon her. So eerie, so ghost-like was her appearance as she flew noiselessly with her bare feet along the passage that some one--Hester did not know whom--gave a stifled cry. The cry seemed to come from a good way off, and Hester was too preoccupied to notice it. She darted into the room where Susan Drummond and Annie Forest slept. "Annie you are to come to Nan," she said in a sharp high-pitched voice which she scarcely recognised as her own. "Coming," said Annie, and she walked instantly to the door with her dress on, and stood in the moonlight. "You are dressed!" said Hester in astonishment. "I could not undress--I lay down as I was. I fancied I heard Nan's voice calling me. I guessed I should be sent for." "Well, come now," said Hester in her hardest tones. "You were only sent for because Nan must be quieted at any risk. Come, and see if you can quiet her. I don't suppose," with a bitter laugh, "that you will succeed." "I think so," replied Annie, in a very soft and gentle tone. She walked back by Hester's side and entered the sick-room. She walked straight up to the little cot, and knelt down by Nan, and said, in that strangely melodious voice of hers-- "Little darling, Annie has come." "Me like 'oo," said Nan, with a satisfied coo in her voice, and she turned round on her side, with her back to Miss Danesbury and Hester, and her eyes fixed on Annie. "Sing `Four-and-twenty,' Annie; sing `Four-and-twenty,'" she said presently. "Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie," sang Annie in a low clear voice, without a moment's hesitation. She went through the old nursery rhyme once--twice. Then Nan interrupted her fretfully-- "Me don't want dat 'dain; sing `Boy Blue,' Annie." Annie sang. "`Tree Little Kittens,' Annie," interrupted the little voice presently. For more than two hours Annie knelt by the child, singing nursery rhyme after nursery rhyme, while the bright beautiful eyes were fixed on her face, and the little voice said incessantly-- "Sing, Annie--sing." "`Baby Bun,' now," said Nan, when Annie had come almost to the end of her selection. "Bye baby bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting-- He's gone to fetch a rabbit-skin, To place the baby bunting in." Over and over and over did Annie sing the words. Whenever, even for a brief moment she paused, Nan said-- "Sing, Annie--sing `Baby Bun.'" And all the time the eyes remained wide-open, and the little hands were burning hot; but, gradually, after more than two hours of constant singing, Annie began to fancy that the burning skin was cooler. Then-- could she believe it?--she saw the lids droop over the wide-open eyes. Five minutes later, to the tune of "Baby Bunting," Nan had fallen into a deep and sound sleep. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. A SPOILT BABY. In the morning Nan was better, and although for days she was in a very precarious state, and had to be kept as quiet as possible, yet Miss Danesbury's great dread that fever would set in had passed away. The doctor said, however, that Nan had barely escaped real injury to her brain, and that it would be many a day before she would romp again, and play freely and noisily with the other children. Nan had chosen her own nurse, and with the imperiousness of all babies--to say nothing of sick babies--she had her way. From morning till night Annie remained with her, and when the doctor saw how Annie alone could soothe and satisfy the child he would not allow it to be otherwise. At first Nan would lie with her hand in Annie's, and her little cry of "Sing, Annie," going on from lime to time; but as she grew better Annie would sit with her by the open window, with her head pillowed on her breast, and her arm round the little slender form, and Nan would smile and look adoringly at Annie, who would often return her gaze with intense sadness, and an indescribable something in her face which caused the little one to stroke her cheek tenderly, and say in her sweet baby voice-- "Poor Annie; poor tibby Annie!" They made a pretty picture as they sat there. Annie, with her charming gypsy face, her wild, luxuriant, curly hair, all the sauciness and unrest in her soothed by the magic of the little child's presence; and the little child herself, with her faint wild-rose colour, her dark deep eyes, clear as summer pools, and her sunshiny golden hair. But pretty as the picture was Hester loathed it, for Hester thought during these wretched days that her heart would break. Not that Nan turned away from Hetty; she petted her and kissed her and sometimes put an arm round Hetty and an arm round Annie, as though, if she could, she would draw them together; but anyone could see that her heart of hearts was given to Annie, and that Hester ranked second in her love. Hester would not for worlds express any of her bitter feelings before Annie; nay, as the doctor and Miss Danesbury both declared that, however culpable Annie might have been in causing the accident, she had saved little Nan's life by her wonderful skill in soothing her to sleep on the first night of her illness, Hester had felt obliged to grumble something which might have been taken for "thanks." Annie, in reply to this grumble, had bestowed upon Hester one of her quickest, brightest glances, for she fathomed the true state of Hester's heart toward her well enough. These were very bad days for poor Hester, and but for the avidity with which she threw herself into her studies she could scarcely have borne them. By slow degrees Nan got better; she was allowed to come downstairs and to sit in Annie's arms in the garden, and then Mrs Willis interfered, and said that Annie must go back to her studies, and only devote her usual play-hours and half-holidays to Nan's service. This mandate, however, produced woe and tribulation. The spoilt child screamed and beat her little hands, and worked herself up into such a pitch of excitement that that night she found her way in her sleep to Annie's room, and Annie had to quiet her by taking her into her bed. In the morning the doctor had to be sent for, and he instantly prescribed a day or two more of Annie's company for the child. Mrs Willis felt dreadfully puzzled. She had undertaken the charge of the little one: her father was already far away, so it was impossible now to make any change of plans; the child was ill--had been injured by an accident caused by Annie's carelessness and by Hester's want of self-control. But weak and ill as Nan still was, Mrs Willis felt that an undue amount of spoiling was good for no one. She thought it highly unjust to Annie to keep her from her school employments at this most important period of the year. If Annie did not reach a certain degree of excellence in her school marks she could not be promoted in her class. Mrs Willis did not expect the wild and heedless girl to carry off any special prizes; but her abilities were quite up to the average, and she always hoped to rouse sufficient ambition in her to enable her to acquire a good and sound education. Mrs Willis knew how necessary this was for poor Annie's future, and, after giving the doctor an assurance that Nan's whims and pleasures should be attended to for the next two or three days, she determined at the end of that time to assert her own authority with the child, and to insist on Annie working hard at her lessons, and returning to her usual school-room life. On the morning of the third day Mrs Willis made inquiries, heard that Nan had spent an excellent night, eaten a hearty breakfast, and was altogether looking blooming. When the girls assembled in the school-room for their lessons, Annie brought her little charge down to the large play-room, where they established themselves cosily, and Annie began to instruct little Nan in the mysteries of-- "Tic, tac, too, The little horse has lost his shoe." Nan was entering into the spirit of the game, was imagining herself a little horse, and was holding out her small foot to be shod, when Mrs Willis entered the room. "Come with me, Nan," she said; "I have got something to show you." Nan got up instantly, held out one hand to Mrs Willis and the other to Annie, and said, in her confident baby tones-- "Me tum; Annie tumming too." Mrs Willis said nothing, but, holding the little hand, and accompanied by Annie, she went out of the play-room, across the stone hall, and through the baize doors until she reached her own delightful private sitting-room. There were heaps of pretty things about, and Nan gazed round her with the appreciative glance of a pleased connoisseur. "Pitty 'oom," she said approvingly. "Nan likes this 'oom. Me'll stay here, and so will Annie." Here she uttered a sudden cry of rapture--on the floor, with its leaves temptingly open, lay a gayly-painted picture-book, and curled up in a soft fluffy ball by its side was a white Persian kitten asleep. Mrs Willis whispered something to Annie, who ran out of the room, and Nan knelt down in a perfect rapture of worship by the kitten's side. "Pitty tibby pussy!" she exclaimed several times, and she rubbed it so persistently the wrong way that the kitten shivered and stood up, arched its beck very high, yawned, turned round three times, and lay down again. Alas! "tibby pussy" was not allowed to have any continuous slumber. Nan dragged the Persian by its tail into her lap, and when it resisted this indignity, and with two or three light bounds disappeared out of the room, she stretched out her little hands and began to cry for it. "Turn back, puss, puss--turn back, poor tibby puss--Nan loves 'oo. Annie, go fetch puss for Nan." Then for the first time she discovered that Annie was absent, and that she was alone, with the exception of Mrs Willis, who sat busily writing at a distant table. Mrs Willis counted for nothing at all with Nan--she did not consider her of the smallest importance, and after giving her a quick glance of some disdain she began to trot round the room on a voyage of discovery. Any moment Annie would come back--Annie had, indeed, probably gone to fetch the kitten, and would quickly return with it. She walked slowly round and round, keeping well away from that part of the room where Mrs Willis sat. Presently she found a very choice little china jug, which she carefully subtracted with her small fingers from a cabinet, which contained many valuable treasures. She sat down on the floor exactly beneath the cabinet, and began to play with her jug. She went through in eager pantomime a little game which Annie had invented for her, and imagined that she was a little milkmaid, and that the jug was full of sweet new milk; she called out to an imaginary set of purchasers, "Want any milk?" and then she floured some by way of drops of milk into the palm of her little hand, which she drank up in the name of her customers with considerable gusto. Presently, knocking the little jug with some vehemence on the floor she deprived it with one neat blow of its handle and spout. Mrs Willis was busily writing, and did not look up. Nan was not in the least disconcerted; she said aloud-- "Poor tibby zug b'oke," and then she left the fragments on the floor, and started off on a fresh voyage of discovery. This time she dragged down a large photographic album on to a cushion, and, kneeling by it, began to look through the pictures, flapping the pages together with a loud noise, and laughing merrily as she did so. She was now much nearer to Mrs Willis, who was attracted by the sound, and looking up hastened to the rescue of one of her most precious collections of photographs. "Nan, dear," she said, "shut up that book at once. Nan mustn't touch. Shut the book, darling, and go and sit on the floor, and look at your nice-coloured pictures." Nan, still holding a chubby hand between the leaves of the album, gave Mrs Willis a full defiant glance, and said-- "Me won't." "Come, Nan," said the head-mistress. "Me want Annie," said Nan, still kneeling by the album, and, bending her head over the photographs, she turned the page and burst into a peal of laughter. "Pitty bow vow," she said, pointing to a photograph of a retriever; "oh, pitty bow woo, Nan loves 'oo." Mrs Willis stooped down and lifted the little girl into her arms. "Nan, dear," she said, "it is naughty to disobey. Sit down by your picture-book, and be a good girl." "Me won't," said Nan again, and here she raised her small dimpled hand and gave Mrs Willis a smart slap on her cheek. "Naughty lady, me don't like 'oo; go 'way. Nan want Annie--Nan do want Annie. Me don't love 'oo, naughty lady; go 'way." Mrs Willis took Nan on her knee. She felt that the little will must be bent to hers, but the task was no easy one. The child scarcely knew her, she was still weak and excitable, and she presently burst into storms of tears, and sobbed and sobbed as though her little heart would break, her one cry being for "Annie, Annie, Annie." When Annie did join her in the play hour, the little cheeks were flushed, the white brow ached, and the child's small hands were hot and feverish. Mrs Willis felt terribly puzzled. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. UNDER THE LAUREL-BUSH. Mrs Willis owned to herself that she was nonplussed; it was quite impossible to allow Annie to neglect her studies, and yet little Nan's health was still too precarious to allow her to run the risk of having the child constantly fretted. Suddenly a welcome idea occurred to her; she would write at once to Nan's old nurse, and see if she could come to Lavender House for the remainder of the present term. Mrs Willis dispatched her letter that very day, and by the following evening the nurse was once more in possession of her much-loved little charge. The habits of her babyhood were too strong for Nan; she returned to them gladly enough, and though in her heart of hearts she was still intensely loyal to Annie, she no longer fretted when she was not with her. Annie resumed her ordinary work and though Hester was very cold to her, several of the other girls in the school frankly confided to their favourite how much they had missed her, and how glad they were to have her back with them once more. Annie found herself at this time in an ever-shifting mood--one moment she longed intensely for a kiss, and a fervent pardon from Mrs Willis's lips; another, she said to herself defiantly she could and would live without it; one moment the hungry and sorrowful look in Hester's eyes went straight to Annie's heart, and she wished she might restore her little treasure whom she had stolen; the next she rejoiced in her strange power over Nan, and resolved to keep all the love she could get. In short, Annie was in that condition when she could be easily influenced for good or evil--she was in that state of weakness when temptation is least easily resisted. A few days after the arrival of Nan's nurse Mrs Willis was obliged unexpectedly to leave home; a near relative was dangerously ill in London, and the school-mistress went away in much trouble and anxiety. Some of her favourite pupils flocked to the front entrance to see their beloved mistress off. Amongst the group Cecil stood, and several girls of the first-class; many of the little girls were also present, but Annie was not amongst them. Just at the last moment she rushed up breathlessly; she was tying some starry jasmine and some blue forget-me-nots together, and as the carriage was moving off she flung the charming bouquet into her mistress's lap. Mrs Willis rewarded her with one of her old looks of confidence and love; she raised the flowers to her lips and kissed them, and her eyes smiled on Annie. "Good-bye, dear," she called out; "good-bye, all my dear girls; I will try and be back to-morrow night. Remember, my children, during my absence I trust you." The carriage disappeared down the avenue, and the group of girls melted away. Cecil looked round for Annie, but Annie had been the first to disappear. When her mistress had kissed the flowers and smiled at her, Annie darted into the shrubbery and stood there wiping the fast-falling tears from her eyes. She was interrupted in this occupation by the sudden cries of two glad and eager voices, and instantly her hands were taken, and some girls rather younger than herself began to drag her in the opposite direction through the shrubbery. "Come, Annie--come at once, Annie, darling," exclaimed Phyllis and Nora Raymond. "The basket has come; it's under the thick laurel-tree in the back avenue. We are all waiting for you; we none of us will open it till you arrive." Annie's face, a truly April one, changed as if by magic. The tears dried on her cheeks; her eyes filled with sunlight; she was all eager for the coming fun. "Then we won't lose a moment, Phyllis," she said; "we'll see what that duck of a Betty has done for us." The three girls scampered down the back avenue, where they found five of their companions, amongst them Susan Drummond, standing in different attitudes of expectation near a very large and low-growing laurel-tree. Everyone raised a shout when Annie appeared; she was undoubtedly recognised as queen and leader of the proceedings. She took her post without an instant's hesitation, and began ordering her willing subjects about. "Now, is the coast clear? yes, I think so. Come, Susie, greedy as you are, you must take your part. You alone of all of us can cackle with the exact imitation of an old hen: get behind that tree at once and watch the yard. Don't forget to cackle for your life if you even see the shadow of a footfall. Norah, my pretty birdie, you must be the thrush for the nonce; here, lake your post, watch the lawn and the front avenue. Now then, girls, the rest of us can see what spoils Betty has provided for us." The basket was dragged from its hiding-place, and longing faces peered eagerly and greedily into its contents. "On, oh! I say, cherries! and what a lot! Good Betty! dear, darling Betty! you gathered those from your own trees, and they are as ripe as your apple-blossom cheeks! Now then, what next? I do declare, meringues! Betty knew my weakness. Twelve meringues--that is one and a half apiece; Susan Drummond sha'n't have more than her share. Meringues and cheesecakes and--tartlets--oh! oh! what a duck Betty is! A plum-cake--good, excellent Betty, she deserves to be canonised! What have we here? Roast chickens--better and better! What is in this parcel? Slices of ham; Betty knew she dare not show her face again if she forgot the ham. Knives and forks, spoons--fresh rolls--salt and pepper, and a dozen bottles of ginger-beer, and a little corkscrew in case we want it." These various exclamations came from many lips. The contents of the basket were carefully and tenderly replaced, the lid was fastened down, and it was once more consigned to its hiding-place under the thick boughs of the laurel. Not a moment too soon, for just at this instant Susan cackled fiercely, and the little group withdrew, Annie first whispering-- "At twelve to-night, then, girls--oh, yes, I have managed the key." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. TRUANTS. It was a proverbial saying in the school that Annie Forest was always in hot water; she was exceedingly daring, and loved what she called a spice of danger. This was not the first stolen picnic at which Annie reigned as queen, but this was the largest she had yet organised, and this was the first time she had dared to go out of doors with her satellites. Hitherto these naughty sprites had been content to carry their baskets full of artfully-concealed provisions to a disused attic which was exactly over the box-room, and consequently out of reach of the inhabited part of the house. Here, making a table of a great chest which stood in the attic, they feasted gloriously, undisturbed by the musty smell or by the innumerable spiders and beetles which disappeared rapidly in all directions at their approach; but when Annie one day incautiously suggested that on summer nights the outside world was all at their disposal, they began to discover flaws in their banqueting-hall. Mary Price said the musty smell made her half sick; Phyllis declared that at the sight of a spider she invariably turned faint; and Susan Drummond was heard to murmur that in a dusty, fusty attic even meringues scarcely kept her awake. The girls were all wild to try a midnight picnic out of doors, and Annie in her present mood, was only too eager for the fun. With her usual skill she organised the whole undertaking, and eight agitated, slightly frightened, but much excited girls retired to their rooms that night. Annie, in her heart of hearts, felt rather sorry that Mrs Willis should happen to be away; dim ideas of honour and trustworthiness were still stirring in her breast, but she dared not think now. The night was in every respect propitious; the moon would not rise until after twelve, so the little party could get away under the friendly shelter of the darkness, and soon afterwards have plenty of light to enjoy their stolen feast. They had arranged to make no movement until close on midnight, and then they were all to meet in a passage which belonged to the kitchen regions, and where there was a side door which opened directly into the shrubbery. This door was not very often unlocked, and Annie had taken the key from its place in the lock some days before. She went to bed with her companions at nine o'clock as usual, and presently fell into an uneasy doze. She awoke to hear the great clock in the hall strike eleven and a few minutes afterwards she heard Miss Danesbury's footsteps retiring to her room at the other end of the passage. "Danesbury is always the last to go to bed," whispered Annie to herself; "I can get up presently." She lay for another twenty minutes, then, softly rising, began to put on her clothes in the dark. Over her dress she fastened her waterproof, and placed a close-fitting brown velvet cap on her curly head. Having dressed herself, she approached Susan's bed with the intention of rousing her. "I shall have fine work now," she said, "and shall probably have to resort to cold water. Really, if Susy proves too hard to wake, I shall let her sleep on--her drowsiness is past bearing." Annie, however, was considerably startled when she discovered that Miss Drummond's bed was without an occupant. At this moment the room door was very softly opened, and Susan, fully dressed and in her waterproof, came in. "Why, Susy, where have you been?" exclaimed Annie. "Fancy you being awake a moment before it is necessary!" "For once in a way I was restless," replied Miss Drummond, "so I thought I would get up, and take a turn in the passage outside. The house is perfectly quiet, and we can come now; most of the girls are already waiting at the side door." Holding their shoes in their hands, Annie and Susan went noiselessly down the carpetless stairs, and found the remaining six girls waiting for them by the side door. "Rover is our one last danger now," said Annie, as she fitted the well-oiled key into the lock. "Put on your shoes, girls, and let me out first; I think I can manage him." She was alluding to a great mastiff which was usually kept chained up by day. Phyllis and Norah laid their hands on her arm. "Oh, Annie, oh, love, suppose he seizes on you, and knocks you down--oh, dare you venture?" "Let me go," said Annie a little contemptuously; "you don't suppose I am afraid?" Her fingers trembled, for her nerves were highly strung; but she managed to unlock the door and draw back the bolts, and, opening it softly, she went out into the silent night. Very slight as the noise she made was, it had aroused the watchful Rover, who trotted around swiftly to know what was the matter. But Annie had made friends with Rover long ago by stealing to his kennel door and feeding him, and she had now but to say "Rover" in her melodious voice, and throw her arms around his neck, to completely subvert his morals. "He is one of us, girls," she called in a whisper to her companions; "come out. Rover will be as naughty as the rest of us, and go with us as our bodyguard to the fairies' field. Now, I will lock the door on the outside, and we can be off. Ah, the moon is getting up splendidly, and when we have secured Betty's basket, we shall be quite out of reach of danger." At Annie's words of encouragement the seven girls ventured out. She locked the door, put the key into her pocket, and, holding Rover by his collar; led the way in the direction of the laurel-bush. The basket was secured, and Susan, to her disgust, and Mary Morris were elected for the first part of the way to carry it. The young truants then walked quickly down the avenue until they came to a turn-stile which led into a wood. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. IN THE FAIRIES' FIELD. The moon had now come up brilliantly, and the little party were in the highest possible spirits. They had got safely away from the house, and there was now, comparatively speaking, little fear of discovery. The more timid ones, who ventured to confess that their hearts were in their mouths while Annie was unlocking the side door, now became the most excited, and perhaps the boldest, under the reaction, which set in. Even the wood, which was comparatively dark, with only patches of moonlight here and there, and queer weird shadows where the trees were thinnest, could not affect their spirits. The poor, sleepy rabbits must have been astonished that night at the shouts of the revellers, as they hurried past them, and the birds must have taken their sleepy heads from under their downy wings, and wondered if the morning had come some hours before its usual time. More than one solemn old owl blinked at them, and hooted as they passed, and told them in owl language what silly, naughty young things they were, and how they would repent of this dissipation by-and-by. But if the girls were to have an hour of remorse, it did not visit them then; their hearts were like feathers, and by the time they reached the fields where the fairies were supposed to play their spirits had become almost uncontrollable. Luckily for them this small green field lay in a secluded hollow, and more luckily for them no tramps were about to hear their merriment. Rover, who constituted himself Annie's protector, now lay down by her side, and as she was the real ringleader and queen of the occasion, she ordered her subjects about pretty sharply. "Now, girls, quick; open the basket. Yes, I'm going to rest. I have organised the whole thing, and I'm fairly tired; so I'll just sit quietly here, and Rover will take care of me while you set things straight. Ah! good Betty; she did not even forget the white table-cloth." Here one of the girls remarked casually that the grass was wet with dew, and that it was well they had all put on their waterproofs. Annie interrupted again in a petulant voice-- "Don't croak, Mary Morris. Out with the chickens, lay the ham in this corner, and the cherries will make a picturesque pile in the middle. Twelve meringues in all, that means a meringue and a half each. We shall have some difficulty in dividing. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how hungry I am! I was far too excited to eat anything at supper-time." "So was I," said Phyllis, coming up and pressing close to Annie. "I do think Miss Danesbury cuts the bread and butter too thick--don't you, Annie? I could not eat mine at all, to-night, and Cecil Temple asked me if I was not well." "Those who don't want chicken hold up their hands," here interrupted Annie, who had tossed her brown cap on the grass, and between whose brows a faint frown had passed for an instant at the mention of Cecil's name. The feast now began in earnest, and silence reigned for a short time, broken only by the clatter of plates, and such an occasional remark as "Pass the salt, please," "Pepper this way, if you've no objection," "How good chicken tastes in fairy-land," etc. At last the ginger-beer bottles began to pop--the girl's first hunger was appeased. Rover gladly crunched up all the bones, and conversation flowed once more, accompanied by the delicate diversion of taking alternate bites at meringues and cheesecakes. "I wish the fairies would come out," said Annie. "Oh, don't!" shivered Phyllis, looking round her nervously. "Annie, darling, do tell us a ghost story," cried several voices. Annie laughed, and commenced a series of nonsense tales, all of a slightly eerie character, which she made up on the spot. The moon riding high in the heavens looked down on the young giddy heads, and their laughter, naughty as they were, sounded sweet in the night air. Time flew quickly, and the girls suddenly discovered that they must pack up their table-cloth and remove all traces of the feast unless they wished the bright light of morning to discover them. They rose hastily, sighing, and slightly depressed now that their fun was over. The white table-cloth, no longer very white, was packed into the basket, the ginger-beer bottles placed on top of it, and the lid fastened down. Not a crumb of the feast remained; Rover had demolished the bones, and the eight girls had made short work of everything else, with the exception of the cherry-stones, which Phyllis carefully collected and popped into a little hole in the ground. The party then progressed slowly homewards, and once more entered the dark wood. They were much more silent now; the wood was darker, and the chill which foretells the dawn was making itself felt in the air. Either the sense of cold, or a certain effect produced by Annie's ridiculous stories, made many of the little party unduly nervous. They had only taken a few steps through the wood when Phyllis suddenly uttered a piercing shriek. This shriek was echoed by Nora and by Mary Morris, and all their hearts seemed to leap into their mouths when they saw something move among the trees. Rover uttered a growl, and, but for Annie's detaining hand, would have sprung forward. The high-spirited girl was not to be easily daunted. "Behold, girls, the goblin of the woods," she exclaimed. "Quiet, Rover; stand still." The next instant the fears of the little party reached their culmination when a tall, dark figure stood directly in their paths. "If you don't let us pass at once," said Annie's voice, "I'll set Rover at you." The dog began to bark loudly, and quivered from head to foot. The figure moved a little to one side, and a rather deep and slightly dramatic voice said-- "I mean you no harm, young ladies; I'm only a gypsy-mother from the tents yonder. You are welcome to get back to Lavender House. I have then one course plain before me." "Come on, girls," said Annie, now considerably frightened, while Phyllis, and Nora, and one or two more began to sob. "Look here, young ladies," said the gypsy in a whining voice, "I don't mean you no harm, my pretties, and it's no affair of mine telling the good ladies at Lavender House what I've seen. You cross my hand, dears, each of you, with a bit of silver, and all I'll do is to tell your pretty fortunes, and mum is the word with the gypsy-mother as far as this night's prank is concerned." "We had better do it, Annie--we had better do it," here sobbed Phyllis. "If this was found out by Mrs Willis we might be expelled--we might, indeed; and that horrid woman is sure to tell of us--I know she is." "Quite sure to tell, dear," said the tall gypsy, dropping a curtsey in a manner which looked frightfully sarcastic in the long shadows made by the trees. "Quite sure to tell, and to be expelled is the very least that could happen to such naughty little ladies. Here's a nice little bit of clearing in the wood, and we'll all come over, and Mother Rachel will tell your fortunes in a twinkling, and no one will be the wiser. Sixpence apiece, my dears--only sixpence apiece." "Oh, come; do, do come," said Nora, and the next moment they were all standing in a circle round Mother Rachel, who pocketed her black-mail eagerly, and repeated some gibberish over each little hand. Over Annie's palm she lingered for a brief moment, and looked with her penetrating eyes into the girl's face. "You'll have suffering before you, miss; some suspicion, and danger even to life itself. But you'll triumph, my dear, you'll triumph. You're a plucky one, and you'll do a brave deed. There--good-night, young ladies; you have nothing more to fear from Mother Rachel." The tall dark figure disappeared into the blackest shadows of the wood, and the girls, now like so many frightened hares, flew home. They deposited their basket where Betty would find it, under the shadow of the great laurel in the back avenue. They all bade Rover an affectionate "good-night." Annie softly unlocked the side door, and one by one, with their shoes in their hands, they regained their bedrooms. They were all very tired, and very cold, and a dull fear and sense of insecurity rested over each little heart. Suppose Mother Rachel proved unfaithful, notwithstanding the sixpences? CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. HESTER'S FORGOTTEN BOOK. It wanted scarcely three weeks to the holidays, and therefore scarcely three weeks to that auspicious day when Lavender House was to be the scene of one long triumph, and was to be the happy spot selected for a Midsummer holiday, accompanied by all that could make a holiday perfect--for youth and health would be there, and even the unsuccessful competitors for the great prizes would not have too sore hearts, for they would know that on the next day they were going home. Each girl who had done her best would have a word of commendation, and only those who were very naughty, or very stubborn, could resist the all-potent elixir of happiness which would be poured out so abundantly for Mrs Willis's pupils on this day. Now that the time was drawing so near, those girls who were working for prizes found themselves fully occupied from morning to night. In play-hours even, girls would be seen with their heads bent over their books, and, between the prizes and the acting, no little bees in any hive could be more constantly employed than were these young girls just now. No happiness is, after all, to be compared to the happiness of healthful occupation. Busy people have no time to fret and no time to grumble. According to our old friend, Dr Watts, people who are healthily busy have also no time to be naughty, for the old doctor says that it is for idle hands that mischief is prepared. Be that as it may, and there is great truth in it, some naughty sprites, some bad fairies, were flitting around and about that apparently peaceful atmosphere. That sunny home, governed by all that was sweet and good, was not without its serpent. Of all the prizes which attracted interest and aroused competition, the prize for English composition was this year the most popular. In the first place, this was known to be Mrs Willis's own favourite subject. She had a great wish that her girls should write intelligibly--she had a greater wish that, if possible, they should think. "Never was there so much written and printed," she was often heard to say; "but can anyone show me a book with thoughts in it? Can anyone show me, unless as a rare exception, a book which will live? Oh, yes, these books which issue from the press in thousands are, many of them, very smart, a great many of them clever, but they are thrown off too quickly. All great things, great books amongst them, must be evolved slowly." Then she would tell her pupils what she considered the reason of this. "In these days," she would say, "all girls are what is called highly educated. Girls and boys alike must go in for competitive examinations, must take out diplomas, and must pass certain standards of excellence. The system is cramming from beginning to end. There is no time for reflection. In short, my dear girls, you swallow a great deal, but you do not digest your intellectual food." Mrs Willis hailed with pleasure any little dawnings of real thought in her girls' prize essays. More than once she bestowed the prize upon the essay which seemed to the girls the most crude and unfinished. "Never mind," she would say, "here is an idea--or at least half an idea. This little bit of composition is original, and not, at best, a poor imitation of Sir Walter Scott or Lord Macaulay." Thus the girls found a strong stimulus to be their real selves in these little essays, and the best of them chose their subject and let it ferment in their brains without the aid of books, except for the more technical parts. More than one girl in the school was surprised at Dora Russell exerting herself to try for the prize essay. She was just about to close her school career, and they could not make out why she roused herself to work for the most difficult prize, for which she would have to compete with any girl in the school who chose to make a similar attempt. Dora, however, had her own, not very high motive for making the attempt. She was a thoroughly accomplished girl, graceful in her appearance and manner; in short, just the sort of girl who would be supposed to do credit to a school. She played with finish, and even delicacy of touch. There was certainly no soul in her music, but neither were there any wrong notes. Her drawings were equally correct, her perspective good, her trees were real trees, and the colouring of her water-colour sketches was pure. She spoke French extremely well, and with a correct accent, and her German also was above the average. Nevertheless, Dora was commonplace, and those girls who knew her best spoke sarcastically, and smiled at one another when she alluded to her prize essay, and seemed confident of being the successful competitor. "You won't like to be beaten, Dora, say, by Annie Forest," they would laughingly remark; whereupon Dora's calm face would slightly flush and her lips would assume a very proud curve. If there was one thing she could not bear it was to be beaten. "Why do you try for it, Dora?" her class-fellows would ask; but here Dora made no reply: she kept her reason to herself. The fact was Dora, who must be a copyist to the end of the chapter, and who could never to her latest day do anything original, had determined to try for the composition prize because she happened accidentally to hear a conversation between Mrs Willis and Miss Danesbury, in which something was said about a gold locket with Mrs Willis's portrait inside. Dora instantly jumped at the conclusion that this was to be the great prize bestowed upon the successful essayist. Delightful idea; how well the trinket would look round her smooth white throat! Instantly she determined to try for this prize, and of course as instantly the bare idea of defeat became intolerable to her. She went steadily and methodically to work. With extreme care she chose her subject. Knowing something of Mrs Willis's peculiarities, she determined that her theme should not be historical; she believed that she could express herself freely and with power if only she could secure an un-hackneyed subject. Suddenly an idea which she considered brilliant occurred to her. She would call her composition "The River." This should not bear reference to Father Thames, or any other special river of England, but it should trace the windings of some fabled stream of Dora's imagination, which, as it flowed along, should tell something of the story of the many places by which it passed. Dora was charmed with her own thought, and worked hard, evening after evening, at her subject, covering sheets of manuscript paper with pencilled jottings, and arranging and rearranging her somewhat confused thoughts. She greatly admired a perfectly rounded period, and she was most particular as to the style in which she wrote. For the purpose of improving her style she even studied old volumes of Addison's _Spectator_; but after a time she gave up this course of study, for she found it so difficult to mould her English to Addison's that she came to the comfortable conclusion that Addison was decidedly obsolete, and that if she wished to do full justice to "The River" she must trust to her own unaided genius. At last the first ten pages were written. The subject was entered upon with considerable flourishes, and some rather apt poetical quotations from a book containing a collection of poems; the river itself had already left its home in the mountain, and was careering merrily past sunny meadows and little rural, impossible cottages, where the golden-haired children played. Dora made a very neat copy of her essay so far. She now began to see her way clearly--there would be a very powerful passage as the river approached the murky town. Here, indeed, would be room for powerful and pathetic writing. She wondered if she might venture so far as to hide a suicide in her rushing waters; and then at last the brawling river would lose itself in the sea; and, of course, there would not be the smallest connection between her river, and Kingsley's well-known song, "Clear and cool." She finished writing her ten pages, and being now positively certain of her gold locket, went to bed in a happy state of mind. This was the very night when Annie was to lead her revellers through the dark wood, but Dora, who never troubled herself about the younger classes, would have been certainly the last to notice the fact that a few of the girls in Lavender House seemed little disposed to eat their suppers of thick bread-and-butter and milk. She went to bed and dreamt happy dreams about her golden locket, and had little idea that any mischief was about to be performed. Hester Thornton also, but in a very different spirit, was working hard at her essay. Hester worked conscientiously; she had chosen "Marie Antoinette" as her theme, and she read the sorrowful story of the beautiful queen with intense interest, and tried hard to get herself into the spirit of the times about which she must write. She had scarcely begun her essay yet, but she had already collected most of the historical facts. Hester was a very careful little student, and as she prepared herself for the great work. She thought little or nothing about the prize; she only wanted to do justice to the unfortunate Queen of France. She was in bed that night, and just dropping off to sleep, when she suddenly remembered that she had left a volume of French poetry on her school-desk. This was against the rules, and she knew that Miss Danesbury would confiscate the book in the morning, and would not let her have it back for a week. Hester particularly wanted this special book just now, as some of the verses bore reference to her subject, and she could scarcely get on with her essay without having it to refer to She must lose no time in instantly beginning to write her essay, and to do without her book of poetry for a week would be a serious injury to her. She resolved, therefore, to break through one of the rules, and, after lying awake until the whole house was quiet, to slip downstairs, enter the school-room and secure her poems. She heard the clock strike eleven, and she knew that in a very few moments Miss Danesbury and Miss Good would have retired to their rooms. Ah, yes, that was Miss Danesbury's step passing her door. Ten minutes later she glided out of bed, slipped on her dressing-gown, and opening her door, ran swiftly down the carpetless stairs, and found herself in the great stone hall which led to the school-room. She was surprised to find the school-room door a little ajar, but she entered the room without hesitation, and, dark as it was, soon found her desk, and the book of poems lying on the top. Hester was about to return when she was startled by a little noise in that portion of the room where the first-class girls sat. The next moment somebody came heavily and rather clumsily down the room, and the moon which was just beginning to rise fell for an instant on a girl's face. Hester recognised the face of Susan Drummond. What could she be doing here? She did not dare to speak, for she herself had broken a rule in visiting the school-room. She remained, therefore, perfectly still until Susan's steps died away, and then, thankful to have secured her own property, returned to her bedroom, and a moment or two later was sound asleep. CHAPTER THIRTY. "A MUDDY STREAM." In the morning Dora Russell sat down as usual before her orderly and neatly-kept desk. She raised the lid to find everything in its place-- her books and exercises all as they should be, and her pet essay in a neat brown-paper cover, lying just as she had left it the night before. She was really getting quite excited about her river, and as this was a half-holiday, she determined to have a good work at it in the afternoon. She was beginning also to experience that longing for an auditor which occasionally is known to trouble the breasts of genius. She felt that those graceful ideas, that elegant language, those measured periods, might strike happily on some other ears before they were read aloud as the great work of the Midsummer holidays. She knew that Hester Thornton was making what she was pleased to term a poor little attempt at trying for the same prize. Hester would scarcely venture to copy anything from Dora's essay; she would probably be discouraged, poor girl, in working any longer at her own composition; but Dora felt that the temptation to read "The River," as far as it had gone, to Hester was really too great to be resisted. Accordingly, after dinner she graciously invited Hester to accompany her to a bower in the garden, where the two friends might revel over the results of Dora's extraordinary talents. Hester was still, to a certain extent, under Dora's influence, and had not the courage to tell her that she intended to be very busy over her own essay this afternoon. "Now, Hester, dear," said Dora, when they found themselves both seated in the bower, "you are the only girl in the school to whom I could confide the subject of my great essay. I really believe that I have hit on something absolutely original. My dear child, I hope you won't allow yourself to be discouraged. I fear that you won't have much heart to go on with your theme after you have read my words; but, never mind, dear, it will be good practice for you, and you know it _was_ rather silly to go in for a prize which I intended to compete for." "May I read your essay, please, Dora?" asked Hester. "I am very much interested in my own study, and, whether I win the prize or not, I shall always remember the pleasure I took in writing it." "What subject did you select, dear?" inquired Miss Russell. "Well, I am attempting a little sketch of Marie Antoinette." "Ah, hackneyed, my dear girl--terribly hackneyed; but, of course, I don't mean to discourage you. _Now_!--I draw a life--picture, and I call it `The River.' See how it begins--why, I declare I know the words by heart, `_As our eyes rest on this clear and limpid stream, as we see the sun sparkle_.' My dear Hester, you shall read me my essay aloud. I shall like to hear my own words from your lips, and you have really a pretty accent, dear." Hester folded back the brown-paper cover, and wanting to have her task over began to read nastily. But, as her eyes rested on the first lines, she turned to her companion, and said-- "Did you not tell me that your essay was called `The River'?" "Yes, dear; the full title is `The Windings of a Noble River.'" "That's very odd," replied Hester. "What I see here is `The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream.' `_As our dull orbs rest on this turbid water on which the sun cannot possibly shine_.' Why, Dora, this cannot be your essay, and yet, surely, it is your handwriting." Dora, with her face suddenly flushing a vivid crimson, snatched the manuscript from Hester's hand, and looked over it eagerly. Alas! there was no doubt. The title of this essay was "The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream," and the words which immediately followed were a smart and ridiculous parody on her own high-flown sentences. The resemblance to her handwriting was perfect. The brown-paper cover, neatly sewn on to protect the white manuscript, was undoubtedly her cover; the very paper on which the words were written seemed in all particulars the same. Dora turned the sheets eagerly, and here for the first time she saw a difference. Only four or five pages of the nonsense essay had been attempted, and the night before, when finishing her toil, she had proudly numbered her tenth page. She looked through the whole thing, turning leaf after leaf, while her cheeks were crimson, and her hands trembled. In the first moment of horrible humiliation and dismay she literally could not speak. At last, springing to her feet, and confronting the astonished and almost frightened Hester, she found her voice. "Hester, you must help me in this. The most dreadful, the most atrocious fraud has been committed. Some one has been base enough, audacious enough, wicked enough, to go to my desk privately, and take away my real essay--my work over which I have laboured and toiled. The expressions of my--my--yes, I will say it--my genius, have been ruthlessly burnt, or otherwise made away with, and _this_ thing has been put in their place. Hester, why don't you speak--why do you stare at me like this?" "I am puzzled by the writing," said Hester; "the writing is yours." "The writing is mine!--oh, you wicked girl! The writing is an imitation of mine--a feeble and poor imitation. I thought, Hester, that by this time you knew your friend's handwriting. I thought that one in whom I have confided--one whom I have stooped to notice because I fancied we had a community of soul, would not be so ridiculous and so silly as to mistake this writing for mine. Look again, please, Hester Thornton, and tell me if I am ever so vulgar as to cross my _t's_. You know I _always_ loop them; and do I make a capital B in this fashion? And do I indulge in flourishes? I grant you that the general effect to a casual observer would be something the same, but you, Hester--I thought you knew me better." Here Hester, examining the false essay, had to confess that the crossed _t's_ and the flourishes were unlike Miss Russell's calligraphy. "It is a forgery, most cleverly done," said Dora. "There is such a thing, Hester, as being wickedly clever. This spiteful, cruel attempt to injure another can have but proceeded from one _very_ low order of mind. Hester, there has been plenty of favouritism in this school, but do you suppose I shall allow such a thing as this to pass over unsearched into? If necessary, I shall ask my father to interfere. This is a slight--an outrage; but the whole mystery shall at last be cleared up. Miss Good and Miss Danesbury shall be informed at once, and the very instant Mrs Willis returns she shall be told what a serpent she has been nursing in this false, wicked girl, Annie Forest." "Stop, Dora," said Hester suddenly. She sprang to her feet, clasping her hands, and her colour varied rapidly from white to red. A sudden light poured in upon her, and she was about to speak when something-- quite a small, trivial thing--occurred. She only saw little Nan in the distance flying swiftly, with outstretched arms, to meet a girl, whose knees she clasped in baby ecstasy. The girl stooped down and kissed the little face, and the round arms were flung around her neck. The next instant Annie Forest continued her walk alone, and Nan, looking wistfully back after her, went in another direction with her nurse. The whole scene took but a moment to enact, but as she watched, Hester's face grew hard and white. She sat down again, with her lips firmly pressed together. "What is it, Hester?" exclaimed Dora. "What were you going to say? You surely know nothing about this?" "Well, Dora, I am not the guilty person. I was only going to remark that you cannot be _sure_ it is Annie Forest." "Oh, so you are going to take that horrid girl's part now? I wonder at you! She all but killed your little sister, and then stole her love away from you. Did you see the little thing now, how she flew to her? Why, she never kisses you like that." "I know--I know," said Hester, and she turned away her face with a groan, and leant forward against the rustic bench, pressing her hot forehead down on her hands. "You'll have your triumph, Hester, when Miss Forest is publicly expelled," said Dora, tapping her lightly on the shoulder, and then, taking up the forged essay, she went slowly out of the garden. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD AND BAD ANGELS. Hester stayed behind in the shady little arbour, and then, on that soft spring day, while the birds sang overhead, and the warm light breezes came in and fanned her hot cheeks, good angels and bad drew near to fight for a victory. Which would conquer? Hester had many faults, but hitherto she had been honourable and truthful; her sins had been those of pride and jealousy, but she had never told a falsehood in her life. She, knew perfectly--she trembled as the full knowledge overpowered her--that she had it in her power to exonerate Annie. She could not in the least imagine now stupid Susan Drummond could contrive and carry out such a clever and deep-laid plot; but she knew also that if she related what she had seen with her own eyes the night before, she would probably give such a clew to the apparent mystery that the truth would come to light. If Annie was cleared from this accusation, doubtless the old story of her supposed guilt with regard to Mrs Willis's caricature would also be read with its right key. Hester was a clever and sharp girl; and the fact of seeing Susan Drummond in the school-room in the dead of night opened her eyes also to one or two other apparent little mysteries. While Susan was her own room-mate she had often given a passing wonder to the fact of her extraordinary desire to overcome her sleepiness, and had laughed over the expedients Susan had used to wake at all moments. These things, at the time, had scarcely given her a moment's serious reflection; but now she pondered them carefully, and became more and more certain that, for some inexplicable and unfathomable reason, sleepy, and apparently innocent, Susan Drummond wished to sow the seeds of mischief and discord in the school. Hester was sure that if she chose to speak now she could clear poor Annie, and restore her to her lost place in Mrs Willis's favour. Should she do so?--ah! should she? Her lips trembled, her colour came and went as the angels, good and bad, fought hard for victory within her. How she had longed to revenge herself on Annie! How cordially she had hated her! Now was the moment of her revenge. She had but to remain silent now, and to let matters take their course; she had but to hold her tongue about the little incident of last night, and, without any doubt, circumstantial evidence would point at Annie Forest, and she would be expelled from the school. Mrs Willis must condemn her now. Mr Everard must pronounce her guilty now. She would go, and when the coast was again clear the love which she had taken from Hester--the precious love of Hester's only little sister--would return. "You will be miserable: you will be miserable," whispered the good angels sorrowfully in her ear; but she did not listen to them. "I said I would revenge myself, and this is my opportunity," she murmured. "Silence--just simply silence--will be my revenge." Then the good angels went sorrowfully back to their Father in heaven, and the wicked angels rejoiced. Hester had fallen very low. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. FRESH SUSPICIONS. Mrs Willis was not at home many hours before Dora Russell begged for an interview with her. Annie had not as yet heard anything of the changed essay; for Dora had resolved to keep the thing a secret until Mrs Willis herself took the matter in hand. Annie was feeling not a little anxious and depressed. She was sorry now that she had led the girls that wild escapade through the wood. Phyllis and Nora were both suffering from heavy colds in consequence, and Susan Drummond was looking more pasty about her complexion, and was more dismally sleepy than usual. Annie was going through her usual season of intense remorse after one of her wild pranks. No one repented with more apparent fervour than she did, and yet no one so easily succumbed to the next temptation. Had Annie been alone in the matter she would have gone straight to Mrs Willis and confessed all; but she could not do this without implicating her companions, who would have screamed with horror at the very suggestion. All the girls were more or less depressed by the knowledge that the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, shared their secret; and they often whispered together as to the chances of her betraying them. Old Betty they could trust; for Betty, the cake-woman, had been an arch-conspirator with the naughty girls of Lavender House from time immemorial. Betty had always managed to provide their stolen suppers for them, and had been most accommodating in the matter of pay. Yes, with Betty they felt they were safe; but Mother Rachel was a different person. She might like to be paid a few more sixpences for her silence; she might hover about the grounds; she might be noticed. At any moment she might boldly demand an interview with Mrs Willis. "I'm awfully afraid of Mother Rachel," Phyllis moaned, as she shivered under the influence of her bad cold. Nora said "I should faint if I saw her again, I know I should while the other girls always went out provided with stray sixpences, in case the gypsy-mother should start up from some unexpected quarter and demand black-mail." On the day of Mrs Willis's return, Annie was pacing up and down the shady walk, and indulging in some rather melancholy and regretful thoughts, when Susan Drummond and Mary Morris rushed up to her, white with terror. "She's down there by the copse, and she's beckoning to us! Oh, do come with us--do, darling, dear Annie." "There's no use in it," replied Annie; "Mother Rachel wants money, and I am not going to give her any. Don't be afraid of her, girls, and don't give her money. After all, why should she tell on us? she would gain nothing by doing so." "Oh, yes, she would, Annie--she would, Annie," said Mary Morris, beginning to sob; "oh, do come with us, do! We must pacify her, we really must." "I can't come now," said Annie; "hark! some one is calling me. Yes, Miss Danesbury--what is it?" "Mrs Willis wishes to see you at once, Annie, in her private sitting-room," replied Miss Danesbury; and Annie, wondering not a little, but quite unsuspicious, ran off. The fact, however, of her having deliberately disobeyed Mrs Willis, and done something which she knew would greatly pain her, brought a shade of embarrassment to her usually candid face. She had also to confess to herself that she did not feel quite so comfortable about Mother Rachel as she had given Mary Morris and Susan Drummond to understand. Her steps lagged more and more as she approached the house, and she wished, oh, how longingly! oh, how regretfully! that she had not been naughty and wild and disobedient in her beloved teacher's absence. "But where is the use of regretting what is done?" she said, half aloud. "I know I can never be good--never, never!" She pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains which shaded the door of the private sitting-room, and went in, to find Mrs Willis seated by her desk, very pale and tired and unhappy looking, while Dora Russell, with crimson spots on her cheeks and a very angry glitter in her eyes, stood by the mantelpiece. "Come here, Annie dear," said Mrs Willis in her usual gentle and affectionate tone. Annie's first wild impulse was to rush to her governess's side, to fling her arms round her neck, and, as a child would confess to her mother, to tell her all that story of the walk through the wood, and the stolen picnic in the fairies' field. Three things, however, restrained her-- she must not relieve her own troubles at the expense of betraying others; she could not, even if she were willing, say a word in the presence of this cold and angry-looking Dora; in the third place, Mrs Willis looked very tired and very sad. Not for worlds would she add to her troubles at this instant. She came into the room, however, with a slight hesitation of manner, and a clouded brow, which caused Mrs Willis to watch her with anxiety, and Dora with triumph. "Come here, Annie," repeated the governess. "I want to speak to you. Something very dishonourable and disgraceful has been done in my absence." Annie's face suddenly became as white as a sheet. Could the gypsy-mother have already betrayed them all? Mrs Willis, noticing her too evident confusion, continued in a voice, which, in spite of herself, became stern and severe. "I shall expect the truth at any cost, my dear. Look at this manuscript-book. Do you know anything of the handwriting?" "Why, it is yours, of course, Dora," said Annie, who was now absolutely bewildered. "It is _not_ mine," began Dora, but Mrs Willis held up her hand. "Allow me to speak, Miss Russell. I can best explain matters. Annie, during my absence some one has been guilty of a very base and wicked act. One of the girls in this school has gone secretly to Dora Russell's desk, and taken away ten pages of an essay which she had called `The River,' and which she was preparing for the prize competition next month. Instead of Dora's essay this that you now see was put in its place. Examine it, my dear. Can you tell me anything about it?" Annie took the manuscript-book, and turned the leaves. "Is it meant for a parody?" she asked, after a pause; "it sounds ridiculous. No, Mrs Willis, I know nothing whatever about it; some one has imitated Dora's handwriting. I cannot imagine who is the culprit." She threw the manuscript-book with a certain easy carelessness on the table by her side, and glanced up with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes at Dora. "I suppose it is meant for a clever parody," she repeated; "at least it is amusing." Her manner displeased Mrs Willis, and very nearly maddened poor Dora. "We have not sent for you, Annie," said her teacher, "to ask you your opinion of the parody, but to try and get you to throw light on the subject. We must find out, and at once, who has been so wicked as to deliberately injure another girl." "But why have you sent for _me_?" asked Annie, drawing herself up, and speaking with a little shade of haughtiness. "Because," said Dora Russell, who could no longer contain her outraged feelings, "because you alone can throw light on it--because you alone in the school are base enough to do anything so mean--because you alone can caricature." "Oh, that is it," said Annie; "you suspect me, then. Do _you_ suspect me, Mrs Willis?" "My dear--what can I say?" "Nothing, if you do. In this school my word has long gone for nothing. I am a naughty, headstrong, wilful girl, but in this matter I am perfectly innocent. I never saw that essay before; I never in all my life went to Dora Russell's desk. I am headstrong and wild, but I don't do spiteful things. I have no object in injuring Dora; she is nothing to me--nothing. She is trying for the essay prize, but she has no chance of winning it. Why should I trouble myself to injure her? why should I even take the pains to parody her words and copy her handwriting? Mrs Willis, you need not believe me--I see you do not believe me--but I am quite innocent." Here Annie burst into sudden tears, and ran out of the room. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. UNTRUSTWORTHY. Dora Russell had declared, in Hester's presence, and with intense energy in her manner, that the author of the insult to which she had been exposed should be publicly punished, and, if possible, expelled. On the evening of her interview with the head teacher, she had so far forgotten herself as to reiterate this desire with extreme vehemence. She had boldly declared her firm conviction of Annie's guilt, and had broadly hinted at Mrs Willis's favouritism toward her. The great dignity, however, of her teacher's manner, and the half-sorrowful, half-indignant look she bestowed on the excited girl, calmed her down after a time. Mrs Willis felt full sympathy for Dora, and could well understand how trying and aggravating this practical joke must be to so proud a girl; but although her faith was undoubtedly shaken in Annie, she would not allow this sentiment to appear. "I will do all I can for you, Dora," she said, when the weeping Annie had left the room; "I will do everything in my power to find out who has injured you. Annie has absolutely denied the accusation you bring against her, and unless her guilt can be proved it is but right to believe her innocent. There are many other girls in Lavender House; and to-morrow morning I will sift this unpleasant affair to the very bottom. Go, now, my dear, and if you have sufficient self-command and self-control, try to have courage to write your essay over again. I have no doubt that your second rendering of your subject will be more attractive than the first. Beginners cannot too often re-write their themes." Dora gave her head a proud little toss, but she was sufficiently in awe of Mrs Willis to keep back any retort, and she went out of the room feeling unsatisfied and wretched, and inclined for a sympathising chat with her little friend, Hester Thornton. Hester, however, when she reached her, seemed not at all disposed to talk to anyone. "I've had it all out with Mrs Willis, and there is no doubt she will be exposed to-morrow morning," said Dora, half aloud. Hester, whose head was bent over her French history, looked up with an annoyed expression. "Who will be exposed?" she asked, in a petulant voice. "Oh, how stupid you are growing, Hester Thornton!" exclaimed Dora; "why, that horrid Annie Forest, of course--but really I have no patience to talk to you; you have lost all your spirit. I was very foolish to demean myself by taking so much notice of one of the little girls." Dora sailed down the play-room to her own drawing-room, fully expecting Hester to rise and rush after her; but to her surprise Hester did not stir, but sat with her head bent over her book, and her cheeks slightly flushed. The next morning Mrs Willis kept her word to Dora, and made the very strictest inquiries with regard to the practical joke to which Dora had been subjected. She first of all fully explained what had taken place in the presence of the whole school, and then each girl was called up in rotation, and asked two questions: first, had she done this mischievous thing herself? second, could she throw any light on the subject? One by one each girl appeared before her teacher, replied in the negative to both queries, and returned to her seat. "Now, girls," said Mrs Willis, "you have each of you denied this charge. Such a thing as has happened to Dora could not have been done without hands. The teachers in the school are above suspicion; the servants are none of them clever enough to perform this base trick. I suspect one of you, and I am quite determined to get at the truth. During the whole of this half-year there has been a spirit of unhappiness, of mischief, and of suspicion in our midst. Under these circumstances love cannot thrive; under these circumstances the true and ennobling sense of brotherly kindness, and all those feelings which real religion prompt must languish. I tell you all now plainly that I will not have this thing in Lavender House. It is simply disgraceful for one girl to play such tricks on her fellows. This is not the first time nor the second time that the school-desks have been tampered with. I will find out--I am determined to find out, who this dishonest person is; and as she has not chosen to confess to me, as she has preferred falsehood to truth, I will visit her, when I do discover her, with my very gravest displeasure. In this school I have always endeavoured to inculcate the true principles of honour and of trust. I have laid down certain broad rules, and expect them to be obeyed; but I have never hampered you with petty and humiliating restraints. I have given you a certain freedom, which I believed to be for your best good, and I have never suspected one of you until you have given me due cause. "Now, however, I tell you plainly that I alter all my tactics. One girl sitting in this room is guilty. For her sake I shall treat you all as guilty, and punish you accordingly. For the remainder of this term, or until the hour when the guilty girl chooses to release her companions, you are all, with the exception of the little children and Miss Russell, who can scarcely have played this trick on herself, under punishment. I withdraw your half-holidays--I take from you the use of the South Parlour for your acting, and every drawing-room in the play-room is confiscated. But this, is not all that I do. In taking from you my trust, I must treat you as untrustworthy--you will no longer enjoy the liberty you used to delight in--everywhere you will be watched. A teacher will sit in your play-room with you, a teacher will accompany you into the grounds, and I tell you plainly, girls, that chance words and phrases which drop from your lips shall be taken up, and used, if necessary, to the elucidation of this disgraceful mystery." Here Mrs Willis left the room, and the teachers desired the several girls in their classes to attend to their morning studies. Nothing could exceed the dismay which her words had produced. The innocent girls were fairly stunned, and from that hour for many a day all sunshine and happiness seemed really to have left Lavender House. The two, however, who felt the change most acutely, and on whose altered faces their companions began to fix suspicious eyes, were Annie Forest and Hester Thornton. Hester was burdened with an intolerable sense of the shameful falsehood she had told; Annie, guilty in another matter, succumbed at last utterly to a sense of misery and injustice. Her orphaned and lonely position for the first time began to tell on her; she ate little and slept little, her face grew very pale and thin, and her health really suffered. All the routine of happy life at Lavender House was changed. In the large play-room the drawing-rooms were unused; there were no pleasant little knots of girls whispering happily and confidentially together, for whenever two or three girls sat down to have a chat they found that one or another of the teachers was within hearing. The acting for the coming play progressed so languidly that no one expected it would really take place, and the one relief and relaxation to the unhappy girls lay in the fact that the holidays were not far off, and that in the meantime they might work hard for the prizes. The days passed in a truly melancholy fashion, and, perhaps, for the first time the girls fully appreciated the old privileges of freedom and trust which were now forfeited. There was a feeble little attempt at a joke and a laugh in the school at Dora's expense. The most frivolous of the girls whispered of her as she passed as "the muddy stream;" but no one took up the fun with avidity--the shadow of somebody's sin had fallen too heavily upon all the bright young lives. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. BETTY FALLS ILL AT AN AWKWARD TIME. The eight girls who had gone out on their midnight picnic were much startled one day by an unpleasant discovery. Betty had never come for her basket. Susan Drummond, who had a good deal of curiosity, and always poked her nose into unexpected corners, had been walking with a Miss Allison in that part of the grounds where the laurel-bush stood. She had caught a peep of the white handle of the basket, and had instantly turned her companion's attention to something else. Miss Allison had not observed Susan's start of dismay; but Susan had taken the first opportunity of getting rid of her, and had run off in search of one of the girls who had shared in the picnic. She came across Annie Forest, who was walking, as usual, by herself, with her head slightly bent, and her curling hair in sad confusion. Susan whispered the direful intelligence that old Betty had forsaken them, and that the basket, with its ginger-beer bottles and its stained table-cloth, might be discovered at any moment. Annie's pale face flushed slightly at Susan's words. "Why should we try to conceal the thing?" she said, speaking with sudden energy, and a look of hope and animation coming back to her face. "Susy, let's go, all of us, and tell the miserable truth to Mrs Willis; it will be much the best way. We did not do the other thing, and when we have confessed about this our hearts will be at rest." "No, we did not do the other thing," said Susan, a queer grey colour coming over her face; "but confess about this, Annie Forest!--I think you are mad. You dare not tell." "All right," said Annie, "I won't, unless you all agree to it," and then she continued her walk, leaving Susan standing on the gravelled path with her hands clasped together, and a look of most genuine alarm and dismay on her usually phlegmatic face. Susan quickly found Phyllis and Nora, and it was only too easy to arouse the fears of these timid little people. Their poor little faces became almost pallid, and they were not a little startled at the fact of Annie Forest, their own arch-conspirator, wishing to betray their secret. "Oh," said Susan Drummond, "she's not out and out shabby; she says she won't tell unless we all wish it. But what is to become of the basket?" "Come, come, young ladies; no whispering, if you please," said Miss Good, who came up at this moment. "Susan, you are looking pale and cold, walk up and down that path half-a-dozen times, and then go into the house. Phyllis and Nora, you can come with me as far as the lodge. I want to take a message from Mrs Willis to Mary Martin about the fowl for to-morrow's dinner." Phyllis and Nora, with dismayed faces, waited solemnly away with the English teacher, and Susan was left to her solitary meditations. Things had come to such a pass that her slow wits were brought into play, and she neither felt sleepy, nor did she indulge in her usual habit of eating lollipops. That basket might be discovered any day, and then--then disgrace was imminent. Susan could not make out what had become of old Betty; never before had she so utterly failed them. Betty lived in a little cottage about half a mile from Lavender House. She was a sturdy, apple-cheeked, little old woman, and had for many a day added to her income--indeed, almost supported herself--by means of the girls at Lavender House. The large cherry trees in her little garden bore their rich crop of fruit year after year for Mrs Willis's girls, and every day at an early hour Betty would tramp into Sefton and return with a temptingly-laden basket of the most approved cakes and tarts. There was a certain paling at one end of the grounds to which Betty used to come. Here on the grass she would sit contentedly with the contents of her basket arranged in the most tempting order before her, and to this seductive spot she knew well that those little Misses who loved goodies, cakes, and tartlets would be sure to find their way. Betty charged high for her wares; but, as she was always obliging in the matter of credit the thoughtless girls cared very little that they paid double the shop prices for Betty's cakes. The best girls in the school, certainly, never went to Betty; but Annie Forest, Susan Drummond, and several others had regular accounts with her, and few days passed that their young faces would not peep over the paling and their voices ask-- "What have you got to tempt me with to-day, Betty?" It was, however, in the matter of stolen picnics, of grand feasts in the old attic, etc, etc, that Betty was truly great. No one so clever as she in concealing a basket of delicious eatables, no one knew better what school-girls liked. She undoubtedly charged her own prices, but what she gave was of the best, and Betty was truly in her element when she had an order from the young ladies of Lavender House for a grand secret feast. "You shall have it, my pretties--you shall have it," she would say, wrinkling up her bright blue eyes, and smiling broadly. "You leave it to Betty, my little loves; you leave it to Betty." On the occasion of the picnic to the fairies' field Betty had, indeed, surpassed herself in the delicious eatables she had provided; all had gone smoothly, the basket had been placed in a secure hiding-place under the thick laurel. It was to be fetched away by Betty herself at an early hour on the following morning. No wonder Susan was perplexed as she paced about and pretended to warm herself. It was a June evening, but the weather was still a little cold. Susan remembered now that. Betty had not come to her favourite station at the stile for several days. Was it possible that the old woman was ill? As this idea occurred to her, Susan became more alarmed. She knew that there was very little chance of the basket remaining long in concealment. Rover might any day remember his pleasant picnic with affection, and drag the white basket from under the laurel-bush. Michael the gardener would be certain to see it when next he cleaned up the back avenue. Oh, it was more than dangerous to leave it there, and yet Susan knew of no better hiding-place. A sudden idea came to her: she pulled out her pretty little watch, and saw that she need not return to the house for another half-hour. "Suppose she ran as fast as possible to Betty's little cottage, and begged of the old woman to come by the first light in the morning and fetch away the basket?" The moment Susan conceived this idea she resolved to put it into execution. She looked around her hastily; no teacher was in sight, Miss Good was away at the lodge, Miss Danesbury was playing with the little children. Mademoiselle, she knew, had gone indoors with a bad headache. She left the broad walk where she had been desired to stay, and, plunging into the shrubbery, soon reached Betty's paling. In a moment she had climbed the bars, had jumped lightly into the field, and was running as fast as possible in the direction of Betty's cottage. She reached the high road, and started and trembled violently as a carriage with some ladies and gentlemen passed her. She thought she recognised the faces of the two little Misses Bruce, but did not dare to look at them, and hurried panting along the road, and hoping she might be mistaken. In less than a quarter of an hour she had reached Betty's little cottage, and was standing trying to recover her breath by the shut door. The place had a deserted look, and several overripe cherries had fallen from the trees and were lying neglected on the ground. Susan knocked impatiently. There was no discernible answer. She had no time to wait, she lifted the latch, which yielded to her pressure, and went in. Poor old Betty, crippled, and in severe pain with rheumatism, was lying on her little bed. "Eh, dear--and is that you, my pretty Missy?" she asked, as Susan, hot and tired, came up to her side. "Oh, Betty, are you ill?" asked Miss Drummond. "I came to tell you you have forgotten the basket." "No, my dear, no--not forgot. By no means that, lovey; but I has been took with the rheumatism this past week, and can't move hand nor foot. I was wondering how you'd do without your cakes and tartlets, dear, and to think of them cherries lying there good for nothing on the ground is enough to break one's 'eart." "So it is," said Susan, giving an appreciative glance toward the open door. "They are beautiful cherries, and full of juice, I am sure. I'll take a few, Betty, as I am going out, and pay you for them another day. But what I have come about now is the basket. You must get the basket away, however ill you are. If the basket is discovered we are all lost, and then good-bye to your gains." "Well, Missy, dear, if I could crawl on my hands and knees I'd go and fetch it, rather than you should be worried; but I can't set fool to the ground at all. The doctor says as 'tis somethink like rheumatic fever as I has." "Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Susan, not wasting any of her precious moments in pitying the poor suffering old woman. "What _is_ to be done? I tell you, Betty, if that basket is found we are all lost." "But the laurel is very thick, lovey; it ain't likely to be found--it ain't, indeed." "I tell you it _is_ likely to be found, you tiresome old woman, and you really must go for it or send for it. You really must." Old Betty began to ponder. "There's Moses," she said, after a pause of anxious thought; "he's a 'cute little chap, and he might go. He lives in the fourth cottage along the lane. Moses is his name--Moses Moore. I'd give him a pint of cherries for the job. If you wouldn't mind sending Moses to me, Miss Susan, why, I'll do my best; only it seems a pity to let anybody into your secrets, young ladies, but old Betty herself." "It is a pity," said Susan; "but, under the circumstances, it can't be helped. What cottage did you say this Moses lived in?" "The fourth from here, down the lane, lovey--Moses is the lad's name; he's a freckled boy, with a cast in one eye. You send him up to me, dearie, but don't mention the cherries, or he'll be after stealing them. He's a sad rogue, is Moses; but I think I can tempt him with the cherries." Susan did not wait to bid poor old Betty "good-bye," but ran out of the cottage, shutting the door after her, and snatching up two or three ripe cherries to eat on her way. She was so far fortunate as to find the redoubtable Moses at home, and to convey him bodily to old Betty's presence. The queer boy grinned horribly, and looked as wicked as boy could look; but on the subject of cherries he was undoubtedly susceptible, and after a good deal of haggling and insisting that the pint should be a quart, he expressed his willingness to start off at four o'clock on the following morning, and bring away the basket from under the laurel-tree. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. "YOU ARE WELCOME TO TELL." Annie continued her walk. The circumstances of the last two months had combined to do for her what nothing had hitherto effected. When a little child she had known hardship and privation, she had passed through that experience which is metaphorically spoken of as "going down hill." As a baby little Annie had been surrounded by comforts and luxuries, and her father and mother had lived in a large house, and kept a carriage, and Annie had two nurses to wait on herself alone. These were in the days before she could remember anything. With her first early memories came the recollection of a much smaller house, of much fewer servants, of her mother often in tears, and her father often away. Then there was no house at all that the Forests could call their own, only rooms of a tolerably cheerful character, and Annie's nurse went away, and she look her daily walks by her mother's side and slept in a little cot in her mother's room. Then came a very, very sad day, when her mother lay cold and still and fainting on her bed, and her tall and handsome father caught Annie in his arms and pressed her to his heart, and told her to be a good child and to keep up her spirits, and, above all things, to take care of mother. Then her father had gone away; and though Annie expected him back, he did not come, and she and her mother went into poorer and shabbier lodgings, and her mother began to try her tear-dimmed eyes by working at church embroidery, and Annie used to notice that she coughed a good deal as she worked. Then there was another move, and this time Mrs Forest and her little daughter found themselves in one bedroom, and things began to grow very gloomy and food even was scarce. At last there was a change. One day a lady came into the dingy little room, and all of a sudden it seemed as if the sun had come out again. This lady brought comforts with her--toys and books for the child, good, brave words of cheer for the mother. At last Annie's mother died, and she went away to Lavender House to live with this good friend who had made her mother's dying hours easy. "Annie, Annie," said the dying mother, "I owe everything to Mrs Willis; we knew each other long ago when we were girls, and she has come to me now and made everything easy. When I am gone she will take care of you. Oh, my child, I cannot repay her; but will you try?" "Yes, mother," said little Annie, gazing full into her mother's face with her sweet bright eyes, "I'll--I'll love her, mother; I'll give her lots and lots of love." Annie had gone to Lavender House, and kept her word, for she had almost worshipped the good mistress who was so true and kind to her, and who had so befriended her mother. Through all the vicissitudes of her short existence Annie had, however, never lost one precious gift. Hers was an affectionate, but also a wonderfully bright, nature. It was as impossible for Annie to turn away from laughter and merriment as it would be for a flower to keep its head determinedly turned from the sun. In their darkest days Annie had managed to make her mother laugh; her little face was a sunbeam, her very naughtinesses were of a laughable character. Her mother died--her father was still away, but Annie retained her brave and cheerful spirit, for she gave and received love. Mrs Willis loved her--she bestowed upon her amongst all her girls the tenderest glances, the most motherly caresses. The teachers undoubtedly corrected and even scolded her, but they could not help liking her, and even her worst scrapes made them smile. Annie's companions adored her; the little children would do anything for their own Annie, and even the servants in the school said that there was no young lady in Lavender House fit to hold a candle to Miss Forest. During the last half-year, however, things had been different. Suspicion and mistrust began to dog the footsteps of the bright young girl; she was no longer a universal favourite--some of the girls even openly expressed their dislike of her. All this Annie could have borne, but for the fact that Mrs Willis joined in the universal suspicion. The old glance now never came to her eyes, nor the old tone to her voice. For the first time Annie's spirits utterly flagged; she could not bear this universal coldness, this universal chill. She began to droop physically as well as mentally. She was pacing up and down the walk, thinking very sadly, wondering vaguely if her father would ever return, and conscious of a feeling of more or less indifference to everything and everyone, when she was suddenly roused from her meditation by the patter of small feet and by a very eager little exclamation-- "Me tumming--me tumming, Annie!" and then Nan raised her charming face and placed her cool baby hand in Annie's. There was delicious comfort in the clasp of the little hand, and in the look of love and pleasure which lit up the small face. "Me yiding from naughty nurse--me 'tay with 'oo, Annie--me love 'oo, Annie." Annie stooped down, kissed the little one, and lifted her into her arms. "Why ky?" said Nan, who saw with consternation two big tears in Annie's eyes; "dere, poor ickle Annie--me love 'oo--me buy 'oo a new doll." "Dearest little darling," said Annie in a voice of almost passionate pain; then, with that wonderful instinct which made her in touch with all little children, she cheered up, wiped away her tears, and allowed laughter once more to wreathe her lips and fill her eyes. "Come, Nan," she said, "you and I will have such a race." She placed the child on her shoulder, clasped the little hands securely round her neck, and ran to the sound of Nan's shouts down the shady walk. At the farther end Nan suddenly tightened her clasp, drew herself up, ceased to laugh, and said with some fright in her voice-- "Who dat?" Annie, too, stood still with a sudden start, for the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, was standing directly in their path. "Go 'way, naughty woman," said Nan, shaking her small hand imperiously. The gypsy dropped a low curtsey, and spoke in a slightly mocking tone. "A pretty little dear," she said. "Yes, truly now, a pretty little winsome dear; and oh, what shoes! and little open-work socks! and I don't doubt real lace trimming on all her little garments--I don't doubt it a bit." "Go 'way--me don't like 'oo," said Nan. "Let's wun back--gee, gee," she said, addressing Annie, whom she had constituted into a horse for the time being. "Yes, Nan; in one minute," said Annie. "Please, Mother Rachel, what are you doing here?" "Only waiting to see you, pretty Missie," replied the tall gypsy. "You are the dear little lady who crossed my hand with silver that night in the wood. Eh, but it was a bonny night, with a bonny bright moon, and none of the dear little ladies meant any harm--no, no. Mother Rachel knows that." "Look here," said Annie, "I'm not going to be afraid of you. I have no more silver to give you. If you like, you may go up to the house and tell what you have seen. I am very unhappy, and whether you tell or not can make very little difference to me now. Good-night; I am not the least afraid of you--you can do just as you please about telling Mrs Willis." "Eh, my dear?" said the gypsy; "do you think I'd work you any harm--you, and the seven other dear little ladies? No, not for the world, my dear--not for the world. You don't know Mother Rachel when you think she'd be that mean." "Well, don't come here again," said Annie. "Good-night." She turned on her heel, and Nan shouted back-- "Go 'way, naughty woman--Nan don't love 'oo, 'tall, 'tall." The gypsy stood still for a moment with a frown knitting her brows; then she slowly turned, and, creeping on all-fours through the underwood, climbed the hedge into the field beyond. "Oh, no," she laughed, after a moment; "the little Missy thinks she ain't afraid of me; but she be. Trust Mother Rachel for knowing that much. I make no doubt," she added after a pause, "that the little one's clothes are trimmed with real lace. Well, little Missie Annie Forest, I can see with half an eye that you set store by that baby-girl. You had better not cross Mother Rachel's whims, or she can punish you in a way you don't think of." CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. HOW MOSES MOORE KEPT HIS APPOINTMENT. Susan Drummond got back to Lavender House without apparent discovery. She was certainly late when she took her place in the class-room for her next day's preparation; but, beyond a very sharp reprimand from Mademoiselle, no notice was taken of this fact. She managed to whisper to Nora and Phyllis that the basket would be moved by the first dawn the next morning, and the little girls went to bed happier in consequence. Nothing ever could disturb Susan's slumbers, and that night she certainly slept without rocking. As she was getting into bed she ventured to tell Annie how successfully she had manoeuvred; but Annie received her news with the most absolute indifference, looking at her for a moment with a queer smile, and then saying-- "My own wish is that this should be found out. As a matter of course, I sha'n't betray you, girls; but as things now stand I am anxious that Mrs Willis should know the very worst of me." After a remark which Susan considered so simply idiotic, there was, of course, no further conversation between the two girls. Moses Moore had certainly promised Betty to rise soon after dawn on the following morning and go to Lavender House to carry off the basket from under the laurel-tree. Moses, a remarkably indolent lad, had been stimulated by the thought of the delicious cherries which would be his as soon as he brought the basket to Betty. He had cleverly stipulated that a quart--not a pint--of cherries was to be his reward, and he looked forward with considerable pleasure to picking them himself, and putting a few extra ones into his mouth on the sly. Moses was not at all the kind of boy who would have scrupled to steal a few cherries; but in this particular old Betty, ill as she was, was too sharp for him, or for any of the other village lads. Her bed was drawn up close to her little window, and her window looked directly on to the two cherry trees. Never, to all appearance, did Betty close her eyes. However early the hour might be in which a village boy peeped over the wall of her garden, he always saw her white night-cap moving, and he knew that her bright blue eyes would be on him, and he would be proclaimed a thief all over the place before many minutes were over. Moses, therefore, was very glad to secure his cherries by fair means, as he could not obtain them by foul; and he went to bed and to sleep determined to be off on his errand with the dawn. A very natural thing, however, happened. Moses, unaccustomed to getting up at half-past three in the morning, never opened his eyes until the church clock struck five. Then he started upright, rubbed and rubbed at his sleepy orbs, tumbled into his clothes, and, softly opening the cottage door, set off on his errand. The fact of his being nearly an hour and a half late did not trouble him in the least. In any case, he would get to Lavender House before six o'clock, and would have consumed his cherries in less than an hour from that date. Moses sauntered gayly along the roads, whistling as he went, and occasionally tossing his battered cap in the air. He often lingered on his way, now to cut down a particularly tempting switch from the hedge, now to hunt for a possible bird's nest. It was very, nearly six o'clock when he reached the back avenue, swung himself over the gate, which was locked, and ran softly on the dewy grass in the direction of the laurel-bush. Old Betty had given him most careful instructions, and he was far too sharp a lad to forget what was necessary for the obtaining of a quart of cherries. He found his tree, and lay flat down on the ground in order to pull out the basket. His fingers had just clasped the handle when there came a sudden interruption--a rush, a growl, and some very sharp teeth had inserted themselves into the back of his ragged jacket. Poor Moses found himself, to his horror, in the clutches of a great mastiff. The creature held him tight, and laid one heavy paw on him to prevent him rising. Under these circumstances, Moses thought it quite unnecessary to retain any self-control. He shrieked, he screamed, he wriggled; his piercing yells filled the air, and, fortunately for him, his being two hours too late brought assistance to his aid. Michael, the gardener, and a strong boy who helped him, rushed to the spot, and liberated the terrified lad, who, after all, was only frightened, for Rover had satisfied himself with tearing his jacket to pieces, not himself. "Give me the b-basket," sobbed Moses, "and let me g-g-go." "You may certainly go, you little tramp," said Michael, "but Jim and me will keep the basket. I much misdoubt me if there isn't mischief here. What's the basket put hiding here for, and who does it belong to?" "Old B-B-Betty," gasped forth the agitated Moses. "Well, let old Betty fetch it herself. Mrs Willis will keep it for her," said Michael. "Come along, Jim, get to your weeding, do. There, little scamp, you had better make yourself scarce." Moses certainly look his advice, for he scuttled off like a hare. Whether he ever got his cherries or not, history does not disclose. Michael, looking gravely at Jim, opened the basket, examined its contents, and, shaking his head solemnly, carried it into the house. "There's been deep work going on, Jim, and my Missis ought to know," said Michael, who was an exceedingly strict disciplinarian. Jim, however, had a soft corner in his heart for the young ladies, and he commenced his weeding with a profound sigh. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. A BROKEN TRUST. The next morning Annie Forest opened her eyes with that strange feeling of indifference and want of vivacity which come so seldom to youth. She saw the sun shining through the closed blinds; she heard the birds twittering and singing in the large elm-tree which nearly touched the windows; she knew well how the world looked at this moment, for often and often in her old light-hearted days she had risen before the maid came to call her, and, kneeling by the deep window-ledge, had looked out at the bright fresh, sparkling day. A new day, with all its hours before it, its light vivid but not too glaring, its dress all manner of tender shades and harmonious colourings! Annie had a poetical nature, and she gloried in these glimpses which she got all by herself of the fresh, glad world. To-day, however, she lay still, sorry to know that the brief night was at an end, and that the day, with its coldness and suspicion, its terrible absence of love and harmony, was about to begin. Annie's nature was very emotional; she was intensely sensitive to her surroundings; the greyness of her present life was absolute destruction to such a nature as hers. The dressing-bell rang; the maid came in to draw up the blinds, and call the girls. Annie rose languidly, and began to dress herself. She first finished her toilet, and then approached her little bed, and stood by its side for a moment hesitating. She did not want to pray, and yet she felt impelled to go down on her knees. As she knelt with her curls falling about her face, and her bands pressed to her eyes, one line of one of her favourite poems came flashing with swiftness and power across; her memory-- "A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again." The words filled her whole heart with a sudden sense of peace and of great longing. The prayer-bell rang: she rose, and, turning to Susan Drummond, said earnestly-- "Oh, Susy, I do wish Mrs Willis could know about our going to the fairy-field; I do so want God to forgive me." Susan stared in her usual dull, uncomprehending way; then she flushed a little, and said brusquely-- "I think you have quite taken leave of your senses, Annie Forest." Annie said no more, but at prayers in the chapel she was glad to find herself near gentle Cecil Temple, and the words kept repeating themselves to her all during the morning lessons-- "A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again." Just before morning school, several of the girls started and looked distressed when they found that Mrs Willis lingered in the room. She stood for a moment by the English teacher's desk, said something to her in a low voice, and then, walking slowly to her own post at the head of the great school-room, she said suddenly-- "I want to ask you a question, Miss Drummond. Will you please just stand up in your place in class and answer me without a moment's hesitation?" Phyllis and Nora found themselves turning very pale; Mary Price and one or two more of the rebels also began to tremble, but Susan looked dogged and indifferent enough as she turned her eyes toward her teacher. "Yes, madam," she said, rising and dropping a curtsey. "My friends, the Misses Bruce, came to call on me yesterday evening, Susan, and told me that they saw you running very quickly on the high road in the direction of the village. You, of course, know that you broke a very distinct rule when you left the grounds without leave. Tell me at once where you were going." Susan hesitated, coloured to her dullest red, and looked down. Then, because she had no ready excuse to offer, she blurted out the truth-- "I was going to see old Betty." "The cake-woman?" "Yes." "What for?" "I--I heard she was ill." "Indeed--you may sit down. Miss Drummond. Miss Good, will you ask Michael to step for a moment into the school-room?" Several of the girls now indeed held their breath, and more than one heart beat with heavy, frightened bumps as a moment later Michael followed Miss Good into the room, carrying the redoubtable picnic-basket on his arm. "Michael," said Mrs Willis, "I wish you to tell the young ladies exactly how you found the basket this morning. Stand by my side, please, and speak loud enough for them to hear." After a moment's pause Michael related somewhat diffusely and with an occasional break in his narrative the scene which had occurred between him and Moses that morning. "That will do, Michael; you can now go," said the head-mistress. She waited until the old servant had closed the door, and then she turned to her girls-- "It is not quite a fortnight since I stood where I now stand, and asked one girl to be honourable and to save her companions. One girl was guilty of sin and would not confess, and for her sake all her companions are now suffering. I am tired of this sort of thing--I am tired of standing in this place and appealing to your honour, which is dead, to your truth, which is nowhere. Girls, you puzzle me--you half break my heart. In this case more than one is guilty. How many of the girls in Lavender House are going to tell me a lie this morning?" There was a very brief pause; then a slight cry, and a girl rose from her seat and walked up the long school-room. "I am the most guilty of all," said Annie Forest. "Annie!" said Mrs Willis, in a tone half of pain, half of relief, "have you come to your senses at last?" "Oh, I'm so glad to be able to speak the truth," said Annie. "Please punish me very, very hard; I am the most guilty of all." "What did you do with this basket?" "We took it for a picnic--it was my plan, I led the others." "Where was your picnic?" "In the fairies' field." "Ah! At what time?" "At night--in the middle of the night--the night you went to London." Mrs Willis put her hand to her brow; her face was very white and the girls could see that she trembled. "I trusted my girls--" she said; then she broke off abruptly. "You had companions in this wickedness--name them." "Yes, I had companions; I led them on." "Name them, Miss Forest." For the first time Annie raised her eyes to Mrs Willis's face: then she turned and looked down the long school-room. "Oh, won't they tell themselves?" she said. Nothing could be more appealing than her glance. It melted the hearts of Phyllis and Nora, who began to sob, and to declare brokenly that they had gone too, and that they were very, very sorry. Spurred by their example Mary Price also confessed, and one by one all the little conspirators revealed the truth, with the exception of Susan, who kept her eyes steadily fixed on the floor. "Susan Drummond," said Mrs Willis, "come here." There was something in her tone which startled every girl in the school. Never had they heard this ring in their teacher's voice before. "Susan," said Mrs Willis, "I don't ask you if you are guilty; I fear, poor miserable girl, that if I did you would load your conscience with a fresh lie. I don't ask you if you are guilty because I know you are. The fact of your running without leave to see old Betty is circumstantial evidence. I judge you by that and pronounce you guilty. Now, young ladies, you who have treated me so badly, who have betrayed my trust, who have been wanting in honour, I must think, I must ask God to teach me how to deal with you. In the meantime, you cannot associate with your companions. Miss Good, will you take each of these eight girls to their bedrooms." As Annie was leaving the room she looked full into Mrs Willis's face. Strange to say, at this moment of her great disgrace the cloud which had so long brooded over her was lifted. The sweet eyes never looked sweeter. The old Annie, and yet a better and a braver Annie than had ever existed before, followed her companions out of the school-room. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. IS SHE STILL GUILTY? On the evening of that day Cecil Temple knocked at the door of Mrs Willis's private sitting-room. "Ah, Cecil! is that you?" said her governess. "I am always glad to see you, dear; but I happen to be particularly busy to-night. Have you anything in particular to say to me?" "I only wanted to talk about Annie, Mrs Willis. You believe in her at last, don't you?" "Believe in her at last!" said the head-mistress in a tone of astonishment and deep pain. "No, Cecil, my dear; you ask too much of my faith. I do not believe in Annie." Cecil paused; she hesitated, and seemed half afraid to proceed. "Perhaps," she said at last in a slightly timid tone, "you have not seen her since this morning?" "No; I have been particularly busy. Besides, the eight culprits are under punishment; part of their punishment is that I will not see them." "Don't you think, Mrs Willis," said Cecil, "that Annie made rather a brave confession this morning?" "I admit, my dear, that Annie spoke in somewhat of her old impulsive way; she blamed herself, and did not try to screen her--misdemeanours behind her companions. In this one particular she reminded me of the old Annie who, notwithstanding all her faults. I used to trust and love. But as to her confession being very brave, my dear Cecil, you must remember that she did not _confess_ until she was obliged; she knew, and so did all the other girls, that I could have got the truth out of old Betty had they chosen to keep their lips sealed. Then, my dear, consider what she did. On the very night that I was away she violated the trust I had in her--she bade me `good-bye' with smiles and sweet glances, and then she did this in my absence. No, Cecil, I fear poor Annie is not what we thought her. She has done untold mischief during the half-year, and has willfully lied and deceived me. I find, on comparing dates, that it was on the very night of the girls picnic that Dora's theme was changed. There is no doubt whatever that Annie was the guilty person. I did my best to believe in her, and to depend on Mr Everard's judgment of her character, but I confess I can do so no longer. Cecil, dear, I am not surprised that you look pale and sad. No, we will not give up this poor Annie; we will try to love her even through her sin. Ah! poor child, poor child! how much I have prayed for her! She was to me as a child of my own. Now, dear Cecil, I must ask you to leave me." Cecil went slowly out of her governess's presence, and, wandering across the wide stone hall, she entered the play-room. It happened to be a wet night, and the room was full of girls, who hung together in groups and whispered softly. There were no loud voices, and, except from the little ones, there was no laughter. A great depression hung over the place, and few could have recognised the happy girls of Lavender House in these sad young faces. Cecil walked slowly into the room, and presently finding Hester Thornton, she sat down by her side. "I can't get Mrs Willis to see it," she said very sadly. "What?" asked Hester. "Why, that we have got our old Annie back again; that she did take the girls out to that picnic, and was as wild, and reckless, and naughty as possible about it; and then, just like the old Annie I have always known, the moment the fun was over she began to repent, and that she has gone on repenting ever since, which has accounted for her poor, sad little face and white cheeks. Of course she longed to tell--Nora and Phyllis have told me so--but she would not betray them. Now at last there is a load off her heart, and, though she is in great disgrace and punishment, she is not very unhappy. I went to see her an hour ago, and I saw in her face that my own darling Annie has returned. But what do you think Mrs Willis does, Hester? She is so hurt and disappointed, that she believes Annie is guilty of the other thing--she believes that Annie stole Dora's theme, and that she caricatured her in my book some time ago. She believes it--she is sure of it. Now, do you think, Hester, that Annie's face would look quite peaceful and happy to-night if she had only confessed half her faults--if she had this meanness, this sin, these lies still resting on her soul? Oh! I wish Mrs Willis would see her! I wish--I wish I but I can do nothing. You agree with me, don't you, Hester? Just put yourself in Annie's place, and tell me if _you_ would feel happy, and if your heart would be at rest, if you had only confessed half your sin, and if through you all your school-fellows were under disgrace and suspicion? You could not, could you, Hester? Why, Hester, how white you are!" "You are so metaphysical," said Hester, rising; "you quite puzzle me. How can I put myself in your friend Annie's place? I never understood her--I never wanted to. Put myself in her place?--no, certainly that I'm never likely to. I hope that I shall never be in such a predicament." Hester walked away, and Cecil sat still in great perplexity. Cecil was a girl with a true sense of religion. The love of God guided every action of her simple and straightforward life. She was neither beautiful nor clever; but no one in the school was more respected and honoured, no one more sincerely loved. Cecil knew what the peace of God meant, and when she saw even a shadowy reflection of that peace on Annie's little face, she was right in believing that she must be innocent of the guilt which was attributed to her. The whole school assembled for prayers that night in the little chapel, and Mr Everard, who had heard the story of that day's confession from Mrs Willis, said a few words appropriate to the occasion to the unhappy young girls. Whatever effect his words had on the others, and they were very simple and straightforward, Annie's face grew quiet and peaceful as she listened to them. The old clergyman assured the girls that God was waiting to forgive those who truly repented, and that the way to repent was to rise up and sin no more. "The present fun is not worth the after-pain," he said in conclusion. "It is an old saying that stolen waters are sweet, but only at the time: afterwards only those who drink of them know the full extent of their bitterness." This little address from Mr Everard strengthened poor Annie for an ordeal which was immediately before her, for Mrs Willis asked all the school to follow her to the play-room, and there she told them that she was about to restore to them their lost privileges; that circumstances, in her opinion, now so strongly pointed the guilt of the stolen essay in the direction of one girl, that she could no longer ask the school to suffer for her sake. "She still refuses to confess her sin," said Mrs Willis, "but, unless another girl proclaims herself guilty, and proves to me beyond doubt that she drew the caricature which was found in Cecil Temple's book, and that she changed Dora Russell's essay, and, imitating her hand, put another in its place, I proclaim the guilty person to be Annie Forest, and on her alone I visit my displeasure. You can retire to your rooms, young ladies. To-morrow morning Lavender House resumes its old cheerfulness." CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. HESTER'S HOUR OF TRIAL. However calmly or however peacefully Annie slept that night, poor Hester did not close her eyes. The white face of the girl she had wronged and injured kept rising before her. Why had she so deceived Annie? Why from the very first had she turned from her and misjudged her, and misrepresented her? Was Annie, indeed, all bad? Hester had to own to herself that to-night Annie was better than she--was greater than she. Could she now have undone the past, she would not have acted as she had done; she would not for the sake of a little paltry revenge have defiled her conscience with a lie, have told her governess that she could throw no light on the circumstance of the stolen essay. This was the first lie Hester had ever told; she was naturally both straightforward and honourable, but her sin of sins, that which made her hard and almost unlovable, was an intensely proud and haughty spirit. She was very sorry she had told that lie; she was very sorry she had yielded to that temptation; but not for worlds would she now humble herself to confess-- not for worlds would she let the school know of her cowardice and shame. No, if there was no other means of clearing: Annie except through her confession, she must remain with the shadow of this sin over her to her dying day. Hester, however, was now really unhappy, and also truly sorry for poor Annie. Could she have got off without disgrace or punishment, she would have been truly glad to see Annie exonerated. She was quite certain that Susan Drummond was at the bottom of all the mischief which had been done lately at Lavender House. She could not make out how stupid Susan was clever enough to caricature and to imitate peoples' hands. Still she was convinced that she was the guilty person, and she wondered and wondered if she could induce Susan to come forward and confess the truth, and so save Annie without bringing her, Hester, into any trouble. She resolved to speak to Susan, and without confessing that she had been in the school-room on the night the essay was changed, to let her know plainly that she suspected her. She became much calmer when she determined to carry out this resolve, and toward morning she fell asleep. She was awakened at a very early hour by little Nan clambering over the side of her crib, and cuddling down cosily in a way she loved by Hester's side. "Me so 'nug, 'nug," said little Nan. "Oh, Hetty, Hetty, there's a wy on the teiling!" Hester had then to rouse herself, and enter into an animated conversation on the subject of flies generally, and in especial she had to talk of that particular fly which would perambulate on the ceiling over Nan's head. "Me like wies," said Nan, "and me like 'oo, Hetty, and me love--me love Annie." Hester kissed her little sister passionately; but this last observation, accompanied by the expression of almost angelic devotion which filled little Nan's brown eyes, as she repeated that she liked flies and Hetty, but that she loved Annie, had the effect of again hardening her heart. Hester's hour of trial, however, was at hand, and before that day was over she was to experience that awful emptiness and desolation which those know whom God is punishing. Lessons went on as usual at Lavender House that morning, and, to the surprise of several, Annie was seen in her old place in class. She worked with a steadiness quite new to her; no longer interlarding her hours of study with those indescribable glances of fun and mischief, first at one school-companion and then at another, which used to worry her teachers so much. There were no merry glances from Annie that morning: but she worked steadily and rapidly, and went through that trying ordeal, her French verbs, with such satisfaction that Mademoiselle was on the point of praising her, until she remembered that Annie was in disgrace. After school, however, Annie did not join her companions in the grounds, but went up to her bedroom, where, by Mrs Willis's orders, she was to remain until the girls went in. She was to take her own exercise later in the day. It was now the tenth of June--an intensely sultry day; a misty heat brooded over everything, and not a breath of air stirred the leaves in the trees. The girls wandered about languidly, too enervated by the heat to care to join in any noisy games. They were now restored to their full freedom, and there is no doubt they enjoyed the privileges of having little confabs, and whispering secrets to each other without having Miss Good and Miss Danesbury for ever at their elbows. They talked of many things--of the near approach of the holidays, of the prize day which was now so close at hand, of Annie's disgrace, and so on. They wondered, many of them, if Annie would ever be brought to confess her sin, and, if not, how Mrs Willis would act toward her. Dora Russell said in her most contemptuous tones-- "She is nothing, after all, but a charity child, and Mrs Willis has supported her for years for nothing." "Yes, and she's too clever by half; eh, poor old Muddy Stream?" remarked a saucy little girl. "By the way, Dora, dear, how goes the river now?-- has it lost itself in the arms of mother ocean yet?" Dora turned red and walked away, and her young tormentor exclaimed with considerable gusto-- "There, I have silenced her for a bit; I do hate the way she talks about charity children. Whatever her faults, Annie is the sweetest and prettiest girl in the school, in my opinion." In the meantime Hester was looking in all directions for Susan Drummond. She thought the present a very fitting opportunity to open her attack on her, and she was the more anxious to bring her to reason as a certain look in Annie's face--a pallid and very weary look--had gone to her heart, and touched her in spite of herself. Now, even though little Nan loved her, Hester would save Annie could she do so not at her own expense. Look, however, as she would, nowhere could she find Miss Drummond. She called and called, but no sleepy voice replied. Susan, indeed, knew better; she had curled herself up in a hammock which hung between the boughs of a shady tree, and though Hester passed under her very head, she was sucking lollipops and going off comfortably into the land of dreams, and had no intention of replying. Hester wandered down the shady walk, and at its farther end she was gratified by the sight of little Nan, who, under her nurse's charge, was trying to string daisies on the grass. Hester sat down by her side, and Nan climbed over and made fine havoc of her neat print dress, and laughed, and was at her merriest and best. "I hear say that that naughty Miss Forest has done something out-and-out disgraceful," whispered the nurse. "Oh, don't!" said Hester impatiently. "Why should everyone throw mud at a girl when she is down? If poor Annie is naughty and guilty, she is suffering now." "Annie _not_ naughty," said little Nan. "Me love my own Annie; me do, me do." "And you love your own poor old nurse, too?" responded the somewhat jealous nurse. Hester left the two playing happily together, the little one caressing her nurse, and blowing one or two kisses after her sister's retreating form. Hester returned to the house, and went up to her room to prepare for dinner. She had washed her hands, and was standing before the looking-glass re-plaiting her long hair when Susan Drummond, looking extremely wild and excited, and with her eyes almost starting out of her head, rushed into the room. "Oh, Hester, Hester!" she gasped, and she flung herself on Hester's bed, with her face downwards; she seemed absolutely deprived for the moment of the power of any further speech. "What is the matter, Susan?" inquired Hester half impatiently. "What have you come into my room for? Are you going into a fit of hysterics? You had better control yourself, for the dinner gong will sound directly." Susan gasped two or three times, made a rush to Hester's wash-handstand, and taking up a glass, poured some cold water into it, and gulped it down. "Now I can speak," she said. "I ran so fast that my breath quite left me. Hester, put on your walking things or go without them, just as you please--only go at once if you would save her." "Save whom?" asked Hester. "Your little sister--little Nan. I--I saw it all. I was in the hammock, and nobody knew I was there, and somehow I wasn't so sleepy as usual, and I heard Nan's voice, and I looked over the side of the hammock, and she was sitting on the grass picking daisies, and her nurse was with her, and presently you came up. I heard you calling me, but I wasn't going to answer. I felt too comfortable. You stayed with Nan and her nurse for a little, and then went away; and I heard Nan's nurse say to her: `Sit here, Missy, till I come back to you; I am going to fetch another reel of sewing cotton from the house. Sit still, Missy; I'll be back directly.' She went away, and Nan went on picking her daisies. All on a sudden I heard Nan give a sharp little cry, and I looked over the hammock, and there was a tall dark woman, with such a wicked face, and she snatched up Nan in her arms, and put a thick shawl over her face, and ran off with her. It was all done in an instant. I shouted, and I scrambled out of the hammock, and I rushed down the path; but there wasn't a sign of anybody there. I don't know where the woman went--it seemed as if the earth swallowed up both her and little Nan. Why, Hester, are you going to faint?" "Water!" gasped Hester--"one sip--now let me go." CHAPTER FORTY. A GIPSY MAID. In a few moments everyone in Lavender House was made acquainted with Susan's story. At such a time ceremony was laid aside, dinner forgotten, teachers, pupils, servants all congregated in the grounds, all rushed to the spot where Nan's withered daisies still lay, all peered through the underwood, and all, alas! looked, in vain for the tall dark woman and the little child. Little Nan, the baby of the school, had been stolen--there were loud and terrified lamentations. Nan's nurse was almost tearing her hair, was rushing frantically here, there, and everywhere. No one blamed the nurse for leaving her little charge in apparent safety for a few moments, but the poor woman's own distress was pitiable to see. Mrs Willis took Hester's hand, and told the poor stunned girl that she was sending to Sefton immediately for two or three policemen, and that in the meantime every man on the place should commence the search for the woman and child. "Without any doubt," Mrs Willis added, "we shall soon have our little Nan back again; it is quite impossible that the woman, whoever she is, can have taken her so far away in so short a time." In the meantime, Annie in her bedroom heard the fuss and the noise. She leaned out of her window and saw Phyllis in the distance; she called to her. Phyllis ran up, the tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh, something so dreadful!" she gasped; "a wicked, wicked woman has stolen little Nan Thornton. She ran off with her just where the undergrowth is so thick at the end of the shady walk. It happened to her half an hour ago, and they are all looking, but they cannot find the woman or little Nan anywhere. Oh, it is so dreadful! Is that you, Mary?" Phyllis ran off to join her sister, and Annie put her head in again, and looked round her pretty room. "The gipsy," she murmured, "the tall, dark gipsy has taken little Nan!" Her face was very white, her eyes shone, her lips expressed a firm and almost obstinate determination. With all her usual impulsiveness, she decided on a course of action--she snatched up a piece of paper and scribbled a hasty line: ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Dear Mother-friend,--However badly you think of Annie, Annie loves you with all her heart. Forgive me, I must go myself to look for little Nan. That tall, dark woman is a gipsy--I have seen her before; her name is Mother Rachel. Tell Hetty I won't return until I bring her little sister back.--Your repentant and sorrowful Annie." Annie twisted up the note, directed it to Mrs Willis, and left it on her dressing-table. Then, with a wonderful amount of forethought for her, she emptied the contents of a little purse into a tiny gingham bag, which she fastened inside the front of her dress. She put on her shady hat, and threw a shawl across her arm, and then, slipping softly downstairs, she went out through the deserted kitchens, down the back avenue, and past the laurel-bush, until she came to the stile which led into the wood--she was going straight to the gipsies' encampment. Annie, with some of the gipsy's characteristics in her own blood, had always taken an extraordinary interest in these queer wandering people. Gipsies had a fascination for her, she loved stories about them; if a gipsy encampment was near, she always begged the teachers to walk in that direction. Annie had a very vivid imagination, and in the days when she reigned as favourite in the school she used to make up stories for the express benefit of her companions. These stories, as a rule, always turned upon the gipsies. Many and many a time had the girls of Lavender House almost gasped with horror as Annie described the queer ways of these people. For her, personally, their wildness and their freedom had a certain fascination, and she was heard in her gayest moments to remark that she would rather like to be stolen and adopted by a gipsy tribe. Whenever Annie had an opportunity she chatted with the gipsy wives, and allowed them to tell her fortune, and listened eagerly to their narratives. When a little child she had once for several months been under the care of a nurse who was a reclaimed gipsy, and this girl had given her all kinds of information about them. Annie often felt that she quite loved these wild people, and Mother Rachel was the first gipsy she cordially shrank from and disliked. When the little girl started now on her wild-goose chase after Nan she was by no means devoid of a plan of action. The knowledge she had taken so many years to acquire came to her aid, and she determined to use it for Nan's benefit. She knew that the gipsies, with all their wandering and erratic habits, had a certain attachment, if not for homes, at least for sites; she knew that as a rule they encamped over and over again in the same place; she knew that their wanderings were conducted with method, and their apparently lawless lives governed by strict self-made rules. Annie made straight now for the encampment, which stood in a little dell at the other side of the fairies' field. Here for weeks past the gipsies' tents had been seen; here the gipsy children had played, and the men and women smoked and lain about in the sun. Anne entered the small field now, but uttered no exclamation of surprise when she found that all the tents, with the exception of one, had been removed, and that this tent also was being rapidly taken down by a man and a girl, while a tall boy stood by, holding a donkey by the bridle. Annie wasted no time in looking for Nan here. Before the girl and the man could see her, she darted behind a bush, and removing her little bag of money, hid it carefully under some long grass; then she pulled a very bright yellow sash out of her pocket, tied it round her blue cotton dress, and leaving her little shawl also on the ground, tripped gayly up to the tent. She saw with pleasure that the girl who was helping the man was about her own size. She went up and touched her on the shoulder. "Look here," she said, "I want to make such a pretty play by-and-by--I want to play that I'm a gipsy girl. Will you give me your clothes, if I give you mine? See, mine are neat, and this sash is very handsome. Will you have them? Do. I am so anxious to play at being a gipsy." The girl turned and stared. Annie's pretty blue print and gay sash were certainly tempting bait. She glanced at her father. "The little lady wants to change," she said in an eager voice. The man nodded acquiescence, and the girl taking Annie's hand, ran quickly with her to the bottom of the field. "You don't mean it, surely?" she said. "Eh, but I'm uncommon willing." "Yes, I certainly mean it," said Annie. "You are a dear, good, obliging girl, and how nice you will look in my pretty blue cotton! I like that striped petticoat of yours, too, and that gay handkerchief you wear round your shoulders. Thank you so very much. Now, do I look like a real, real gipsy?" "Your hair ain't ragged enough, miss." "Oh, clip it, then; clip it away. I want to be quite the real thing. Have you got a pair of scissors?" The girl ran back to the tent, and presently returned to shear poor Annie's beautiful hair in truly rough fashion. "Now, miss, you look much more like, only your arms are a bit too white. Stay, we has got some walnut-juice; we was just a-using of it. I'll touch you up fine, miss." So she did, darkening Annie's brown skin to a real gipsy tone. "You're, a dear, good girl," said Annie, in conclusion; and as the girl's father called her roughly at this moment, she was obliged to go away, looking ungainly enough in the English child's neat clothes. CHAPTER FORTY ONE. DISGUISED. Annie ran out of the field, mounted the stile which led into the wood, and stood there until the gipsy man and girl, and the boy with the donkey, had finally disappeared. Then she left her hiding-place, and taking her little gingham bag out of the long grass, secured it once more in the front of her dress. She felt queer and uncomfortable in her new dress, and the gipsy girl's heavy shoes tired her feet; but she was not to be turned from her purpose by any manner of discomforts, and she started bravely on her long trudge over the dusty roads, for her object was to follow the gipsies to their next encampment, about ten miles away. She had managed, with some tact, to obtain a certain amount of information from the delighted gipsy girl. The girl told Annie that she was very glad they were going from here; that this was a very dull place, and that they would not have stayed so long but for Mother Rachel, who for some reasons of her own, had refused to stir. Here the girl drew herself up short, and coloured under her dark skin. But Annie's tact never failed. She even yawned a little, and seemed scarcely to hear the girl's words. Now, in the distance, she followed these people. In her disguise, uncomfortable as it was, she felt tolerably safe. Should any of the people in Lavender House happen to pass her on the way, they would never recognise Annie Forest in this small gipsy maiden. When she did approach the gipsies' dwelling she might have some hope of passing as one of themselves. The only one whom she had really to fear was the girl with whom she had changed clothes, and she trusted to her wits to keep out of this young person's way. When Zillah, her old gipsy nurse, had charmed her long ago with gipsy legends and stories, Annie had always begged to hear about the fair English children whom the gipsies stole, and Zillah had let her into some secrets which partly accounted for the fact that so few of these children are ever recovered. She walked very fast now; her depression was gone, a great excitement, a great longing, a great hope, keeping her up. She forgot that she had eaten nothing since breakfast: she forgot everything in all the world now but her great love for little Nan, and her desire to lay down her very life, if necessary, to rescue Nan from the terrible fate which awaited her if she was brought up as a gipsy's child. Annie, however, was unaccustomed to such long walks, and besides, recent events had weakened her, and by the time she reached Sefton--for her road lay straight through this little town--she was so hot and thirsty that she looked around her anxiously to find some place of refreshment. In an unconscious manner she paused before a restaurant, where she and several other girls of Lavender House had more than once been regaled with buns and milk. The remembrance of the fresh milk and the nice buns came gratefully before the memory of the tired child now. Forgetting her queer attire, she went into the shop, and walked boldly up to the counter. Annie's disguise, however, was good, and the young woman who was serving, instead of bending forward with the usual gracious "What can I get for you, miss?" said very sharply-- "Go away at once, little girl; we don't allow beggars here; leave the shop instantly. No, I have nothing for you." Annie was about to reply rather hotly, for she had an idea that even a gipsy's money might purchase buns and milk, when she was suddenly startled, and almost terrified into betraying herself, by encountering the gentle and fixed stare of Miss Jane Bruce, who had been leaning over the counter and talking to one of the shop-women when Annie entered. "Here is a penny for you, little girl," she said. "You can get a nice hunch of stale bread for a penny in the shop at the corner of the High Street." Annie's eyes flashed back at the little lady, her lips quivered, and, clasping the penny, she rushed out of the shop. "My dear," said Miss Jane, turning to her sister, "did you notice the extraordinary likeness that little gipsy girl bore to Annie Forest?" Miss Agnes sighed. "Not particularly, love," she answered; "but I scarcely looked at her. I wonder if our dear little Annie is any happier than she was. Ah, I think we have done here. Good afternoon, Mrs Tremlett." The little old ladies, trotted off, giving no more thoughts to the gipsy child. Poor Annie almost ran down the street, and never paused till she reached a shop of much humbler appearance, where she was served with some cold slices of German sausage, some indifferent bread and butter, and milk by no means over-good. The coarse fare, and the rough people who surrounded her, made the poor child feel both sick and frightened. She found she could only keep up her character by remaining almost silent, for the moment she opened her lips people turned round and stared at her. She paid for her meal, however, and presently found herself at the other side of Sefton, and in a part of the country which was comparatively strange to her. The gipsies' present encampment was about a mile away from the town of Oakley, a much larger place than Sefton. Sefton and Oakley lay about six miles apart. Annie trudged bravely on, her head aching; for, of course, as a gipsy girl, she could use no parasol to shade her from the sun. At last the comparative cool of the evening arrived, and the little girl gave a sigh of relief, and looked forward to her bed and supper at Oakley. She had made up her mind to sleep there, and to go to the gipsies' encampment very early in the morning. It was quite dark by the time she reached Oakley, and she was now so tired, and her feet so blistered from walking in the gipsy girl's rough shoes, that she could scarcely proceed another step. The noise and the size of Oakley, too, bewildered and frightened her. She had learnt a lesson in Sefton, and dared not venture into the more respectable streets. How could she sleep in those hot, common, close houses? Surely it would be better for her to lie down under a cool hedge-row-- there could be no real cold on this lovely summer's night, and the hours would quickly pass, and the time soon arrive when she must go boldly in search of Nan. She resolved to sleep in a hayfield which took her fancy just outside the town, and she only went into Oakley for the purpose of buying some bread and milk. Annie was so far fortunate as to get a refreshing draught of really good milk from a woman who stood by a cottage door, and who gave her a piece of girdle-cake to eat with it. "You're one of the gipsies, my dear?" said the woman. "I saw them passing in their caravans an hour back. No doubt you are for taking up your old quarters in the copse, just alongside of Squire Thompson's long acre field. How is it you are not with the rest of them, child?" "I was late in starting," said Annie. "Can you tell me the best way to get from here to the long acre field?" "Oh! you take that turn-stile, child, and keep in the narrow path by the cornfields; it's two miles and a half from here as the crow flies. No, no, my dear, I don't want your pennies; but you might humour my little girl here by telling her fortune--she's wonderful taken by the gipsy folk." Annie coloured painfully. The child came forward, and she crossed her hand with a piece of silver. She looked at the little palm and muttered something about being rich and fortunate, and marrying a prince in disguise, and having no trouble whatever. "Eh! but that's a fine lot, is yours, Peggy," said the gratified mother. Peggy however, aged nine, had a wiser head on her young shoulders. "She didn't tell no proper fortune," she said disparagingly, when Annie left the cottage. "She didn't speak about no crosses, and no biting disappointments, and no bleeding wounds. I don't believe in her, I don't. I like fortunes mixed, not all one way; them fortunes ain't natural, and I don't believe she's no proper gipsy girl." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. HESTER. At Lavender House the confusion, the terror, and the dismay were great. For several hours the girls seemed quite to lose their heads, and just when, under Mrs Willis's and the other teachers' calmness and determination, they were being restored to discipline and order, the excitement and alarm broke out afresh when some one brought Annie's little note to Mrs Willis, and the school discovered that she also was missing. On this occasion no one did doubt her motives; disobedient as her act was, no one wasted words of blame on her. All, from the head-mistress to the smallest child in the school, knew that it was love for little Nan that had taken Annie off; and the tears started to Mrs Willis's eyes when she first read the tiny note, and then placed it tenderly in, her desk. Hester's face became almost ashen in its hue when she heard what Annie had done. "Annie has gone herself to bring back Nan to you, Hester," said Phyllis. "It was I told her, and I know now by her face that she must have made up her mind at once." "Very disobedient of her to go," said Dora Russell; but no one took up Dora's tone, and Mary Price said, after a pause-- "Disobedient or not, it was brave--it was really very plucky." "It is my opinion," said Nora, "that if anyone in the world can find little Nan it will be Annie. You remember. Phyllis, how often she has talked to us about gipsies, and what a lot she knows about them?" "Oh, yes; she'll be better than fifty policemen," echoed several girls; and then two or three young faces were turned toward Hester, and some voice said almost scornfully--"You'll have to love Annie now; you'll have to admit that there is something good in our Annie when she brings your little Nan home again." Hester's lips quivered; she tried to speak, but a sudden burst of tears came from her instead. She walked slowly out of the astonished little group, who none of them believed that proud Hester Thornton could weep. The wretched girl rushed up to her room, where she threw herself on her bed and gave way to some of the bitterest tears she had ever shed. All her indifference to Annie, all her real unkindness, all her ever-increasing dislike came back now to torture and harass her. She began to believe with the girls that Annie would be successful; she began dimly to acknowledge in her heart the strange power which this child possessed; she guessed that Annie would heap coals of fire on her head by bringing back her little sister. She hoped, she longed, she could almost have found it in her heart to pray that some one else, not Annie, might save little Nan. For not yet had Hester made up her mind to confess the truth about Annie Forest. To confess the truth now meant humiliation in the eyes of the whole school. Even for Nan's sake she could not, she would not, be great enough for this. Sobbing on her bed, trembling from head to foot, in an agony of almost uncontrollable grief, she could not bring her proud and stubborn little heart to accept God's only way of piece. No, she hoped she might be able to influence Susan Drummond and induce her to confess, and if Annie was not cleared in that way, if she really saved little Nan, she would doubtless be restored to much of her lost favour in the school. Hester had never been a favourite at Lavender House; but now her great trouble caused all the girls to speak to her kindly and considerately, and as she lay on her bed she presently heard a gentle step on the floor of her room--a cool little hand was laid tenderly on her forehead, and opening her swollen eyes, she met Cecil's loving gaze. "There is no news yet, Hester," said Cecil; "but Mrs Willis has just gone herself into Sefton, and will not lose an hour in getting further help. Mrs Willis looks quite haggard. Of course she is very anxious both about Annie and Nan." "Oh, Annie is safe enough," murmured Hester, burying her head in the bedclothes. "I don't know; Annie is very impulsive, and very pretty; the gipsies may like to steal her too--of course she has gone straight to one of their encampments. Naturally Mrs Willis is most anxious." Hester pressed her hand to her throbbing head. "We are all so sorry for you, dear," said Cecil gently. "Thank you--being sorry for one does not do a great deal of good, does it?" "I thought sympathy always did good," replied Cecil, looking puzzled. "Thank you," said Hester again. She lay quite still for several minutes with her eyes closed. Her face looked intensely unhappy. Cecil was not easily repelled, and she guessed only too surely that Hester's proud heart was suffering much. She was puzzled, however, how to approach her, and had almost made up her mind to go away and beg of kind-hearted Miss Danesbury to see if she could come and do something, when through the open window there came the shrill sweet laughter and the eager, high-pitched tones of some of the youngest children in the school. A strange quiver passed over Hester's face at the sound; she sat up in bed, and gasped out in a half-strangled voice-- "Oh! I can't bear it--little Nan, little Nan! Cecil, I am very, very unhappy." "I know it, darling," said Cecil, and she put her arms round the excited girl. "Oh, Hester! don't turn away from me; do let us be unhappy together." "But you did not care for Nan." "I did--we all loved the pretty darling." "Suppose I never see her again?" said Hester half wildly. "Oh, Cecil! and mother left her to me! mother gave her to me to take care of, and to bring to her some day in heaven. Oh, little Nan, my pretty, my love, my sweet! I think I could better bear her being dead than this." "You could, Hester," said Cecil, "if she was never to be found; but I don't think God will give you such a terrible punishment. I think little Nan will be restored to you. Let us ask God to do it, Hetty--let us kneel down now, we two little girls, and pray to Him with all our might." "I can't pray; don't ask me," said Hester, turning her face away. "Then I will." "But not here, Cecil. Cecil, I am not good--I am not good enough to pray." "We don't want to be good to pray," said Cecil. "We want perhaps to be unhappy--perhaps sorry; but if God waited just for goodness, I don't think He would get many prayers." "Well, I am unhappy, but not sorry. No, no; don't ask me, I cannot pray." CHAPTER FORTY THREE. SUSAN. Mrs Willis came back at a very late hour from Sefton. The police were confident that they must soon discover both children, but no tidings had yet been heard of either of them. Mrs Willis ordered her girls to bed, and went herself to kiss Hester and give her a special "good-night." She was struck by the peculiarly unhappy, and even hardened, expression on the poor child's face, and felt that she did not half understand her. In the middle of the night Hester awoke from a troubled dream. She awoke with a sharp cry, so sharp and intense in its sound that had any girl been awake in the next room she must have heard it. She felt that she could no longer remain close to that little empty cot. She suddenly remembered that Susan Drummond would be alone to-night: what time so good as the present for having a long talk with Susan and getting her to clear Annie? She slipped out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, and softly opening the door, ran down the passage to Susan's room. Susan was in bed, and fast asleep. Hester could see her face quite plainly in the moonlight, for Susan slept facing the window, and the blind was not drawn down. Hester had some difficulty in awakening Miss Drummond, who, however, at last sat up in bed, yawning prodigiously. "What is the matter? Is that you, Hester Thornton? Have you got any news of little Nan? Has Annie come back?" "No, they are both still away. Susy, I want to speak to you." "Dear me! what for? must you speak in the middle of the night?" "Yes, for I don't want anyone else to know. Oh, Susan, please don't go to sleep." "My dear, I won't, if I can help it. Do you mind throwing a little cold water over my face and head? There is a can by the bed-side. I always keep one handy. Ah, thanks--now I am wide awake. I shall probably remain so for about two minutes. Can you get your say over in that time?" "I wonder, Susan," said Hester, "if you have got any heart--but heart or not, I have just come here to-night to tell you that I have found you out. You are at the bottom of all this mischief about Annie Forest." Susan had a most phlegmatic face, an utterly unemotional voice, and she now stared calmly at Hester and demanded to know what in the world she meant. Hester felt her temper going, her self-control deserting her. Susan's apparent innocence and indifference drove her half frantic. "Oh, you are mean," she said. "You pretend to be innocent, but you are the deepest and wickedest girl in the school. I tell you, Susan, I have found you out--you put that caricature of Mrs Willis into Cecil's book; you changed Dora's theme. I don't know why you did it, nor how you did it, but you are the guilty person, and you have allowed the sin of it to remain on Annie's shoulders all this time. Oh, you are the very meanest girl I ever heard of!" "Dear, dear!" said Susan, "I wish I had not asked you to throw cold water over my head and face, and allow myself to be made very wet and uncomfortable, just to be told I am the meanest girl you ever met. And pray what affair is this of yours? You certainly don't love Annie Forest." "I don't, but I want justice to be done to her. Annie is very, very unhappy. Oh, Susy, won't you go and tell Mrs Willis the truth?" "Really, my dear Hester, I think you are a little mad. How long have you known all this about me, pray?" "Oh, for some time since--since the night the essay was changed." "Ah, then, if what you stale is true, you told Mrs Willis a lie, for she distinctly asked you if you knew anything about the `Muddy Stream,' and you said you didn't. I saw you--I remarked how very red you got when you plumped out that great lie! My dear, if I am the meanest and wickedest girl in the school, prove it--go, tell Mrs Willis what you know. Now, if you will allow me, I will get back into the land of dreams." Susan curled herself up once more in her bed, wrapped the bedclothes tightly round her, and was to all appearance oblivious of Hester's presence. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. UNDER THE HEDGE. It is one thing to talk of the delights of sleeping under a hedge-row and another to realise them. A hayfield is a very charming place, but in the middle of the night, with the dew clinging to everything, it is apt to prove but a chilly bed; the most familiar objects put on strange and unreal forms, the most familiar sounds become loud and alarming. Annie slept for about an hour soundly; then she awoke, trembling with cold in every limb, startled and almost terrified by the oppressive loneliness of the night, sure that the insect life which surrounded her, and which would keep up successions of chirps, and croaks, and buzzes, was something mysterious and terrifying. Annie was a brave child, but even brave little girls may be allowed to possess nerves under her present conditions, and when a spider ran across her face she started up with a scream of terror. At this moment she almost regretted the close and dirty lodgings which she might have obtained for a few pence at Oakley. The hay in the field which she had selected was partly cut and partly standing. The cut portion had been piled up into little cocks and hillocks, and these, with the night shadows round them, appeared to the frightened child to assume large and half-human proportions. She found she could not sleep any longer. She wrapped her shawl tightly round her, and, crouching into the hedge-row, waited for the dawn. That watched-for dawn seemed to the tired child as if it would never come; but at last her solitary vigil came to an end, the cold grew greater, a little gentle breeze stirred the uncut grass, and up in the sky overhead the stars became fainter and the atmosphere clearer. Then came a little faint flush of pink, then a brighter light, and then all in a moment the birds burst into a perfect jubilee of song, the insects talked and chirped and buzzed in new tones, the hay-cocks became simply hay-cocks, the dew sparkled on the wet grass, the sun had risen, and the new day had begun. Annie sat up and rubbed her tired eyes. With the sunshine and brightness her versatile spirits revived; she buckled on her courage like an armour, and almost laughed at the miseries of the past few hours. Once more she believed that success and victory would be hers, once more in her small way she was ready to do or die. She believed absolutely in the holiness of her mission. Love--love alone simple and pure, was guiding her. She gave no thought to after-consequences, she gave no memory to past events: her object now was to rescue Nan, and she herself was nothing. Annie had a fellow-feeling, a rare sympathy with every little child; but no child had ever come to take Nan's place with her. The child she had first begun to notice simply out of a naughty spirit of revenge, had twined herself round her heart, and Annie loved Nan all the more dearly because she had long ago repented of stealing her affections from Hester, and would gladly have restored her to her old place next to Hetty's heart. Her love for Nan, therefore, had the purity and greatness which all love that calls forth self-sacrifice must possess. Annie had denied herself, and kept away from Nan of late. Now, indeed, she was going to rescue her; but if she thought of herself at all, it was with the certainty that for this present act of disobedience Mrs Willis would dismiss her from the school, and she would not see little Nan again. Never mind that, if Nan herself was saved. Annie was disobedient, but on this occasion she was not unhappy; she had none of that remorse which troubled her so much after her wild picnic in the fairies' field. On the contrary, she had a strange sense of peace and even guidance; she had confessed this sin to Mrs Willis, and, though she was suspected of far worse, her own innocence kept her heart untroubled. The verse which had occurred to her two mornings before still rang in her ears-- "A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again." The impulsive, eager child was possessed just now of something which men call True Courage; it was founded on the knowledge that God would help her, and was accordingly calm and strengthening. Annie rose from her damp bed, and looked around her for a little stream where she might wash her face and hands; suddenly she remembered that face and hands were dyed, and that she would do best to leave them alone. She smoothed out as best she could the ragged elf-locks which the gipsy maid had left on her curly head, and then, covering her face with her hands, said simply and earnestly--"Please, my Father in heaven, help me to find little Nan;" then she set off through the cornfields in the direction of the gipsies' encampment. CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. TIGER. It was still very, very early in the morning, and the gipsy folk, tired from their march on the preceding day, slept. There stood the conical, queer-shaped tents, four in number; at a little distance off grazed the donkeys and a couple of rough mules; at the door of the tents lay stretched out in profound repose two or three dogs. Annie dreaded the barking of the dogs, although she guessed that if they set up a noise, and a gipsy wife or man put out their heads in consequence, they would only desire the gipsy child to lie down and keep quiet. She stood still for a moment--she was very anxious to prowl around the place and examine the ground while the gipsies still slept, but the watchful dogs deterred her. She stood perfectly quiet behind the hedge-row, thinking hard. Should she trust to a charm she knew she possessed, and venture into the encampment? Annie had almost as great a fascination over dogs and cats as she had over children. As a little child going to visit with her mother at strange houses, the watch-dogs never barked at her; on the contrary, they yielded to the charm which seemed to come from her little fingers as she patted their great heads. Slowly their tails would move backwards and forwards as she petted them, and even the most ferocious would look at her with affection. Annie wondered if the gipsy dogs would now allow her to approach without barking. She felt that the chances were in her favour; she was dressed in gipsy garments, there would be nothing strange in her appearance, and if she could get near one of the dogs she knew that she could exercise the magic of her touch. Her object, then, was to approach one of the tents very, very quietly-- so softly that even the dog's ears should not detect the light footfall. If she could approach close enough to put her hand on the dog's neck all would be well. She pulled off the gipsy maid's rough shoes, hid them in the grass where she could find them again, and came gingerly, step by step, nearer and nearer the principal tent. At its entrance lay a ferocious-looking half-bred bull-dog. Annie possessed that necessary accompaniment to courage--great outward calm; the greater the danger, the more cool and self-possessed did she become. She was within a step or two of the tent when she trod accidentally on a small twig: it cracked, giving her foot a sharp pain, and, very slight as the sound was, causing the bull-dog to awake. He raised his wicked face, saw the figure like his own people, and yet unlike, but a step or two away, and, uttering a low growl, sprang forward. In the ordinary course of things this growl would have risen in volume and would have terminated in a volley of barking; but Annie was prepared: she went down on her knees, held out her arms, said, "Poor fellow!" in her own seductive voice, and the bull-dog fawned at her feet. He licked one of her hands while she patted him gently with the other. "Come, poor fellow," she said then in a gentle tone, and Annie and the dog began to perambulate round the tents. The other dogs raised sleepy eyes, but seeing Tiger and the girl together, took no notice whatever, except by a thwack or two of their stumpy tails. Annie was now looking not only at the tents, but for something else which Zillah, her nurse, had told her might be found near to many gipsy encampments. This was a small subterranean passage, which generally led into a long-disused underground Danish fort. Zillah had told her what uses the gipsies liked to make of these underground passages, and how they often chose those which had two entrances. She told her that in this way they eluded the police, and were enabled successfully to hide the goods which they stole. She had also described to her their great ingenuity in hiding the entrances to these underground retreats. Annie's idea now was that little Nan was hidden in one of these vaults, and she determined first to make sure of its existence, and then to venture herself into this underground region in search of the lost child. She had made a decided conquest in the person of Tiger, who followed her round and round the tents, and when the gipsies at last began to stir and Annie crept into the hedge-row, the dog crouched by her side. Tiger was the favourite dog of the camp, and presently one of the men called to him; he rose unwillingly, looked back with longing eyes at Annie, and trotted off, to return in the space of about five minutes with a great bunch of broken bread in his mouth. This was his breakfast, and he meant to share it with his new friend. Annie was too hungry to be fastidious, and she also knew the necessity of keeping up her strength. She crept still farther under the hedge, and the dog and girl shared the broken bread between them. Presently the tents were all astir; the gipsy children began to swarm about, the women lit fires in the open air, and the smell of very appetising breakfasts filled the atmosphere. The men also lounged into view, standing lazily at the doors of their tents, and smoking great pipes of tobacco. Annie lay quiet. She could see from her hiding-place without being seen. Suddenly--and her eyes began to dilate, and she found her heart beating strangely--she laid her hand on Tiger, who was quivering all over. "Stay with me, dear dog," she said. There was a great commotion and excitement in the gipsy camp; the children screamed and ran into the tents, the women paused in their preparation for breakfast, the men took their short pipes out of their mouths; every dog, with the exception of Tiger, barked ferociously. Tiger and Annie alone were motionless. The cause of all this uproar was a body of police, about six in number, who came boldly into the field, and demanded instantly to search the tents. "We want a woman who calls herself Mother Rachel," they said. "She belongs to this encampment. We know her: let her come forward at once; we wish to question her." The men stood about; the women came near; the children crept out of their tents, placing their fingers to their frightened lips, and staring at the men who represented those horrors to their unsophisticated minds called Law and Order. "We must search the tents. We won't stir from the spot until we have had an interview with Mother Rachel," said the principal member of the police force. The men answered respectfully that the gipsy mother was not yet up; but if the gentlemen would wait a moment she would soon come and speak to them. The officers expressed their willingness to wait, and collected round the tents. Just at this instant, under the hedge-row, Tiger raised his head. Annie's watchful eyes accompanied the dog's. He was gazing after a tiny gipsy maid who was skulking along the hedge, and who presently disappeared through a very small opening into the neighbouring field. Quick as thought Annie, holding Tiger's collar, darted after her. The little maid heard the footsteps: but seeing another gipsy girl, and their own dog, Tiger, she took no further notice, but ran openly and very swiftly across the field until she came to a broken wall. Here she tugged and tugged at some loose stones, managed to push one away, and then called down into the ground-- "Mother Rachel!" "Come, Tiger," said Annie. She flew to a hedge not far off, and once more the dog and she hid themselves. The small girl was too excited to notice either their coming or going; she went on calling anxiously into the ground-- "Mother Rachel! Mother Rachel!" Presently a black head and a pair of brawny shoulders appeared, and the tall woman whose face and figure Annie knew so well stepped up out of the ground, pushed back the stones into their place, and, taking the gipsy child into her arms, ran swiftly across the field in the direction of the tents. CHAPTER FORTY SIX. FOR LOVE OF NAN. Now was Annie's time. "Tiger," she said, for she had heard the men calling the dog's name. "I want to go right down into that hole in the ground, and you are to come with me. Don't let us lose a moment, good dog." The dog wagged his tail, capered about in front of Annie, and then with a wonderful shrewdness ran before her to the broken wall, where he stood with his head bent downwards and his eyes fixed on the ground. Annie pulled and tugged at the loose stones; they were so heavy and so cunningly arranged that she wondered how the little maid, who was smaller than herself, had managed to remove them. She saw quickly, however, that they were arranged with a certain leverage, and that the largest stone that which formed the real entrance to the underground passage, was balanced in its place in such a fashion that when she leant on a certain portion of it, it moved aside, and allowed plenty of room for her to go down into the earth. Very dark and dismal and uninviting did the rude steps, which led nobody knew where, appear. For one moment Annie hesitated; but the thought of Nan hidden somewhere in this awful wretchedness nerved her courage. "Go first, Tiger, please," she said, and the dog scampered down, sniffing the earth as he went. Annie followed him, but she had scarcely got her head below the level of the ground before she found herself in total and absolute darkness; she had unwittingly touched the heavy stone, which had swung back into its place. She heard Tiger sniffing below, and, calling to him to keep by her side, she went very carefully down and down and down, until at last she knew by the increase of air that she must have come to the end of the narrow entrance passage. She was now able to stand upright, and raising her hand, she tried in vain to find a roof. The room where she stood, then, must be lofty. She went forward in the utter darkness very, very slowly; suddenly her head again came in contact with the roof; she made a few steps farther on, and then found that to proceed at all she must go on her hands and knees. She bent down and peered through the darkness. "We'll go on, Tiger," she said, and, holding the dog's collar and clinging to him for protection, she crept along the narrow passage. Suddenly she gave an exclamation of joy--at the other end of this gloomy passage was light--faint twilight surely, but still undoubted light, which came down from some chink in the outer world. Annie came to the end of the passage, and, standing upright, found herself suddenly in a room; a very small and miserable room, certainly, but with the twilight shining through it, which revealed not only that it was a room, but a room which contained a heap of straw, a three-legged stool, and two or three cracked cups and saucers. Here, then, was Mother Rachel's lair, and here she must look for Nan. The darkness had been so intense that even the faint twilight of this little chamber had dazzled Annie's eyes for a moment; the next, however, her vision became clear. She saw that the straw bed contained a bundle; she went near--out of the wrapped-up bundle of shawls appeared the head of a child. The child slept, and moaned in its slumbers. Annie bent over it and said, "Thank God!" in a tone of rapture, and then, stooping down, she passionately kissed the lips of little Nan. Nan's skin had been dyed with the walnut-juice, her pretty soft hair had been cut short, her dainty clothes had been changed for the most ragged gipsy garments, but still she was undoubtedly Nan, the child whom Annie had come to save. From her uneasy slumbers the poor little one awoke with a cry of terror. She could not recognise Annie's changed face, and clasped her hands before her eyes, and said piteously-- "Me want to go home--go 'way, naughty woman, me want my Annie." "Little darling!" said Annie, in her sweetest tones. The changed face had not appealed to Nan, but the old voice went straight to her baby heart; she stopped crying and looked anxiously toward the entrance of the room. "Turn in, Annie--me here, Annie--little Nan want 'oo." Annie glanced around her in despair. Suddenly her quick eyes lighted on a jug of water. She flew to it, and washed and laved her face. "Coming, darling," she said, as she tried to remove the hateful dye. She succeeded partly, and when she came back, to her great joy, the child recognised her. "Now, little precious, we will get out of this as fast as we can," said Annie, and clasping Nan tightly in her arms, she prepared to return by the way she had come. Then and there, for the first time, there flashed across her memory the horrible fact that the stone door had swung back into its place, and that by no possible means could she open it. She and Nan and Tiger were buried in a living tomb, and must either stay there and perish, or await the tender mercies of the cruel Mother Rachel. Nan, with her arms tightly clasped round Annie's neck, began to cry fretfully. She was impatient to get out of this dismal place; she was no longer oppressed by fears, for with the Annie whom she loved she felt absolutely safe; but she was hungry and cold and uncomfortable, and it seemed but a step, to little inexperienced Nan, from Annie's arms to her snug, cheerful nursery at Lavender House. "Turn, Annie--turn home, Annie," she begged, and, when Annie did not stir, she began to weep. In truth, the poor, brave little girl was sadly puzzled, and her first gleam of returning hope lay in the remembrance of Zillah's words, that there were generally two entrances to these old underground forts. Tiger, who seemed thoroughly at home in this little room, and had curled himself up comfortably on the heap of straw, had probably often been here before. Perhaps Tiger knew the way to the second entrance. Annie called him to her side. "Tiger," she said, going down on her knees, and looking full into his ugly but intelligent face, "Nan and I want to go out of this." Tiger wagged his stumpy tail. "We are hungry, Tiger, and we want something to eat, and you'd like a bone, wouldn't you?" Tiger's tail went with ferocious speed, and he licked Annie's hand. "There's no use going back that way, dear dog," continued the girl, pointing with her arm in the direction they had come. "The door is fastened, Tiger, and we can't get out. We can't get out because the door is shut." The dog's tail had ceased to wag; he took in the situation, for his whole expression showed dejection, and he drooped his head. It was now quite evident to Annie that Tiger had been here before, and that on some other occasion in his life he had wanted to get out and could not because the door was shut. "Now, Tiger," said Annie, speaking cheerfully, and rising to her feet, "we must get out. Nan and I are hungry, and you want your bone. Take us out the other way, good Tiger--the other way, dear dog." She moved instantly toward the little passage; the dog followed her. "The other way," she said, and she turned her back on the long narrow passage, and took a step or two into complete darkness. The dog began to whine, caught hold of her dress, and tried to pull her back. "Quite right, Tiger, we won't go that way," said Annie instantly. She returned into the dimly-lighted room. "Find a way--And a way out, Tiger," she said. The dog evidently understood her; he moved restlessly about the room. Finally he got up on the bed, pulled and scratched and tore away the straw at the upper end, then, wagging his tail, flew to Annie's side. She came back with him. Beneath the straw was a tiny, tiny trap-door. "Oh, Tiger!" said the girl; she went down on her knees, and, finding she could not stir it, wondered if this also was kept in its place by a system of balancing. She was right; after a very little pressing the door moved aside, and Annie saw four or five rudely carved steps. "Come, Nan," she said joyfully, "Tiger has saved us; these steps must lead us out." The dog, with a joyful whine, went down first, and Annie, clasping Nan tightly in her arms, followed him. Four, five, six steps they went down; then, to Annie's great joy, she found that the next step began to ascend. Up and up she went, cheered by a welcome shaft of light. Finally she, Nan, and the dog found themselves emerging into the open air, through a hole which might have been taken for a large rabbit burrow. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. RESCUED. The girl, the child, and the dog found themselves in a comparatively strange country--Annie had completely lost her bearings. She looked around her for some sign of the gipsies' encampment; but whether she had really gone a greater distance than she imagined in those underground vaults, or whether the tents were hidden in some hollow of the ground, she did not know; she was only conscious that she was in a strange country, that Nan was clinging to her and crying for her breakfast, and that Tiger was sniffing the air anxiously. Annie guessed that Tiger could take them back to the camp, but this was by no means her wish. When she emerged out of the underground passage she was conscious for the first time of a strange and unknown experience. Absolute terror seized the brave child: she trembled from head to foot, her head ached violently, and the ground on which she stood seemed to reel, and the sky to turn round. She sat down for a moment on the green grass. What ailed her? where was she? how could she get home? Nan's little piteous wail, "Me want my bekfas', me want my nursie, me want Hetty," almost irritated her. "Oh, Nan," she said at last piteously, "have you not got your own Annie? Oh, Nan, dear little Nan, Annie feels so ill!" Nan had the biggest and softest of baby hearts--breakfast, nurse, Hetty, were all forgotten in the crowning desire to comfort Annie. She climbed on her knee and stroked her face and kissed her lips. "'Oo better now?" she said in a tone of baby inquiry. Annie roused herself with a great effort. "Yes, darling," she said; "we will try and get home. Come, Tiger. Tiger, dear, I don't want to go back to the gipsies; take me the other way--take me to Oakley." Tiger again sniffed the air, looked anxiously at Annie, and trotted on in front. Little Nan in her ragged gipsy clothes walked sedately by Annie's side. "Where 'oo s'oes?" she said, pointing to the girl's bare feet. "Gone, Nan--gone. Never mind, I've got you. My little treasure, my little love, you're safe at last." As Annie tottered, rather than walked, down a narrow path which led directly through a field of standing corn, she was startled by the sudden apparition of a bright-eyed girl, who appeared so suddenly in her path that she might have been supposed to have risen out of the very ground. The girl stared hard at Annie, fixed her eyes inquiringly on Nan and Tiger, and then, turning on her heel, dashed up the path, went through a turn-stile, across the road, and into a cottage. "Mother," she exclaimed, "I said she warn't a real gipsy: she's a-coming back, and her face is all streaked like, and she has a little 'un along with her, and a dawg, and the only one as is gipsy is the dawg. Come and look at her, mother; oh, she is a fine take-in!" The round-faced, good-humoured looking mother, whose name was Mrs Williams, had been washing and putting away the breakfast things when her daughter entered. She now wiped her hands hastily and came to the cottage door. "Cross the road, and come to the stile, mother," said the energetic Peggy--"oh, there she be a-creeping along--oh, ain't she a take-in?" "'Sakes alive!" ejaculated Mrs Williams, "the girl is ill! why, she can't keep herself steady! There! I knew she'd fall; ah! poor little thing--poor little thing." It did not take Mrs Williams an instant to reach Annie's side; and in another moment she had lifted her in her strong arms and carried her into the cottage, Peggy lifting Nan and following in the rear, while Tiger walked by their sides. CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. DARK DAYS. A whole week had passed, and there were no tidings whatever of little Nan or of Annie Forest. No one at Lavender House had heard a word about them; the police came and went, detectives even arrived from London, but there were no traces whatever of the missing children. The Midsummer holiday was now close at hand, but no one spoke of it or thought of it. Mrs Willis told the teachers that the prizes should be distributed, but she said she could invite no guests and could allow of no special festivities. Miss Danesbury and Miss Good repeated her words to the school-girls, who answered without hesitation that they did not wish for feasting and merriment; they would rather the day passed unnoticed. In truth, the fact that their baby was gone, that their favourite and prettiest and brightest school-mate had also disappeared, caused such gloom, such distress, such apprehension that even the most thoughtless of those girls could scarcely have laughed or been merry. School-hours were still kept after a fashion, but there was no life in the lessons. In truth, it seemed as if the sun would never shine again at Lavender House. Hester was ill; not very ill--she had no fever, she had no cold; she had, as the good doctor explained it, nothing at all wrong, except that her nervous system had got a shock. "When the little one is found, Miss Hetty will be quite well again," said the good doctor: but the little one had not been found yet, and Hester had completely broken down. She lay on her bed, saying little or nothing, eating scarcely anything, sleeping not at all. All the girls were kind to her, and each one in the school took turns in trying to comfort her; but no one could win a smile from Hester, and even Mrs Willis failed utterly to reach or touch her heart. Mr Everard came once to see her, but he had scarcely spoken many words when Hester broke into an agony of weeping, and begged him to go away. He shook his head when he left her, and said sadly to himself-- "That girl has got something on her mind; she is grieving for more than the loss of her little sister." The twentieth of June came at last, and the girls sat about in groups in the pleasant, shady garden, and talked of the very sad breaking-up day they were to have on the morrow, and wondered if, when they returned to school again, Annie and little Nan would have been found. Cecil Temple, Dora Russell, and one or two others were sitting together, and whispering in low voices. Mary Price joined them, and said anxiously-- "I don't think the doctor is satisfied about Hester. Perhaps I ought not to have listened, but I heard him talking to Miss Danesbury just now; he said she must be got to sleep somehow, and she is to have a composing draught to-night." "I wish poor Hetty would not turn away from us all," said Cecil; "I wish she would not quite give up hope; I do feel sure that Nan and Annie will be found yet." "Have you been praying about it, Cecil?" asked Mary, kneeling on the grass, laying her elbows on Cecil's knees, and looking into her face. "Do you say this because you have faith?" "I have prayed, and I have faith," replied Cecil in her simple, earnest way. "Why, Dora, what is the matter?" "Only that it's horrid to leave like this," said Dora; "I--I thought my last day at school would have been so different, and somehow I am sorry I spoke so much against that poor little Annie." Here Cecil suddenly rose from her seat, and, going up to Dora, clasped her arms round her neck. "Thank you, Dora," she said with fervour; "I love you for those words." "Here comes Susy," remarked Mary Price. "I really don't think _anything_ would move Susy; she's just as stolid and indifferent as ever. Ah, Susy, here's a place for you--oh, what _is_ the matter with Phyllis? see how she's rushing toward us! Phyllis, my dear, don't break your neck." Susan, with her usual nonchalance, seated herself by Dora Russell's side. Phyllis burst excitedly into the group. "I think," she exclaimed, "I really, really do think that news has come of Annie's father. Nora said that Janet told her that a foreign letter came this morning to Mrs Willis, and somebody saw Mrs Willis talking to Miss Danesbury--oh, I forgot, only I know that the girls of the school are whispering the news that Mrs Willis cried, and Miss Danesbury said, `After waiting for him four years, and now, when he comes back, he won't find her!' Oh, dear, oh, dear! there is Danesbury. Cecil, darling love, go to her, and find out the truth." Cecil rose at once, went across the lawn, said a few words to Miss Danesbury, and came back to the other girls. "It is true," she said sadly; "there came a letter this morning from Captain Forest; he will be at Lavender House in a week. Miss Danesbury says it is a wonderful letter, and he has been shipwrecked, and on an island by himself for ever so long; but he is safe now, and will soon be in England. Miss Danesbury says Mrs Willis can scarcely speak about that letter; she is in great, great trouble, and Miss Danesbury confesses that they are all more anxious than they dare to admit about Annie and little Nan." At this moment the sound of carriage wheels was heard on the drive, and Susan, peering forward to see who was arriving, remarked in her usual nonchalant manner-- "Only the little Misses Bruce in their basket-carriage--what dull-looking women they are!" Nobody commented, however, on her observation, and gradually the little group of girls sank into absolute silence. From where they sat they could see the basket-carriage waiting at the front entrance--the little ladies had gone inside, all was perfect silence and stillness. Suddenly on the stillness a sound broke--the sound of a girl running quickly; nearer and nearer came the steps, and the four or five who sat together under the oak-tree noticed the quick panting breath, and felt even before a word was uttered that evil tidings were coming to them. They all started to their feet, however; they all uttered a cry of horror and distress when Hester herself broke into their midst. She was supposed to be lying down in a darkened room, she was supposed to be very ill--what was she doing here? "Hetty!" exclaimed Cecil. Hester pushed past her; she rushed up to Susan Drummond, and seized her arm. "News has come!" she panted; "news--news at last! Nan is found!--and Annie--they are both found--but Annie is dying. Come, Susan, come this moment; we must both tell what we know now." By her impetuosity, by the intense fire of her passion and agony, even Susan was electrified into leaving her seat and going with her. CHAPTER FORTY NINE. TWO CONFESSIONS. Hester dragged her startled and rather unwilling companion in through the front entrance, past some agitated-looking servants who stood about in the hall, and through the velvet curtains into Mrs Willis's boudoir. The Misses Bruce were there, and Mrs Willis in her bonnet and cloak was hastily packing some things into a basket. "I--I must speak to you," said Hester, going up to her governess. "Susan and I have got something to say, and we must say it here, now at once?" "No, not now, Hester," replied Mrs Willis, looking for a moment into her pupil's agitated face. "Whatever you and Susan Drummond have to tell cannot be listened to by me at this moment. I have not an instant to lose." "You are going to Annie?" asked Hester. "Yes; don't keep me. Good-bye, my dears; good-bye." Mrs Willis moved toward the door. Hester, who felt almost beside herself, rushed after her, and caught her arm. "Take us with you, take Susy and me with you--we must we must see Annie before she dies." "Hush, my child," said Mrs Willis very quietly; "try to calm yourself. Whatever you have got to say shall be listened to later on--now moments are precious, and I cannot attend to you. Calm yourself, Hester, and thank God for your dear little sister's safety. Prepare yourself to receive her, for the carriage which takes me to Annie will bring little Nan home." Mrs Willis left the room, and Hester threw herself on hen knees and covered her face with her trembling hands. Presently she was aroused by a light touch on her arm; it was Susan Drummond. "I may go now, I suppose, Hester? You are not quite determined to make a fool of me, are you?" "I have determined to expose you, you coward, you mean, mean girl!" answered Hester, springing to her feet. "Come, I have no idea of letting you go. Mrs Willis won't listen--we will find Mr Everard." Whether Susan would really have gone with Hester remains to be proved, but just at that moment all possibility of retreat was cut away from her by Miss Agnes Bruce, who quietly entered Mrs Willis's private sitting-room, followed by the very man Hester was about to seek. "I thought it best, my dear," she said, turning apologetically to Hester, "to go at once for our good clergyman; you can tell him all that is in your heart, and I will leave you. Before I go, however. I should like to tell you how I found Annie and little Nan." Hester made no answer; just for a brief moment she raised her eyes to Miss Agnes's kind face, then they sought the floor. "The story can be told in a few words, dear," said the little lady. "A work-woman of the name of Williams, whom my sister and I have employed for years, and who lives near Oakley, called on us this morning to apologise for not being able to finish some needlework. She told us that she had a sick child, and also a little girl of three, in her house. She said she had found the child, in ragged gipsy garments, fainting in a field. She took her into her house, and, on undressing her, found that she was no true gipsy, but that her face and hands and arms had been dyed; she said the little one had been treated in a similar manner. Jane's suspicions and mine were instantly roused, and we went back with the woman to Oakley, and round, as we had anticipated, that the children were little Nan and Annie. The sad thing is that Annie is in high fever, and knows no one. We waited there until the doctor arrived, who spoke very, very seriously of her case. Little Nan is well, and asked for you." With these last words Miss Agnes Bruce softly left the room, closing the door after her. "Now, Susan," said Hester, without an instant's pause; "come, let us tell Mr Everard of our wickedness. Oh, sir," she added, raising her eyes to the clergyman's face, "if Annie dies I shall go mad. Oh, I cannot, cannot bear life if Annie dies!" "Tell me what is wrong, my poor child," said Mr Everard. He laid his hand on her shoulder, and gradually and skillfully drew from the agitated and miserable girl the story of her sin, of her cowardice, and of her deep, though until now unavailing repentance. How from the first she had hated and disliked Annie; how unjustly she had felt toward her; how she had longed and hoped Annie was guilty; and how, when at last the clew was put into her hands to prove Annie's absolute innocence, she had determined not to use it. "From the day Nan was lost," continued Hester, "it has been all agony and all repentance; but, oh, I was too proud to tell! I was too proud to humble myself to the very dust!" "But not now," said the clergyman very gently. "No, no; not now. I care for nothing now in all the world except that Annie may live." "You don't mind the fact that Mrs Willis and all your school-fellows must know of this, and must--must judge you accordingly?" "They can't think worse of me than I think of myself. I only want Annie to live." "No, Hester," answered Mr Everard, "you want more than that--you want far more than that. It may be that God will take Annie Forest away. We cannot tell. With Him alone are the issues of life or death. What you really want, my child, is the forgiveness of the little girl you have wronged, and the forgiveness of your Father in heaven." Hester began to sob wildly. "If--if she dies--may I see her first?" she gasped. "Yes; I will try and promise you that. Now, will you go to your room? I must speak to Miss Drummond alone; she is a far worse culprit than you." Mr Everard opened the door for Hester, who went silently out. "Meet me in the chapel to-night," he whispered low in her car, "I will talk with you and pray with you there." He closed the door, and came back to Susan. All throughout this interview his manner had been very gentle to Hester; but the clergyman could be stern, and there was a gleam of very righteous anger in his eyes as he turned to the sullen girl who leaned heavily against the table. "This narrative of Hester Thornton's is, of course, quite true, Miss Drummond?" "Oh, yes; there seems to be no use in denying that," said Susan. "I must insist on your telling me the exact story of your sin. There is no use in your attempting to deny anything; only the utmost candour on your part can now save you from being publicly expelled." "I am willing to tell," answered Susan. "I meant no harm; it was done as a bit of fun. I had a cousin at home who was very clever at drawing caricatures, and I happened to have nothing to do one day, and I was alone in Annie's bedroom, and I thought I'd like to see what she kept in her desk. I always had a fancy for collecting odd keys, and I found one on my bunch which fitted her desk exactly. I opened it, and I found such a smart little caricature of Mrs Willis. I sent the caricature to my cousin, and begged of her to make an exact copy of it. She did so, and I put Annie's back in her desk, and pasted the other into Cecil's book. I didn't like Dora Russell, and I wrapped up the sweeties in her theme; but I did the other for pure fun, for I knew Cecil would be so shocked; but I never guessed the blame would fall on Annie. When I found it did, I felt inclined to tell once or twice, but it seemed too much trouble, and, besides, I knew Mrs Willis would punish me, and, of course, I didn't wish that. "Dora Russell was always very nasty to me, and when I found she was putting on such airs, and pretending she could write such a grand essay for the prize, I thought I'd take down her pride a bit. I went to her desk, and I got some of the rough copy of the thing she was calling `The River,' and I sent it off to my cousin, and my cousin made up such a ridiculous paper, and she hit off Dora's writing to the life, and, of course, I had to put it into Dora's desk and tear up her real copy. It was very unlucky Hester being in the room. Of course I never guessed that, or I wouldn't have gone. That was the night we all went with Annie to the fairies' field. I never meant to get Hester into a scrape, nor Annie either, for that matter; but, of course, I couldn't be expected to tell on myself." Susan related her story in her usual monotonous and singsong voice. There was no trace of apparent emotion on her face, or of regret in her tones. When she had finished speaking Mr Everard was absolutely silent. "I took a great deal of trouble," continued Susan, after a pause, in a slightly fretful key. "It was really nothing but a joke, and I don't see why such a fuss should have been made. I know I lost a great deal of sleep trying to manage that twine business round my foot. I don't think I shall trouble myself playing any more tricks upon school-girls-- they are not worth it." "You'll never play any more tricks on these girls," said Mr Everard, rising to his feet, and suddenly filling the room and reducing Susan to an abject silence by the ring of his stern, deep voice. "I take it upon me, in the absence of your mistress, to pronounce your punishment. You leave Lavender House in disgrace this evening. Miss Good will take you home, and explain to your parents the cause of your dismissal. You are not to see _any_ of your school-fellows again. Your meanness, your cowardice, your sin require no words on my part to deepen their vileness. Through pure wantonness you have cast a cruel shadow on an innocent young life. If that girl dies, you indeed are not blameless in the cause of her early removal, for through you her heart and spirit were broken. Miss Drummond, I pray God you may at least repent and be sorry. There are some people mentioned in the Bible who are spoken of as past feeling. Wretched girl, while there is yet time, pray that you may not belong to them. Now I must leave you, but I shall lock you in. Miss Good will come for you in about an hour to take you away." Susan Drummond sank down on the nearest seat, and began to cry softly; one or two pin-pricks from Mr Everard's stern words may possibly have reached her shallow heart--no one can tell. She left Lavender House that evening, and none of the girls who had lived with her as their school-mate heard of her again. CHAPTER FIFTY. THE HEART OF LITTLE NAN. For several days now Annie had lain unconscious in Mrs Williams's little bedroom; the kind-hearted woman could not find it in her heart to send the sick child away. Her husband and the neighbours expostulated with her, and said that Annie was only a poor little waif. "She has no call on you," said Jane Allen, a hard-featured woman who lived next door. "Why should you put yourself out just for a sick lass? and she'll be much better on in the workhouse infirmary." But Mrs Williams shook her head at her hard-featured and hard-hearted neighbour, and resisted her husband's entreaties. "Eh!" she said, "but the poor lamb needs a good bit of mothering, and I misdoubt me she wouldn't get much of that in the infirmary." So Annie stayed, and tossed from side to side of her little bed, and murmured unintelligible words, and grew daily a little weaker and a little more delirious. The parish doctor called, and shook his head over her: he was not a particularly clever man, but he was the best the Williamses could afford. While Annie suffered and went deeper into that valley of humiliation and weakness which leads to the gate of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, little Nan played with Peggy Williams, and accustomed herself after the fashion of little children to all the ways of her new and humble home. It was on the eighth day of Annie's fever that the Misses Bruce discovered her, and on the evening of that day Mrs Willis knelt by her little favourite's bed. A better doctor had been called in, and all that money could procure had been got now for poor Annie; but the second doctor considered her case even more critical, and said that the close air of the cottage was much against her recovery. "I didn't make that caricature; I took the girls into the fairies' field, but I never pasted that caricature into Cecil's book. I know you don't believe me, Cecil; but do you think I would really do anything so mean about one whom I love? No, no! I am innocent! God knows it. Yes, I am glad of that--God knows it." Over, and over in Mrs Willis's presence these piteous words would come from the fever-stricken child, but always when she came to the little sentence "God knows I am innocent," her voice would grow tranquil, and a faint and sweet smile would play round her lips. Late that night a carriage drew up at a little distance from the cottage, and a moment or two afterwards Mrs Willis was called out of the room to speak to Cecil Temple. "I have found out the truth about Annie; I have come at once to tell you," she said; and then she repeated the substance of Hester's and Susan's story. "God help me for having misjudged her," murmured the head-mistress; then she bade Cecil "good-night," and returned to the sick-room. The next time Annie broke out with her piteous wail, "They believe me guilty--Mrs Willis does--they all do," the mistress laid her hand with a firm and gentle pressure on the child's arm. "Not now, my dear," she said, in a slow, clear, and emphatic voice. "God has shown your governess the truth, and she believes in you." The very carefully-uttered words pierced through the clouded brain; for a moment Annie lay quite still, with her bright and lovely eyes fixed on her teacher. "Is that really you?" she asked. "I am here, my darling." "And you believe in me?" "I do most absolutely." "God does, too, you know," answered Annie--bringing out the words quickly, and turning her head to the other side. The fever had once more gained supremacy, and she rambled on unceasingly through the dreary night. Now, however, when the passionate words broke out, "They believe me guilty," Mrs Willis always managed to quiet her by saying, "I know you are innocent." The next day at noon those girls who had not gone home--for many had started by the morning train--were wandering aimlessly about the grounds. Mr Everard had gone to see Annie, and had promised to bring back the latest tidings about her. Hester, holding little Nan's hand--for she could scarcely bear to have her recovered treasure out of sight--had wandered away from the rest of her companions, and had seated herself with Nan under a large oak-tree which grew close to the entrance of the avenue. She had come here in order to be the very first to see Mr Everard on his return. Nan had climbed into Hester's lap, and Hester had buried her aching head in little Nan's bright curls, when she started suddenly to her feet and ran forward. Her quick ears had detected the sound of wheels. How soon Mr Everard had returned; surely the news was bad! She flew to the gate, and held it open in order to avoid the short delay which the lodge-keeper might cause in coming to unfasten it. She flushed however, vividly, and felt half inclined to retreat into the shade, when she saw that the gentleman who was approaching was not Mr Everard, but a tall, handsome, and foreign-looking man, who drove a light dog-cart himself. The moment he saw Hester with little Nan clinging to her skirts he stopped short. "Is this Lavender House, little girl?" "Yes, sir," replied Hester. "And can you tell me--but of course you know--you are one of the young ladies who live here, eh?" Hester nodded. "Then you can tell me if Mrs Willis is at home--but of course she is." "No, sir," answered Hester; "I am sorry to tell you that Mrs Willis is away. She has been called away on very, very sad business; she won't come back to-night." Something in Hester's tone caused the stranger to look at her attentively; he jumped off the dog-cart and came to her side. "See, here, Miss--" "Thornton," put in Hester. "Yes, Miss--Miss Thornton, perhaps you can manage for me as well as Mrs Willis; after all I don't particularly want to see her. If you belong to Lavender House, you, of course, know my--I mean you have a school-mate here, a little, pretty gipsy rogue called Forest--little Annie Forest. I want to see her--can you take me to her!" "You are her father?" gasped Hester. "Yes, my dear child, I am her father. Now you can take me to her at once." Hester covered her face. "Oh, I cannot," she said--"I cannot take you to Annie. Oh, sir, if you knew all, you would feel inclined to kill me. Don't ask me about Annie--don't, don't." The stranger looked fairly nonplussed and not a little alarmed. Just at this moment Nan's tiny fingers touched his hand. "Me'll lake 'oo to my Annie," she said--"mine poor Annie. Annie's vedy sick, but me'll take 'oo." The tall, foreign-looking man lifted Nan into his arms. "Sick, is she?" he answered. "Look here young lady," he added, turning to Hester, "whatever you have got to say, I am sure you will try and say it; you will pity a father's anxiety and master your own feelings. Where _is_ my little girl?" Hester hastily dried her tears. "She is in a cottage near Oakley, sir." "Indeed! Oakley is some miles from here?" "And she is very ill." "What of?" "Fever; they--they fear she may die." "Take me to her," said the stranger. "If she is ill and dying she wants me. Take me to her at once. Here, jump on the dog-cart; and, little one, you shall come too." So furiously did Captain Forest drive that in a very little over an hour's time his panting horse stopped at a few steps from the cottage. He called to a boy to hold him, and, accompanied by Hester, and carrying Nan in his arms, he stood on the threshold of Mrs Williams' humble little abode. Mr Everard was coming out. "Hester," he said, "you here? I was coming for you." "Oh, then she is worse?" "She is conscious, and has asked for you. Yes, she is very, very ill." "Mr Everard, this gentleman is Annie's father." Mr Everard looked pityingly at Captain Forest. "You have come back at a sad hour, sir," he said. "But no, it cannot harm her to see you. Come with me." Captain Forest went first into the sick-room; Hester waited outside. She had the little kitchen to herself, for all the Williamses, with the exception of the good mother, had moved for the time being to other quarters. Surely Mr Everard would come for her in a moment? Surely Captain Forest, who had gone into the sick-room with Nan in his arms, would quickly return? There was no sound. All was absolute quiet. How soon would Hester be summoned? Could she--could she bear to look at Annie's dying face? Her agony drove her down on her knees. "Oh, if you would only spare Annie!" she prayed to God. Then she wiped her eyes. This terrible suspense seemed more than she could bear. Suddenly the bedroom door was softly and silently opened, and Mr Everard came out. "She sleeps," he said; "there is a shadow of hope. Little Nan has done it. Nan asked to lie down beside her and she said, `Poor Annie! poor Annie!' and stroked her cheek; and in some way, I don't know how, the two have gone to sleep together. Annie did not even glance at her father; she was quite taken up with Nan. You can come to the door and look at her, Hester." Hester did so. A time had been when she could scarcely have borne that sight without a pang of jealousy; now she turned to Mr Everard: "I--I could even give her the heart of little Nan to keep her here," she murmured. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. THE PRIZE ESSAY. Annie did not die. The fever passed away in that long and refreshing sleep, while Nan's cool hand lay against her cheek. She came slowly, slowly back to life--to a fresh, a new, and a glad life. Hester, from being her enemy, was now her dearest and warmest friend. Her father was at home again, and she could no longer think or speak of herself as lonely or sad. She recovered, and in future days reigned as a greater favourite than ever at Lavender House. It is only fair to say that Tiger never went back to the gipsies, but devoted himself first and foremost to Annie, and then to the Captain, who pronounced him a capital dog, and when he heard his story vowed he never would part with him. Owing to Annie's illness, and to all the trouble and confusion which immediately ensued, Mrs Willis did not give away her prizes at the usual time; but when her scholars once more assembled at Lavender House she astonished several of them by a few words. "My dears," she said, standing in her accustomed place at the head of the long school-room, "I intend now, before our first day of lessons begins, to distribute those prizes which would have been yours, under ordinary circumstances, on the twenty-first of June. The prizes will be distributed during the afternoon recess: but here, and now, I wish to say something about--and also to give away--the prize for English composition. Six essays, all written with more or less care, have been given to me to inspect. There are reasons which we need not now go into which made it impossible to me to say anything in favour of a theme called `The River,' written by my late pupil, Miss Russell: but I can cordially praise a very nice historical sketch of Marie Antoinette, the work of Hester Thornton. Mary Price has also written a study which pleases me much, as it shows thought and even a little originality. The remainder of the six essays simply reach an ordinary average. You will be surprised therefore, my dears, to learn that I do not award the prize to any of these themes, but rather to a seventh composition, which was put into my hands yesterday by Miss Danesbury. It is crude and unfinished, and doubtless but for her recent illness would have received many corrections: but these few pages, which are called `A Lonely Child,' drew tears from my eyes; crude as they are, they have the merit of real originality. They are too morbid to read to you, girls, and I sincerely trust and pray the young writer may never pen anything so sad again. Such as they are, however, they rank first in the order of merit, and the prize is hers. Annie, my dear, come forward." Annie left her seat, and, amid the cheers of her companions, went up to Mrs Willis, who placed a locket, attached to a slender gold chain, round her neck; the locket contained a miniature of the head-mistress's much-loved face. "After all, think of our Annie Forest turning out clever, as well as being the prettiest and dearest girl in the school I exclaimed several or her companions." "Only I do wish," added one, "that Mrs Willis had let us see the essay. Annie, treasure, come here; tell us what the `Lonely Child' was about." "I don't remember," answered Annie. "I don't know what loneliness means now, so how can I describe it?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The End.